Fool's Paradise. John Russell Fearn
and regular sales were assured. Initially he was selling Scion romances and westerns, but sensing an opening with them for science fiction, he tried them with his short novel, Venusian Queen. It was accepted immediately, with a request for more. Fearn promptly decided to rewrite Fool’s Paradise to the shorter length required by British paperback publishers. In June 1950 he wrote to Gillings: “Regarding Fool’s Paradise. This is now off the list. I sold it in a shorter version to Scion, under the new name of Annihilation.”
Following publication of Venusian Queen (retitled Operation Venus) under Fearn’s own name, Scion decided to issue Annihilation under their own chosen pen name of ‘Vargo Statten’, and when it quickly became a bestseller, their Managing Director travelled all the way from London to Fearn’s home in Blackpool to secure his services for Scion.
On 23rd October, 1950, Fearn wrote for the last time to Gillings:
“I have signed an agreement for the exclusive use of my work with a publisher (Scion) for the next 5 years, which rules me out with all other publishers henceforth (those contracted for earlier are still in being of course) but since all the writing is science fiction I need everything I can get.… I want all other outstanding sf MSS too, please. The boys over there have had their chance!”
Fearn’s contract with Scion would result in his writing nearly seventy sf novels with them, selling over five million copies, with worldwide translations. But, in the long run, Scion’s contractual insistence on his using pseudonyms would prove deleterious to his reputation, and if only Fool’s Paradise had been sold in America by either Friend or Pohl, under his own name, Fearn’s career would have been very different, and his reputation greatly enhanced.
Until now, the novel has never been published in America, and it is with some pleasure and satisfaction that I can now offer this Borgo Press first US edition of Annihilation under Fearn’s own name, and with his original title of Fool’s Paradise restored. It does, however, retain its original dynamic Ron Turner cover imagery, which was specially repainted for me by the artist.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE
Thayleen West lowered her slender white hands from the piano keyboard and smiled to herself. She was satisfied with her music, herself, and her home. She had world fame as a concert pianist, and she had Kenyon, her husband—
She turned as he entered the room. It was late afternoon. The room was full of golden hues and soft, blurry shadows. Outside, through the french windows, the well-kept garden drooped in saturating August heat.
“That was wonderful, Thay!” Kenyon came hurrying forward and caught the girl’s hands in his own. He was a lanky, genial soul, an engineer and a materialist, yet it did not make him an intolerable husband. Materialism and artistry could—and did—go hand-in-hand.
“A change for us to be together,” Ken continued, putting an arm round the girl’s shoulders. “If only all Sundays were like this!”
“They will be, after this year,” Thayleen said.
Ken smiled to himself and strolled to the open windows. He gazed out on the sunlight. His keen grey eves followed the flight of a bird as it cavorted gaily in sombre blue heaven.
“You said that last year, Thay,” he reminded her. “And the year before that. By all means go on playing to the world, but—sometimes—”
Thayleen rose. She was only five feet tall, slender as a willow. With wraith-like silence she crossed to where her husband stood. Her dark head with its piled-up curls just reached his shoulder.
“Sometimes—what?” she questioned.
“Nothing, dear. Just thinking.…”
Ken smiled down on her good-humouredly. His boyish appearance, which his tousled blond hair and plain good-natured face did little to belie, had no relationship to his mind. Machines—buildings—bridges—liners—power-houses—jet planes. He was always thinking about them, or else Thayleen—or the future.
“Nothing?” Thayleen repeated, surprised.
“Well, I’m wondering where we’re going to finish up.”
“What a thought!” Thayleen laughed.
“A serious one, though. We’ve been married two years and seen each other about five times. You’re in New York, London, Paris, all over the place. I make love to your televised image, I listen to you over the radio. It’s like having a synthetic wife!”
“Not altogether,” Thayleen said quietly. “A synthetic wife couldn’t—couldn’t add one more to the family, could she?”
Ken did not immediately grasp the point. When he did, he swung round to meet Thayleen’s dark eyes with the sunlight glancing through them.
“Thay—you mean—?” He stopped and gripped her arms.
“Yes. In the autumn. Four more concerts and then I’ll retire to attend to other things.”
“Lord!” Ken looked confused. “Have—you told anybody else?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m going to. Particularly Anton.”
Thayleen gave a serious glance. “And be rewarded with the observation that a biological function is about to take place? Ken, dear, why waste your time? Anton’s a brilliant chap, I know, but so utterly cold-blooded.”
“Only because he’s a scientist. I’ve got to tell him!”
“As you will,” Thayleen shrugged.
Ken lost himself in speculations for a moment. Thayleen glanced up as the sun became veiled by a passing cloud. It was surprising how dark it seemed to make the countryside, which for many weeks had been drenched in pitiless heat. Strange, too, for the British Isles, which had usually managed to ruin its summer with rain. Now everybody was crying out for it. Prayers in the churches, cattle nosing into iron-hard waterholes; crops yellow before their time; farmers rubbing the backs of their leathery necks and gazing up into a brazen vault from which all moisture seemed to have evaporated. It seemed that throughout the Western hemisphere one vast anticyclone existed. The summer had, so far, been the hottest in history.
Not that Kenyon West minded. He was not thinking of the present, but of the future—of the son or daughter yet to come.
The cloud passed. The sunlight flooded down on the world again. At the far end of the garden the trees wilted, aching, as though they found it beyond them to stand up straight in the bone-dry soil.…
* * * * * * *
On the following day, the commencement of a new week, Thayleen departed for the Continent and a further round of concert tours. Ken for his part was thankful for a mountain of work to keep his mind occupied. As Chief Engineer of the immense Mid-England Steel and Iron Combine, he had plenty to do. Upon him, at the moment, rested the responsibility for the cutting of a subsidiary bore to the existing Channel Tunnel, making it possible for more traffic to be handled to and from the Continent.
Even so, he took the opportunity one evening to visit Anton Drew, his friend from college days and now the head of Bland’s Enterprises—which controlled the output of all the world’s rare drugs, medicines, chemicals, and atomic and plastic byproducts.
Ken first tried Drew’s Surbiton apartment, and then realised he should have had more sense. Drew was a bachelor who spent every waking hour at some scientific pursuit or other—and there was no better place for this than the replete scientific laboratories where he worked. Outside interests never attracted him in the least.
Sure enough, Ken found him in the remoter parts of the Bland laboratories, to which quarter he was directed by a night watchman, the normal staff having long since departed. Their interest in things scientific always evaporated at six o’clock.
Not so Anton Drew. He regarded scientific pursuits as a mother does the development of her child. More often than not he even forgot to collect his salary