Meador Manor

One of the first female authors of detective fiction was America’s Anna Katharine Green. She is now nearly forgotten, but I loaded some of her works onto my Kindle and read her first novel, which was a big hit almost 150 years ago.

Anna Katharine Green’s 37 books were published between 1878 and 1923, so they are all now out of copyright. I discovered that Standard Ebooks had four of them, while Project Gutenberg had 41 of her works, including some story collections. In comparing the sources, the Project Gutenberg version of her first novel included some floorplans and other illustrations that Standard Ebooks had omitted. So I read PG4047-IMAGES-3, which is the 4,047th eBook at Project Gutenberg, and is much better known as The Leavenworth Case: A Lawyer’s Story.

The Leavenworth Case

Green’s first novel was published in 1878 when the diminutive, plain, and sheltered woman was 32 years old. It became a hit, with George P. Putnam’s Sons selling hundreds of thousands of copies, and the book being pirated by no less than three other publishers.

Green created what became well-worn tropes in mystery fiction, including the nosy spinster Amelia Butterworth, who inspired Christie’s later Miss Marple. Green also created a teenage detective, Violet Strange, echoed in Nancy Drew et al., along with various plot devices. Her work had faded a couple of generations later in the Golden Age of detective fiction from 1920 to 1940, but her influence was both apparent and acknowledged. Sadly, Green is now nearly forgotten, and I read mysteries for decades before coming across any mention of her work.

T.S. Eliot was evidently an avid consumer of mystery fiction, but he disparaged The Leavenworth Case as “simply popping over with sentiment” in a manner that did not afflict Doyle’s later Sherlock Holmes tales, which did not debut until after Green had published it and three additional novels featuring detective Gryce.

I began the book immediately after finishing Louise Penny’s A Fatal Grace, the second of her Chief Inspector Gamache series. I had been struck by the modernity of that tale, with its sometimes over-sharpened wit and opinionated sensibilities, contrasting with the older tales I was used to from Elizabeth Pargeter (usually writing as Ellis Peters), Agatha Christie, and Mary Roberts Rinehart. I have found Rinehart, the oldest of those authors, to also be the fustiest, so I wondered how dated The Leavenworth Case would read, nearly 150 years after its debut.

I greatly enjoyed the book’s introduction of detective Ebenezer Gryce of the New York Metropolitan Police Force, who would appear in a dozen more of her novels by 1917:

I shuddered⁠—“the murderer must have been in the house all night.”

Mr. Gryce smiled darkly at the doorknob.

“It has a dreadful look!” I exclaimed.

Mr. Gryce immediately frowned at the doorknob.

And here let me say that Mr. Gryce, the detective, was not the thin, wiry individual with the piercing eye you are doubtless expecting to see. On the contrary, Mr. Gryce was a portly, comfortable personage with an eye that never pierced, that did not even rest on you. If it rested anywhere, it was always on some insignificant object in the vicinity, some vase, inkstand, book, or button. These things he would seem to take into his confidence, make the repositories of his conclusions; but as for you⁠—you might as well be the steeple on Trinity Church, for all connection you ever appeared to have with him or his thoughts. At present, then, Mr. Gryce was, as I have already suggested, on intimate terms with the doorknob.

“A dreadful look,” I repeated.

His eye shifted to the button on my sleeve.

“Come,” he said, “the coast is clear at last.”

I immediately had a feeling I would like Ebenezer Gryce. His given name of course elicits memories of Scrooge from Dickens’ 1843 A Christmas Carol, and that led me to wonder how common it once was as a first name. One source claimed that in 1840 it was the 68th most popular name, but I was sad to see 11 fictional Ebenezers in the Wikipedia page on it as a given name, but not Green’s creation. So I added him to make a dozen. I’ll admit that corruption of the Hebrew אֶבֶן הָעֵזֶר from 1 Samuel sounds dreadful to my ear, but perhaps that is mainly due to the association with Scrooge.

