ORIGINAL FICTION: "Climbers" (Chapter Twenty-Three)

second world war. It's also true that before that war the genre lacked believability. Most examples of sci-fi from before the war bordered on pure fantasy, lacking any root in the reality of the day. H. P. Lovecraft being the notable, if terrifying, exception. World War Two changed all that by providing a science based reality not all that far from fantasy. Rockets had become general public knowledge during the war. Painfully so for the English. Jet airplanes were fast approaching the mainstream and the ultimate science fiction- the atomic bomb- was no longer such an extreme top secret after August 6th, 1945. In this New Modern Age following the war, the public was more than anxious to read about things even more fantastic than their currently fantastic lives. They wanted more. Always more. And Arthur Crutchfield, unfortunately, gave it to them.
If hindsight has perfect vision, it's easy for us to see what went wrong with the book. In a nutshell: Written in the first person, the book appeared to be more the log of a young man's descent to dementia in wartime than a plausible look at an implausible animal. It was entirely too personal and too completely serious. It would be impossible for Arthur Crutchfield to offer any casual or offhand response to his detractors and critics. And at the time, he could not possibly understand why he should.
Work began on the book in the summer of 1945. It was written, for the most part, in Captain Jack's apartment overlooking Hyde Park. Within a week or so for his first writings, a system of efficiency was achieved: Arthur, having slept until mid-morning, would leave his own apartment, shared with his parents near Trafalgar Square, and make his way to Charring Cross Hospital. He would make himself useful through the day running messages and delivering supplies throughout the hospital. Never one to shy from a job, "Arty" (as he was known there) would even pitch in with a bit of basic cleaning when the need arose. As the hospital's volunteer Utility Man, he was called upon to do it all from time to time. This apparently even included the occasional drive to medical suppliers for additional materials for the hospital. There is, however, no mention of when, where or how Arthur Crutchfield learned to drive. No legal driver's license has ever been issued in his name. Even to this day. Nevertheless, he was either trusted enough, or they were desperate enough, to let young Arthur drive off in a hospital van to pick up supplies when the urgent need did arise. There were no recorded accidents.
Following a short day- from about ten in the morning until tea at four- Arthur Crutchfield put in his time (purely voluntary) at Charring Cross Hospital. From there, it was a quick walk through town to the U.S.O. near Victoria Station. Having caged a hot lunch at Charring Cross, Arthur made sure he was in the U.S.O. before dinner was served at five. A walk through the kitchen on the way to the utility room usually provided him with some sort of food to be called dinner. Not always hot, but sufficient. At the U.S.O., Arthur was, in fact, paid in U.S. dollars. Yes, mainly under the table, but it was as close as he got to regular wages. He was working for the man who was working for the U.S.O. Easy enough to hire out at a good price then. For a quarter of what the hired man made, he ended up with only a quarter of the work to do. Arthur did the other seventy-five percent in a three hour span most evenings. Clean and wax the dance floor- that was the first job. Had to be done by six. While that was drying, the small dance hall was cleaned, the chairs straightened and any minor repairs needed from the previous evening’s festivities were taken care of. Even Arthur could see that a change was coming. As the war progressed, and progressed further from London, the damage and debris dropped steadily at the U.S.O. The year before, the first time he walk into that hall, it looked like a bomb had gone off in there. He was not so sure that it hadn't. A complete shambles. Have these people no manners at all? It took hours just to find the floor. Now, with the war all but moved on, all that was