Tag Archives: science fiction

Asimov’s Multivac and the Sybil at Cumae

Tomorrow I am leading a tutorial about the episode ‘Dinner at Trimalchio’s’ from Petronius’ Satyricon. This moment in the (oft) inane dinner conversation caught my eye:

… I actually saw with my own eyes the Sybil at Cumae dangling in a bottle, and when the children asked her in Greek: “What do you want, Sybil?” she used to answer: “I want to die.” -Trimalcio to Agamemnon, Satyricon 15.48, trans. J. P. Sullivan for Penguin

The endnotes to this description of the Cumaean Sybil (the famous one from Vergil) refer the reader to T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem The Waste Land, which uses the original text as its epigraph before launching into the poem.

I found a different literary resonance — Isaac Asimov’s 1958 short story ‘All the Troubles of the World’ (available in The Complete Stories Vol. 1 and Nine Tomorrows). I am now about to give away the story, so apologies if you really want to read it; it’s quite clever, and deals with the issues of probability that arise from predictions not dissimilar to the same ones in Philip K. Dick’s ‘The Minority Report’.

Although you don’t quite know it for most of the story, the giant supercomputer Multivac is trying to orchestrate its own sabotage and destruction using crime reports — these reports themselves causing officers to engage in activities that would make Multivac’s destruction more and more likely, moving from putting someone under house arrest to that driving his underage son to seek advice from Multivac to Multivac giving him instructions on how to commit the sabotage.

Multivac was being used by the people of Earth to solve all their problems. They would ask Multivac a question, and an answer would pop out. They were required to tell the computer every aspect of their daily lives, including their thoughts, so that Multivac could reliably predict crimes and seek out solutions to political problems that would be the best available. In Asimov’s earlier story of 1955, ‘Franchise’ (also in Vol 1), Multivac would predict the outcome of the election with not a single vote being cast. In ‘All the Troubles of the World’, since crime was basically extinct, they were now about to pose to Multivac the question of curing disease.

So Multivac tries to get itself destroyed.

The story ends with the analysts asking Multivac the crucial question of Multivac’s own desires in the face of all the troubles of the world. Multivac answers, ‘I want to die.’

Multivac is a mechanised Sybil. Technology, in this vision of human development, has successfully supplanted this one role of religion. Come to Multivac with a problem, and he will give you the right answer. Like the Sybil, he is immortal. And like the Sybil, he would rather die than continue being weighed down with all the cares of the world.

Doctor Who: ‘The Fires of Pompeii’ & The Chariots of the Gods

I actually contemplated writing a proper ‘article’ on this subject for a little while, then I decided not to. But, having just rewatched ‘The Fires of Pompeii’ tonight, I can’t help from at least blogging about it. Three bits follow — a synopsis, a discussion of Roman religion, and then the TARDIS of the Gods. Each has a heading in bold if you’d like to skip ahead.

First of all, for those of you haven’t watched the episode, go now. Donna is my favourite of the Doctor’s companions in the 2005 reboot. So she’s obviously worth watching.* And it’s an episode about ancient Roman stuff. So it’s obviously worth watching. And it’s Doctor Who. So it’s obviously worth watching. (Here are my thoughts on the greatness of Doctor Who).

Second of all, watch it. Now.


Third of all, if you’re really determined not to watch it or you’ve forgotten stuff, here’s a brief run-down of the episode. If you remember the episode or don’t care to read the synopsis, skip ahead to the next bold text. The Doctor and Donna, intending to visit ancient Rome, accidentally end up in Pompeii the day before Vesuvius erupts. Caecilius (qui est pater) buys the TARDIS when the Time Lord’s not looking, and when the Doctordonna go to rescue it, they discover that the local augur and Caecilius’ daughter, herself a member of the Sibylline Sisterhood, have actual psychic and prophetic abilities; this goes for all of Pompeii’s fortune tellers and suchlike.

These two in particular say things that make sense and come true. They know that the Doctor is from Gallifrey and Donna, called Noble, is a daughter of London. It turns out that this is because there are creatures called Pyroviles living in Mt Vesuvius and the whole city of Pompeii’s hypocausts (Roman central heating) are connected to the molten core of the volcano, and dust from the Pyroviles is being inhaled by everyone, especially the fortune tellers, who purp0sefully inhale the vapours of the hypocausts. The Pyroviles are enabling Pompeiians to lock into latent human psychic capability; there’s also a rift in time enabling them to see into the future with said capability.

