In the introduction to this book, James Tipree, Jr. (a very fine writer indeed) refers to a certain kind of story, not the kind found in this volume, as 'the jolly engineering dilemmas of plastic space jocks on the Aldebaran mail run'. I know the kinds of stories she means, and they aren't my favoured form of science fiction.
However, reading this volume made it clear to me that Yarbro's real preference is horror; not the sort of cosmic, weird horror I favour but a certain shudder-inducing, take-two-steps-back and shudder horror of realising just how macabre or revolting or cruel a certain situation or person is. Several of the stories in this volume are this sort of horror; one of them is not framed as SF, and is perhaps the most effective of them for it. The rest are mainly placed in stock SF settings, apart from a few notable exceptions including one that seems to me to have the closest kinship to Tiptree's (vastly superior) work. I still have a couple of stories to finish at the end of this book; a detailed discussion of the contents will follow once I do that.
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Having finished the book, it seems to me that the SF identification is a bit of a red herring. This is an early-career collection; one in which a writer with a predilection for fantasy but no firm favorite amongst its variants is experimenting with all kinds of narrative styles and settings.
6 of these stories are more or less in the conventional SF mould: futuristic settings, space travel, alien worlds, advanced technology. These include the weakest stories herein, 'Frog Pond', little more than a squib, 'Un Bel Di': chilling but could as well have been set in a fantasy world or our own, 'Allies', again chilling, but a story that could have been framed as supernatural or even straight realism, 'Dead In Irons' which could easily have been a maritime story. All these stories derive their kick from a realisation of how twisted or cruel some individual is, which seems to have been Yarbro's favoured key to horror. Two other Sf stories, 'Into My Own', which inquires into identity and the line between artificial and natural, and 'The Meaning Of The Word', a study in professional obsession, are better although rife with stock elements.
'The Generalissimo's Butterfly' is less easily pegged as SF, and comes closest to Tiptree's own work, so fearless in its examination of the machinations of power and violence. 'Swan Song' is a compelling idea executed reasonably well, deriving its power from mythic echoes.
'Disturb Not My Slumbering Fair' is straight horror,and effective of its kind if a bit minor. Nasty rather than truly chilling. 'Lammas Night' is a squib, but as it deals with the occult mountebank Cagliostro, it is an interesting precursor or outlier to Yarbro's famous St-German series.
Finally we have two gems of Bradburyesque North America magic realism which bookend the collection: 'Everything that begins with an "M"' and 'The Fellini Beggar'. These two stories are most decidedly not SF of any variety whatsoever, and they are worth the price of admission in themselves.