Word: fictionalizes
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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GREAT STORIES OF SCIENCE FICTION (321 pp.) - Edited by Murray Leinster-Random House...
...hand at writing science fiction once described the formula: first get your characters into a mess, then grab a handful of electrons and get them out of it. In the opinion of Murray Leinster (real name: Will F. Jenkins), dean of U.S. science fictioneers, the formula has been badly overworked. He is tired of galactic worlds, space ships, bug-eyed monsters and the few thousand rabid fans who cry for them. Along with most book publishers, he would like to see "SF" go respectable, or at least sensible, keep one foot and preferably two on the ground-and even...
...yarns in Dean Leinster's anthology, Great Stories of Science Fiction, do not meet all his specifications, but they do illustrate a trend. The first story is simply for laughs, almost a parody of previous space operas: Otho, first ambassador from Philistia, reaches Washington in a rocket ship easily enough, then gets into trouble with the girls because of his X-ray eyes. In Blind Alley, rich and nostalgic Mr. Feathersmith hires the devil to restore the home town of his boyhood, but soon realizes that life in good old Cliffordsville was really a tedious bore. In Hiding, selected...
Corpse in the Ruins. Up to this point, The Innocence of Pastor Mûller, by Carlo Beuf, reads like a witty piece of European detective fiction. But by the end of the book it is clear that Carlo Beuf has written a fable of the age, in a manner as gay as Aesop's, and with a meaning just as grave...
...impolite grenade, the civil roll may come as a pleasant intrusion, especially if it doesn't hit anybody. And P.G. Wodehouse never hits anybody. In his new book of short stories, as in dozens of his previous volumes of fiction, there is nobody to hit. Rather, there is a pawky plenty of the same nobodies that have populated all his stories, the same fluffy crumbs off the British upper crust. In Nothing Serious, Wodehouse gathers his crumbs as gracefully as ever into amusing little heaps of no significance whatever-except as reminders that there used to be a cake...