Long story short, in order to save the whole earth from the Pyroviles, the Doctor must sacrifice Pompeii. At Donna’s insistence, he rescues Caecilius and family.** At the end of the episode, we see young Quintus sacrificing to the Household Gods, who are represented by the Doctor and Donna, the TARDIS in the middle.

Doctor Who and Roman religion

What currently interests me in this episode is its relationship to ancient Rome. The religion of ancient Rome, at its ‘primeval’ (I guess?) root, is a religion centred around the numinous. To the Roman mind, the universe is populated by a great variety of numina, of spiritual beings of various sorts (I’ve blogged about this in relation to St Augustine, in fact).

A numen is not necessarily a personalised being or hypostasis, persona, in the way we imagine the Greek Pantheon to be. Vesta is as much the spirit of the hearth as the hearth fire as a personal goddess, for example. Anything and everything could/did have a numen or possibly a genius, if a person or a city. A genius is more of a protecting spirit than the spirit of something itself. So sacrificing to the genius of Rome or of the Emperor is not entirely the same thing as sacrificing to Rome or the Emperor, although I imagine the categories in everyday life and ordinary human speech were not as clear as we want to make them.

A helpful term for this is possibly polydaimonic — many spirits, not many gods, which is polytheistic as we find in Greece. This polydaimonic aspect helps set Rome apart from Greece and helps explain why Romans did not think it quite so strange as post-Judaeo-Christian folks do that such luminaries as Romulus, Julius Caesar, and Augustus were divinised; the gods are at base spiritual creatures — and human persons have spirits of their own, liberated from this mortal coil upon death.

However, by AD 79 when Vesuvius erupted, the worldviews of Greek myth and religion had been assimilated into the worldview of traditional Roman cult surrounding the numinous. Various Roman gods took on the attributes of Greek counterparts, and in some literature lost any ‘Romanness’ at all.

Those are general remarks.

Amongst the numina of the Roman world are the household gods — the lares and penates. Part of daily life was rituals of thanksgiving/appeasement/propitiation/what-have-you of these divinities. To the Roman, completing the rituals exactly was important; if you screwed up, you had to start all over again, otherwise the thing would work. And if it did not work, things would not go well for you, either incurring the wrath of the gods or at least losing their favour. This is why Romans covered their heads when sacrificing — to prevent being distracted; thus this statue of Augustus as Pontifex Maximus:

The household gods turn up in ‘The Fires of Pompeii’, both when Quintus express reluctance concerning propitiating them and at the end when he gives thanks to the Doctor and Donna as gods at the home shrine. Although there are various rituals associated with Roman household gods, this basic daily interaction with said numina is probably at the heart of the religious life of the average Roman — although, with most pre-modern peoples, where does ‘religion’ end and ‘ordinary’ life begin?

Lucius est augur. Caecilius est pater.

Another important part of Roman life was divination — astrology, taking auspices from birds, reading omens in sacrificed animals, discerning various other omens everywhere and at all times, consulting oracles (such as the Cumaean Sibyl, so popular from Vergil’s Aeneid Book VI), at some point the sortes Vergiliana which involve using random lines from Vergil’s poetry to make decisions, and (to give a non-exhaustive list) consulting oracular texts written long ago (or forged in the name of long ago) and contemplating their meaning (Sibylline Oracles or Orphic literature, par example).

‘The Fires of Pompeii’ has this most assuredly. It is the driving force of the action in the story — an official augur and a cult of Sibylline Sisters whose predictions are precise and correct. Although the Doctor refers to Lucius, the local augur, as representing the ‘official superstition’, it is the case that many Romans took the world of divination very seriously, right up to Ammianus Marcellinus, the Emperor Julian, and the pre-conversion Augustine in the fourth century. The numinous, the divine, has left its imprint in the visible world, and this imprint can be assessed and discerned for forecasting future events.

Why Romans (and Greeks — just read Xenophon’s Anabasis for a divination-obsessed guy) were so into divination and omens is a concern for another time. But they were, and the show basically gets this right, although there was never a Sibylline Sisterhood. Sibyls were a non-institutionalised (as opposed to the famous Oracle at Delphi) bunch of mortal, virgin, female seers of far antiquity who were born with the ability to predict the future. They were never organised and, as far as we know, never had a cultus surround them beyond the literature handed down in their names.

