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Forward, into the past Why are our imaginations retreating from science and space, and into fantasy? asks SPIDER ROBINSON By SPIDER ROBINSON Monday, September 8, 2003 - Page A17 I've recently returned from Torcon 3, the 61st World Science Fiction Convention, held at the end of August in Toronto. I left it deeply concerned for the future -- not merely of my chosen genre or my chosen country, but my species. I served this Worldcon as its toastmaster, and presiding over our annual Hugo Awards ceremony required me to make a speech. This being the 50th year that Hugos have been given for excellence in SF, I devoted my remarks to the present depressing state of the field. Three short steps into the New Millennium, written SF is paradoxically in sharp decline. My genre has always had its ups and downs, but this is by far its worst, longest downswing. Sales are down, magazines are languishing, our stars are aging and not being replaced. And the reason is depressingly clear: Those few readers who haven't defected to Tolkienesque fantasy cling only to Star Trek, Star Wars, and other Sci Fi franchises. Incredibly, young people no longer find the real future exciting. They no longer find science admirable. They no longer instinctively lust to go to space. Just as we've committed ourselves inextricably to a high-tech world (and thank God, for no other kind will feed five billion), we appear to have become nearly as terrified of technology, of science -- of change -- as the Arab world, or the Vatican. We are proud both of our VCRs, and our claimed inability to program them. I'm not knocking fantasy, but if we look only backward instead of forward, too, one day we will find ourselves surrounded by an electorate that has never willingly thought a single thought their great-grandparents would not have recognized. That's simply not acceptable. That way lies inconceivable horror, a bin Laden future for our grandchildren. SF's central metaphor and brightest vision, lovingly polished and presented as entertainingly as we knew how to make it, has been largely rejected by the world we meant to save. Because I was born in 1948, the phrase I'll probably always use to indicate something is futuristic is "space age." There were doubtless grown adults at Torcon 3 who were born after the space age ended. The very existence of the new Robert A. Heinlein Awards, given for the first time at Torcon to honour works that inspire manned exploration of space, proves a need was perceived to foster such works. About the only part of our shared vision of the future that actually came to pass was the part where America just naturally took over the world. But while it's prepared to police (parts of) a planet, the new Terran Federation is so far not interested enough to even glance at another one. Inconceivable wealth and limitless energy lie right over our heads, within easy reach, and we're too dumb to go get them -- using perfectly good rockets to kill each other, instead. The day Apollo 11 landed, I knew for certain men would walk on Mars in my lifetime. So did the late Robert Heinlein -- I just saw him say so to Walter Cronkite last weekend, on kinescope. I'm no longer nearly so sure. The Red Planet is as close as it's been in 60,000 years -- and the last budget put forward in Canada contained not a penny for Mars. (Please, go to http://www.marssociety.com and sign the protest petition there.) At Torcon 3, I caught up with Michael Lennick, co-producer of a superb Canadian documentary series about manned spaceflight, Rocket Science. His next project examines the growing phenomenon of people who refuse to believe we ever landed on the moon. Not because he sees them as amusing cranks . . . but because they're becoming as common as Elvis-nuts. And it's hard to argue with their logic: It beggars belief, they say, that we could possibly have achieved moon flight . . . and given it up. On the other hand, I take heart that SF still exists, 50 years after the first Hugo was awarded. My wife's family are Portuguese fisherfolk from Provincetown, Mass., where every summer they've held a ceremony called the Blessing of the Fleet, in which the harbour fills with boats and the archbishop blesses their labours. The 50th-ever blessing was the last. There's no fishing fleet left. For the first time in living memory, there is not a single working fishing boat in P-town . . . because there are no cod or haddock left on the Grand Banks. For all its present problems, science fiction as a profession seems to have outlasted pulling up fish from the sea. I believe with all my heart that the pendulum will return, that ignorance will become unfashionable again one day, that my junior colleagues are about to ignite a new renaissance in science fiction, and that our next 50 years will make the first 50 pale by comparison, taking us all the way to immortality and the stars themselves. If that does happen, some of the people who will make it so were in Toronto. People still believe that men fished the Grand Banks, once. Some even dream of going back. SF readers have never stopped dreaming. We can't, you see. We simply don't know how. B.C. writer Spider Robinson's latest novel is Callahan's Con. _______________________________________________ http://www.mccmedia.com/mailman/listinfo/brin-l