This debut novel is the only one of Green’s works to have a meta-ranking at The Greatest Books, coming in at 5,193 versus 191 for Christie’s And Then There Were None with eight additional Christie works ranking above Green. As for Edith Pargeter, better known by her pen name of Ellis Peters, her A Morbid Taste for Bones, the first of the Brother Cadfael books, ranks at 4,220 while her non-mystery By Firelight novel ranked at 4,986.

The novel has twists and turns, deftly using circumstantial evidence to throw suspicion on one character, then another, and another. The revelation of the actual murderer was a surprise, with a lengthy explanation and confession.

The age of the work was most apparent in the class-conscious behavior of most of the characters. It was indeed melodramatic, but multiple well-drawn characters and the fun idiosyncrasies of detective Gryce kept me engaged. I enjoyed the book, and I plan for my next Green book to be the eighth Gryce novel, That Affair Next Door, so I can experience the character of Amelia Butterworth.

Mystery author Patricia Meredith has compiled interesting information on Green, and I enjoyed her presentation about “The Mother of the Detective Novel” for the Spokane Public Library.

Meredith’s timeline of Green’s life led me to purchase from AbeBooks a used hardback of Patricia Maida’s biography of her, Mother of Detective Fiction. I have tucked it away as a reading possibility if I end up liking more of her works.

After reading A.E. van Vogt’s fix-up novel Mission to the Stars, I was still in the mood for some classic science fiction, but I hoped for something of higher literary quality. Matt of Bookpilled has described James Blish as one of the most erudite science fiction authors, so I looked for any award-winning works by him.

Two Types of Awards

The two big science fiction awards are the Hugos and Nebulas. Since the 1950s, the World Science Fiction Society has given out Hugo Awards each year in various categories for the best works in the genre published in the previous year. There are now Hugos in over a dozen categories, with the best novel, novella, and short stories being the most prominent. Since they are awarded based on popular votes by fans, they reflect the popularity of various works.

They are named after the Golden Age publisher and editor Hugo Gernsback. Although he was certainly one of the fathers of the genre, he was also a shady businessman who did not treat authors well. So it is not surprising that the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA) chose, in 1966, to establish their own Nebula awards, which are peer-based authorial awards that emphasize literary quality.

There is considerable overlap where some works win both the Hugo and the Nebula in their category. For example, over the past 59 years, 26 novels have won both the Hugo and the Nebula, starting with Frank Herbert’s Dune and extending to notable works like Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, Larry Niven’s Ringworld, and William Gibson’s Neuromancer.

Of course there were many works published before those awards began, and back when I was in high school I read The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One, 1929-1964, a 1970 anthology of 26 classic science fiction short stories selected by the SFWA to honor works predating the Nebulas.

One of those stories was “Surface Tension” by James Blish, which originally appeared in the August 1952 edition of Galaxy Science Fiction, although I frankly don’t remember that tale of a crew of human colonists who crash-land on a planet and genetically engineer a race of microscopic aquatic humanoids to colonize a landmass covered in shallow puddles of water. Its selection reflects that fellow authors did respect some of his work.

Blish and Star Trek

However, Blish is best known for work which pleased him the least: a dozen books that novelized most of the episodes of the original series of the Star Trek television show. I have owned 11 of those collections for decades, but I quickly gave up on them once I realized they were based on draft teleplays and thus often have significant differences from the broadcast episodes. Blish did the first ones without ever having seen an episode, and that hampered the tonal alignment of the early volumes with the actual show.

The only one which I recall reading was the adaptation of Spock’s Brain in Star Trek 8, and I was pleasantly surprised how that silly episode read much better on the page, as a humorous sendup of pulp science fiction, than the off-putting episode itself played. If the direction for the actors had them playing their roles more broadly, to bring out the humor in it, that might have salvaged the premiere episode of the show’s compromised third season, but the reality was that the Bright Knight Batman series of 1966-1968 handled camp far better.

Blish had studied microbiology at Rutgers, and he authored short stories throughout the genre’s Golden Age. Along with Asimov, Pohl, Wollheim, Kornbluth, Knight, and Merril, he was one of the Futurians, an influential group of science fiction fans, writers, and editors. He married fellow Futurian Virginia Kidd in 1947.