‘The Fires of Pompeii’ takes these two basic aspects of daily Roman religion to tell a tale of the destruction of worlds and the burden of the Time Lord.

Chariots (TARDIS) of the Gods?

I must admit that I’ve never read Erich von Däniken’s Chariots of the Gods? But the argument of the book is that our mythology and concepts of gods are derived from our ancient, primeval contact with aliens. We mistook technology for the supernatural.

This is the basic premise of ‘The Fires of Pompeii’ — and not just the Doctor and Donna as household gods at the end. The Pyroviles are seen by their devotees as gods. Lucius the augur considers them as Vulcan when he meets them. The Sibylline Sisterhood simply refer to them as ‘the gods’.

This is a not uncommon theme for science fiction, and it recurs in Doctor Who in an alien culture with Series 7’s ‘The Rings of Akhaten,’ or similarly in Series 2’s ‘The Satan Pit’. When the Marvel superhero god Thor became a film in Thor (2011), rather than simply being the Aes we knew him to be from The Prose Edda, he was, rather, a member of an extremely long-lived race with an advanced civilisation, mistaken for gods by puny mortals. See also the films/TV shows Stargate (1994), Prometheus (2012), Star Trek: TNG ‘Who Watches the Watchers’ (1989), Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (1989), and the Wormhole Aliens of Star Trek: DS9, amongst others.

And sometimes God is the final manifestation of Multivac. But that’s something else.

Anyway, point is, this is a not-unheard-of thread in science fiction. Related is the fact that magic is just science that Henry Pym hasn’t explained yet.

What it points to here, when coupled with the Doctor’s reference to augury as ‘official superstition’, is a downplaying of the potential of a vibrant presence of the numinous in our midst. If something’s going on, there will be a materialist explanation for it in most science fiction.

This makes for great stories, and a lot of fun science fiction. But it is still based on the philosophical presupposition of materialism — that matter is all there is. Yet what if it is not?

In the end, although I find a lot of Bajorans really annoying and wished more of Star Fleet had kept themselves skeptical, this is one of the important contributions of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine that Doctor Who sometimes approaches (though not here), as in ‘The Satan Pit’ (which is ambiguous) and the stories involving pyschics — the question is left blurry. Are these beings what a modernist materialist would recognise as matter or energy, or are they somehow spiritual? How does something exist outside of linear time? Or what if the material can be utterly spiritual? Will new religions not possibly arise, as in Dan Simmons’ Hyperion?

Important questions — which is one of the points of Science Fiction.

The verdict on this episode? A none-too-bad representation of Roman religion in daily life with an imaginary cult and the unsurprising TARDIS of the gods for a lot of good old-fashioned fun, cutting into deep questions not only represented here but also the burden of the Time Lord and why the Doctor needs Donna.

*Actually, sometimes Wilfrid is my favourite.

**Almost wrote ‘et familia’, but that would have implied that he also saved Grumio and the other household staff. He did not.

The Martian Chronicles

As those of you who have been reading this blog for the long haul know, I am a fan of the late Ray Bradbury, for whom I wrote this tribute when he died last year. I recently acquired a copy of The Martian Chronicles, in the lovely edition pictured to the left. This was one of the first Bradbury books I read, back in my early teens.

I remembered only bits and pieces of images and people from that first read over a decade and a half ago. So it was kind of like reading it for the first time.

And it was magnificent.

Bradbury never gives you a ‘stereotypical’ science fiction story. His is ‘poetic science fiction’ (a phrase I think he used himself; Mr Storm certainly used it in Grade 10 when we read ‘Zero Hour’). The Martian Chronicles only contains three of what one would consider stereotypes for Mars stories/1950s sci-fi: Martians, rockets, and nuclear war.* Unlike, say, Philip K Dick, Bradbury imagined we’d make it out of the 20th century before having nuclear war.

Anyway, The Martian Chronicles is unlike anything else you’ll ever read. It shows forth the full splendour of Bradbury’s imaginative force — and his is an imagination as broad as deep as vivid as any other science fiction author, an ocean of images, a tapestry of words you can run the fingers of your mind across and delight in the colours with your mind’s eye.

