Death Cell by Ron Goulart
153 pages, Paperback
Now it is strange to me that Ron Goulart was an author I had barely ever heard of a few years back. He is an author I think about a lot now, and not just because he is great, and he is. A Bay Area SF writer who grew up in Berkeley about a decade or so behind Philip K. Dick, it was Ron asking Phil for advice, which led to the Formula letter, that I have made myself an expert in.
For his part, Goulart didn’t follow the formula, but it is clear his world-building methods and humor are very Dickian. If you don’t know Goulart’s work and what sketch or overview he writes, smart bizarro, humorous science fiction, often with radical politics of the era. Mostly last 60s and 70s.
He was a historian so much of the political stuff is top-notch political reflections of our world with a Douglas Adams or Robert Sheckley tongue-in-cheek gonzo to them.
Death Cell was one of the few books published by the short-lived Beagle-Boxer imprint of Beagle Books (known for romance novels) It was the first of two novels about Jack Summer, a Hunter S. Thompson-like character who is the top reporter at the Galactic news mag, Muckrake. His partner Palma, is described on the back cover as “the horniest photographer in the known universe.”
How does Goulart get the so-called “acid zaniness?” Let's look at this one example. Bozos, by the way are fighting robots…
“The trio of bozos who'd broken into the shack came out, cautiously.
“We got your number,” said the flame thrower. “Maybe next time we fix your wagon good.”
“No more gab, cautioned the bozo in the yellow suit. “Scram now.”
“Not much really, Jack. He was quite elated about your coming here yourself apparently, he had read several of your exposé articles in the prison library back files. He said he admired not only your courage what your prose style.”
Goulart novels are written with a breezy zany quality with lots of funny dialogue scenes like this. It is like taking the weird world-building details and mixing them with the sharp wit of Fletch novels. This story involves Jack Summer, who is a spy using being a reporter as a cover. He gets on the trail of a super weapon in development because even the people making it are star-struck by him.
“Well, I really don't know. I had the impression, from listening to poor Ned, there is something secret going on at the island prison. Something called the death cell project. Surely Ned told you that much before the bozos broke in.”
“We were talking about money, chiefly.”
Alicia said, “But Muckrake certainly has other information, information from other sources on what’s going on. Don’t you?”
After shaking his head, Summer asked, “Was something from the death cell operation used on Taffy tonight? Palma got a whiff of it, too.”
The lefty political takes are nicely mixed into hilarious world-building. Robot henchmen, Cat-man butlers. And weapons dealers like “The Explosion King.”
“They're all retired munitions makers,” said the small black driver. “It's a joke to them to call themselves death merchants, retired. Do you see any humor in that? They go into the town hospital once a week for rejuvenation therapy.”
The old cat man tilted his tin hat until the brim was nearly touching his left eye he clapped his furry grey hands together. “Jelly, Jelly, Jelly.”
I point to the Jelly, Jelly part to show Goulart never takes anything too seriously. You’ll laugh on many of the pages. Some of the political stuff suffers being out-of-date sensitivity-wise. Lots discussion of boobs, as male SF writers in the era tended to do. Also…
“The Butler was a green cat man. When he noticed Summer's colored invitation, he expelled a sad breath. “I was hoping you'd be one of the navajos.”
“Which Navajos is this?”
“They are supposed to be among our featured minority groups at today's fundraising affair, Sir,” explained Nancy J. Folkstone's aging Butler. “Teleporting in all the way from Barnum period to the best of my knowledge, Sir, Barnum is the only planet in our system to possess Indians in any quantity.”
I thought at first the Cat-man’s interest in Native Americans was nice, but the way he talked about them still being oppressed was uncomfortable.
I was, however, amused by this little jab at Harlan Ellison, which was randomly thrown into a scene set at a dinner party, saying he wouldn’t exist with Grimmelshausen the 17th-century German author.
“Now did I bring my newly acquired rare mint copy of the Harlan Ellison horn book out here to stand around with it while you mouth off about Grimmelshausen again?
“There would be no Ellison without the pioneering of Grimmelshausen.”
Death Cell is hilarious proto-Bizarro. I greatly enjoyed it, maybe not as much as my first Goulart novel, Flux. I do intend to keep reading him.
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