Blish adapted to the decline of science fiction pulp magazines by pivoting to novels, fix-ups, and literary criticism. To make ends meet, he worked for the Tobacco Institute as a writer and critic from 1962 to 1968. He and Kidd divorced in 1963, and the next year he married artist J.A. Lawrence and moved to England.

While he generally despised tie-ins, the Star Trek adaptations, at $2,000 per volume, provided Blish financial stability. However, Blish’s willingness to write for the tobacco lobby not only dovetailed with his smoking, but also with him developing lung cancer in his early 50s. As his health declined, his second wife, along with her mother, assisted with the adaptations after Star Trek 6. So I’m not sure how much Blish’s background as a Golden Age writer assisted with bringing out the pulp fiction send-up that was Spock’s Brain in Star Trek 8.

Blish did, however, write the first independent adult novel based on the television show. 1970’s Spock Must Die! earned him a $3,000 advance. I read it decades ago, and I disliked it, finding it did not meld well (pun intended) with the series, which by then had been cancelled. Blish was so done with Star Trek by 1974 that he did not write any of Star Trek 10. Fellow Futurian and Bantam editor Fred Pohl was unaware of Lawrence’s contributions until sometime in 1973, and Star Trek 12 of 1977, published after Blish’s death in 1975 at age 54, was co-credited with her.

J. Scott Phillips did a nice overview of the great cover art for Blish’s Star Trek adaptations, and he also reflected on Blish’s standalone Star Trek novel.

After Such Knowledge

Although nominated a few times, Blish never won a Nebula, but A Case of Conscience won a Hugo for best novel. It was an expansion of a novella which later won a Retro-Hugo.

Blish identified as an agnostic, but he was still profoundly interested in theology. That motivated him to write multiple novellas and one full-length novel with religious themes, which were later packaged as After Such Knowledge, consisting of the A Case of Conscience in novel form, the sequential novellas of Black Easter and The Day After Judgment, and the historical novel Doctor Mirabilis.

The inherent friction between the scientific method and religious faith have led to several interesting works. Notable examples include Walter Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz and Frank Herbert’s Dune. When I was young, I read Arthur C. Clarke’s classic novel Childhood’s End, in which alien contact brings about a peaceful utopia and a consequent collapse of human religions. That made sense to Clarke, an outspoken atheist, but I was unable to suspend my disbelief and accept, despite my alignment with many of Clarke’s philosophies, that religions would collapse in the face of logic, contrary physical evidence, or an idyllic existence. Since religions rely on unprovable, supernatural, and often scientifically contradictory claims and have proved adaptable across centuries, I expect some of them to continue to exist, even as their scope waxes and wanes. Several old religions have lost all of their believers, but about three out of four people worldwide identify with a religious group.

Some years ago, I enjoyed the mix of science fiction and religion in Dan Simmons’ Hyperion Cantos novels, with their cruciform parasites which become essential to interstellar travel. The Catholic Church becomes a dominant force in that series, and it certainly figured in Blish’s After Such Knowledge works.

I purchased a used mass market paperback of After Such Knowledge, but it was too thick, even with small text, for my comfortable use. I’ve been spoiled by Kindles, and while I could readily purchase Kindle editions of Black Easter, The Day After Judgment, and the novel-length expansion of A Case of Conscience, I could only find a PDF of Doctor Mirabilis from a questionable source.

So I gritted my teeth and began reading Doctor Mirabilis in the mass market paperback. It dropped me into Oxford, England in 1231 in the company of Roger Bacon, and I read the first of its sixteen chapters and then abandoned the work.

I wasn’t in the mood to be embedded in medieval England in a historical novel with no science fiction elements. Yes, I loved Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, set in a fictional Italian monastery in 1327, but that was a historical murder mystery with a protagonist who was a mix of Sherlock Holmes and the Franciscan friar and philosopher William of Ockham. I also enjoyed the many Brother Cadfael novels by Ellis Peters, with a mystery-solving monk. However, what Blish was offering was the life of a real-world Franciscan friar who was caught up in political intrigue and battled the Franciscan Order for freedom to study, possibly leading to temporary imprisonment. Er, no thanks, and I’m not surprised that work has no Kindle edition.