There are sublimely beautiful stories and images in The Martian Chronicles, such as ‘Night Meeting,’ a time-tale of an encounter between a Martian and an Earthman, and ‘The Fire Balloons’, the beautifully theological story of the first missionaries on Mars.

There is the dark, present in so much of Bradbury’s fiction, often just under the surface of the beauty (remember ‘The Veldt’?). This we see in the fate of ‘The Third Expedition’ or the dreadful folly of Parkhill and hubristic hot dog stand in ‘The Off Season.’

Ray Bradbury’s is also a playful mind, as in the beautiful image of ‘Rocket Summer’ with which he opens the collection or the fate of ‘The Earth Men’ though mad by Martians.

I tried so hard to savour the book this time through, but Bradbury’s delicious prose sucked me in, pulled me inexorably along. I’ll have to reread to get the full effect in years to come. Here’s some of that lovely prose to enchant you as I go, from ‘Night Meeting’ (it made me think of the Doctor [who?]):

There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He smiled and turned the fancy in his mind. There was a thought. What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box-lids, and rain. And, going farther, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theatre, one hundred billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time smelled and looked and sounded.

*Who’d’ve guessed that we’d end up destroying humanity by driving cars rather than by the atom bomb?

The Importance of ‘The Naked Time’ (Star Trek: TOS, S1, E4)

In Berlin, the thing that excited me the most was not the Brandenburger Tor (which is cool), or Checkpoint Charlie (also cool), or a bit of the Wall (also cool), but Queen Nefertiti. And then, after Queen Nefertiti and the stuff from Schliemann’s Troy —

English-language cinema.


First, Iron Man 3. Then Star Trek: Into Darkness. And, for all its flaws, the latter was a good time. I’m glad I saw it in the theatre, and I enjoyed the ride. But it has reminded me of … well … Star Trek.

So now, when I’m not locked away reading books for fun or for work, I’m going to be watching Star Trek and Doctor Who. This will tide me over until the new season of Castle begins. And today I watched ‘The Naked Time.’

‘The Naked Time’ is the fourth aired episode of Star Trek back from 1966. In it, the crew of the Enterprise become infected by some sort of alien disease that Dr. McCoy can’t figure out, the result of which is to bring sublimated desires from the subconscious to dominate the entire conscious behaviour.

Most famously, the intrepid George Takei as Hikaru Sulu turns swashbuckler:

Another very famous moment is when Mr Spock has an emotional breakdown in one of the briefing rooms. He weeps and pours out his heart to Captain Kirk, saying that he’d never told his mother that he loved her — a poor Earth woman living on an alien planet. He admits that he feels shame when he feels friendship for Jim Kirk.

Kirk becomes infected. Kirk who is ridiculously caricatured by J J Abrams/Chris Pine as an incorrigible womaniser, declares himself wed to his ship (not unlike the Doctor in the first Neil Gaiman-penned episode of Doctor Who, ‘The Doctor’s Wife’). He notices Yeoman Rand, but there’s nothing he can do. There is no walk on the beach for Jim Kirk. The Enterprise is his love, and the life of a starship captain has no room for romance.

This is a very important scene that brings out the two relationships that undergird all of Star Trek, in an episode mostly remembered for its comic moments of Mr Sulu and Mr O’Reilly.

First, Kirk and Spock. The third in the triad is McCoy, but he’s too busy saving the day to bare his soul. James Tiberius Kirk and Spock are fast friends, bound together by the starship, by their past experiences, by a genuine affection. They work well together as commanding officer and science officer, and captain and his number one, as human and Vulcan, as one friend to another. The Kirk-Spock dynamic, where each is a foil for the other, where we see that they have a long history together, is what binds together the scattered episodes of Star Trek, from Gary Mitchell to Spock’s brain to Tribbles to Khaaaaaaan!!!!

This moment in ‘The Naked Time’ is an important step in the journey towards one of the most famous lines and moments in all of Trek:

I have been — and always shall be — your friend.