I didn’t abandon the entire effort, however, as Matt of Bookpilled had greatly enjoyed the other three works, and A Case of Conscience had won a Hugo. So I took that up next in its Kindle edition.

A Case of Conscience

Book One of the novel was the original A Case of Conscience novella that first appeared in the September 1953 issue of If magazine and received a Retro-Hugo in 2004.

It started strong, with a Jesuit biologist helping treat a physicist during their first contact stay on a world populated by tall intelligent reptiles. I immediately noticed striking similarities between Blish’s reptile Lithians and Becky Chambers’ Aandrisk reptiles in her Wayfarer series published 60 years later. At first, the novella drew me in with its world-building, but all too soon it devolved into a talk-fest.

Four human characters spent page after page debating their verdict on opening the planet to human contact. The Jesuit could not help but filter his recommendation through his faith, with differences from current Catholic faith explained as reflecting fictional future doctrines. The Jesuit recommends a quarantine, as he concludes the planet is a trap created by Satan to cast doubt on Earthly religious faith. I admired how the story confronted the real-world issues that geocentric religions would face if intelligent aliens made contact, but I found the long discussion among the scientists a bit stultifying, and their verbal dialogue did not seem realistic. Most importantly, I could not suspend my disbelief to accept a race of beings who live without crime, conflict, ignorance, or want.

The Fix-Up

Blish later added a novella-length addition to create the novel version of A Case of Conscience, which won the Hugo back in 1959. Book Two dealt with an immature Lithian who was sent back to Earth with the human contact team. Multiple reviewers thought Book Two was weaker than Book One, but I found the opening chapters of it quite interesting. First you are in the mind of the young Lithian, and then you are taken through a sybaritic party which reminded me of an amplification of the crazy party in Midnight Cowboy. Its intensity struck me, as an introvert, as a segue into social horror, with a considerable amount of sardonic humor.

Blish built out, back in the 1950s, a very different future Earth of 2050 than what I expect as someone living in 2026. His projection of a “Shelter Race”, in which nations invested heavily in underground cities as a defense against thermonuclear war, reflected the fallout shelter craze of his era. It made me want to listen to Donald Fagen’s New Frontier.

The novel ended with the young alien making use of commercial telecasts to incite social unrest. Heinlein’s bizarre Stranger in a Strange Land came to mind, and not in a good way. I did not find Book Two of Blish’s novel any more believable, and it suffered mightily from providing paltry explanations of the alien’s personality and motivations.

As with so many classic science fiction stories, characterization in general was sorely lacking, especially for the few female characters. While the novel had some interesting ideas, the execution was poor, and I’m dreadfully tired of dystopias, as I’m living in the prolonged childhood of one here in Joklahoma.

I would much rather read classic and more optimistic tales of Known Space by Larry Niven or David Brin’s Uplift Saga. That desire already led me to start Becky Chambers’ Wayfarer series, Google Gemini has recommended Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga, and I know that I should try reading an Andy Weir novel.

A Case of Conscience was rated the 11,698th Greatest Book of All Time, with Black Easter coming in higher at 3,281th and The Day After Judgement at 3,531st. The only other Blish book ranked in that meta-rating system was Cities in Flight at 15,574th. The higher ratings for the other two works in the After Such Knowledge collection did not convince me to read them, however, as they are more in the realm of fantasy, horror, and the occult than science fiction, and if I were going to read horror, I already have on my Kindle The Possession of Alba Díaz by Isabel Cañas, and for fantasy I might try Roger Zelazny’s Lord of Light, which won the Hugo and was nominated for the Nebula, since he wrote that to be interpreted as either science fiction or fantasy.

I doubt I’ll read any more of Blish, and he left me needing the comfort of an author who could deftly sketch characters and craft a believable mise-en-scène, so I jumped into Wildfire at Midnight, Mary Stewart’s second short tale of romance suspense.

In my younger days, I was an avid reader of science fiction, and long ago I documented my favorites. One Golden Age author whose name was familiar to me was A.E. van Vogt, born Alfred Vogt in a tiny Russian Mennonite community in Manitoba back in 1912.

In the 1940s, he wrote science fiction short stories for magazines with a narrative style that was sometimes fragmented and bizarre, claiming many of his ideas came from dreams.

Vogt’s predilections were wildly different from my own. He valued inductive reasoning, monarchies, and ran a pseudoscientific Dianetics center in the 1950s, although he rejected the mystical grift of Hubbard’s Scientology.

His decade-long involvement with Dianetics curtailed his writing, with him inventing the “fix-up” novel in which he patched together multiple previously published stories, sometimes creating new interstitial text to bridge narrative gaps. Three of those were significant enough to enter my consciousness as influences on later authors.

The Weapon Shops of Isher

In June 2024, I read this 1951 fix-up of three earlier works:

• The Seesaw, 1941
• The Weapon Shop, 1942
• The Weapon Shops of Isher, 1949

I had read The Weapon Shop over 40 years earlier since it was included in the 1970 anthology The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One, 1929-1964. I had only the vaguest recollection of that story, so when I discovered it had been incorporated into a fix-up novel, I took that on.

I found the novel a strange, naive, pulpish, and disjointed mess with its bizarre Empress Innelda Isher reminding me at times of Suzerain Cleolanta of the laughable Rocky Jones, Space Ranger television serial of 1953. I still liked elements of the 1942 story, but the others did not impress me, and the switches in lead character were off-putting.

The unevenness in van Vogt’s fix-ups was a feature, not a shortcoming, to some readers. Later science fiction author Philip K. Dick, whose works inspired several terrific movies, commented about one of the fix-ups: “All the parts of that book did not add up; all the ingredients did not make a coherency. Now some people are put off by that. They think that’s sloppy and wrong, but the thing that fascinated me so much was that this resembled reality more than anybody else’s writing inside or outside science fiction.”

I could sense some of what Dick had liked, but I also sympathized with critic Damon Knight, who in an essay denigrated van Vogt as a “Cosmic Jerrybuilder” and correctly noted, “You can at least be sure that a van Vogt character will never break down into sentimental altruism at a crucial moment; his villains are thoroughgoing bastards, and so are his heroes.”

Mixed Men

I had my doubts about reading more of van Vogt after that. However, in November 2025, Matt of Bookpilled released a Patreon video review of Mission to the Stars of 1955, also published as The Mixed Men in 1952. It was one of the first of the fix-ups, and combined three short stories with some new linking material.

• Concealment, 1943, as Prologue
• Lost: Fifty Suns, new material as chapters 1-7
• The Storm, 1943, as chapters 8-15
• The Mixed Men, 1945, as chapters 16-22
• Is it True?, new material as chapter 23

It was an old-school space opera, thankfully in a far more compact form than would become the norm decades later. Matt credited it as a smarter book than he had expected, crammed with inventive ideas. He described it as a serious, if wacky, work, describing van Vogt’s weirdness as “uncalculated” and “unstudied”. His description of the plot was intriguing enough for me to seek out the book.

There is an eBook version at archive.org, but I seldom enjoy reading full novels with that service. So I purchased a 1950s pulp paperback version from a used book dealer in Siloam Springs, Arkansas. It cost me nothing, as I used accumulated Amazon Rewards Points. I’ll admit it was somewhat nostalgic to use my book clip again on an old mass market paperback, a format that has died out. And yes, the cheap pulp paper in that paperback reeked from the breakdown of its lignin and overall acid hydrolysis.

The Prologue, which was really Concealment, grabbed my attention. Below I show the original short story text, with strikethroughs and [bracketed additions] detailing the changes made in the fix-up:

The Earth ship came so swiftly around the planetless Gisser sun that the alarm system in the meteorite weather station had no time to react. The great machine [ship] was already visible [as a streak of light on the observation screen] when Watcher grew aware of it. Alarms must have blared [been activated] in the ship, too [also], for it [the moving point of brightness] slowed noticeably and, [evidently] still braking, disappeared [made a wide turn]. Now it was coming back, creeping along [creeping slowly back], obviously trying to locate the small object that had affected its energy screens.

[As it came within eye range,] It loomed vast in the glare of the distant, yellow-white sun, bigger even at this distance than anything ever seen by the Fifty Suns. [It seemed] a very hell ship out of remote space, a monster from a semi-mythical world, [and —though a newer model—] instantly recognizable from the descriptions in the history books as a battleship of Imperial Earth. Dire had been the warnings in the his­tories of what would happen someday—and here it was.

He knew his duty. There was a warning, the age-long dreaded warning, to send to the Fifty Suns by the non-directional subspace radio; and he had to make sure [that] nothing telltale remained of [at] the sta­tion. There was no fire. As the overloaded atomic engines dissolved, the massive building that had been a weather substation simply fell into its component elements.

Watcher made no attempt to escape. His brain, with its knowl­edge, must not be tapped. He felt a brief, blinding spasm of pain as the energy tore him to atoms.

Renowned science fiction magazine editor John W. Campbell once wrote of van Vogt: “The son-of-a-gun gets hold of you in the first paragraph, ties a knot around you, and keeps it tied in every paragraph thereafter—including the ultimate last one.”

The newer bridging material in chapters 1-7 was interesting, albeit often ridiculous with minimal characterization. Technology tens of thousands of years from now is hard to judge, but I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of a protein mutation allowing some people to control the minds of others. Then again, when I was a kid watching Star Trek, Mr. Spock’s Vulcan mind melds didn’t particularly bother me, although they were almost as preposterous.

I did like how van Vogt used mutations caused by a matter transporter as the basis for his three types of human mutants, oddly called robots, who had taken refuge 15,000 years earlier in one of the Magellanic Clouds. I also appreciated his portrayal of the difficulty of locating inhabited planets there, even with a ship capable of travelling a light year of distance in a mere minute, and how both the female Grand Captain of an immense space ship and the male hereditary leader of the “Mixed Men” mutants each faced challenges to their leadership.

The Storm segment was interesting in its portrayal of the Earth ship’s various protective mechanisms, and although a planetbound interlude slowed the pace, that also provided additional depth to the book’s most interesting character, Grand Commander Lady Laurr.

I agreed with Matt of Bookpilled that the first half of the book was stronger, but the entire book felt choppy, with plenty of clever ideas with only skeletal outlines. There was often little meat, let alone fat, on the bones.

In 1984, David Hartwell wrote: “No one has taken van Vogt seriously as a writer for a long time. Yet he has been read and still is. What no one seems to have noticed is that van Vogt, more than any other single SF writer, is the conduit through which the energy of Gernsbackian, primitive wonder stories have been transmitted through the Campbellian age, when earlier styles of SF were otherwise rejected, and on into SF of the present.”

I would certainly rather read some of van Vogt’s nonsense over the earlier drivel of E.E. “Doc” Smith, who is considered a founding father of space opera. After abandoning the The Skylark of Space, the only Smith work I would consider reading is Spacehounds of IPC, said to be his most realistic work.

The Voyage of the Space Beagle

This fix-up is sometimes mentioned, alongside the movie Forbidden Planet, as an influence on the original series of Star Trek. It was a 1950 assemblage of four short stories:

• Black Destroyer, 1939
• War of Nerves, 1950
• Discord in Scarlet, 1939
• M33 in Andromeda, 1943

I love the videos by J. Scott Phillips in which he shares classic works and delves into associated artwork such as book covers and illustrations. He took a look at Black Destroyer, which was published at the start of science fiction’s Golden Age, and was clearly an influence on the first episode of Star Trek that was broadcast, The Man Trap.

J. Scott Phillips also looked at Discord in Scarlet, which was obviously an influence on the movie Alien.

I wasn’t surprised that J. Scott Phillips found Black Destroyer had some good ideas but suffered from disjointed writing. That fits the pattern I had observed with the Weapons Shop and Mixed Men fix-ups. I wasn’t sufficiently interested in the ideas van Vogt might share in The Voyage of the Space Beagle to put up with his limitations as a writer.

If I ever want to read more van Vogt, I will try to remember to stick with his original short stories and avoid the fix-ups. My next sci-fi read was called a fix-up, but the author actually wrote a new novella as a sequel to an original one in James Blish’s A Case of Conscience.