Second, Kirk and the Enterprise. No Orion Slave Girl could ever take her place in Jim Kirk’s heart. His sense of duty and calling will even keep him away from pursuing interest in Yeoman Rand and her beehive hairdo. Before all else, James Kirk is a starship captain. This fills his life and all of his adventures. The Enterprise is home to Kirk. Without her, he is lost in the 1980s … well, lost anyway. When we understand this, those many women, human and alien, whom he is so fondly remembered as having romanced, wooed, kissed — sometimes under alien mind control — make sense; he cannot lead a settled life with wife and children, so this is all he’s got. In ‘The Naked Time’, Kirk says of the Enterprise:

She won’t permit me my life. I’ve got to live hers.

He goes on to say to her:

Never lose you… never.

So do not underestimate any episode of Star Trek. As I make my voyage, I hope that even ‘The Trouble with Tribbles’ will reveal some of the deeper undercurrents of the Enterprise and her intrepid crew.

The Development of the Doctor (Who) [there will be spoilers!]

We’d better keep an eye on him [the Doctor], he seems to have a knack for getting into trouble.
Ian Chesterton, companion of the Doctor, in Series 1, 1963

In ‘The Name of the Doctor’, the series finale for this, the seventh series of the rebooted Doctor Who, Matt Smith (Eleven) says that the name he chose, ‘Doctor’, was meant to be a reflection of who he wished to be, how he wished to act in his adventures in Time And Relative Dimension In Space (TARDIS). And there was a time when he acted out of keeping with the name of Doctor —

the Time War, when he destroyed the homeworlds and species of both the Time Lords and the Daleks.

But, wait? Is this what Doctor has always meant to our centuries-old Time Lord?

The answer must be no.

If we turn back to Classic Who, we realise that the Time War is not the only moment when the Doctor has acted unlike a physician (the dangerous sense of the word doctor in today’s English). We need look no further than the very first serial of 1963 to see the Doctor trying to kill a caveman with a rock.

Many will dismiss this, saying that they didn’t really know what they were doing with the show back in 1963. This is true. And this is an easy out for a lot of inconsistencies.* Nonetheless, we can’t actually escape so quickly.

What about ‘Genesis of the Daleks’ (Series 12 [classic])? You know, that time when Four (Tom Baker) tries to kill every Dalek before Davros can finish genetically engineering them? That is, when the Doctor wilfully attempted genocide?

What makes Tom Baker’s failed genocide so different from …

ACTUAL SPOILER NOW. (Classic Who references don’t really count.)


… no, not the Master …


… John Hurt, as the actual Nine, when he succeeded at genocide? Because he committed a double genocide?

Nonetheless, in general, the Doctor is not a genocidal maniac. And we must admit that the President of Gallifrey was involved in sending Four to obliterate all the Daleks. So it’s not really the same as the Doctor of his own volition killing all the Daleks and trapping the Time Lords in the Time Vortex.

Back to One (William Hartnell). If One was around four hundred years old (it’s really hard to tell; the Tardis Data Core leaves me baffled as to how old the Doctor was in 1963) when we met him, and if this is something of an adolescent age for a Time Lord, AND if he had been in that first regeneration a bit too long, perhaps we can understand why he is how he is in 1963. He is both too old and too young.

So he is a trickster, a manipulator, a pompous man, the sort of person who is willing to abandon others in danger, the sort of man who trusts no one. But he regenerates, and becomes both younger and older, time and again, until, when he’s over 900, he’s the youngest we’ve seen him yet. He’s also spent a lot of time at Earth.

And perhaps this is what makes the Doctor change — his contact with Earth and humans. He goes from a pompous Time Lord (as many of them can be — indeed, we need not even consider the Master, when the President of Gallifrey himself intended to take over the entire universe during the Time War) to someone a bit more like us, with two hearts beating out of love for a young species still finding its way in the ‘verse.

If this makes sense, my theory (in sum) is that the Doctor has matured with time and through regenerations. He began not as a physician doctor but as a science doctor, but has found that the former suits his role in the cosmos — especially as the last (known) Time Lord — much better.

*How does Skaro exist again? Where did all the Daleks in ‘Asylum of the Daleks’ come from?  Why didn’t reapers emerge in Series 6 (reboot) when the Doctor’s alleged death was averted, the way they did in the Series 1 (reboot) episode ‘Father’s Day’? How can so many other people time travel? According to ‘The Talons of Weng-Chiang’ (Series 14 [classic]) and ‘The Two Doctors’ (Series 22 [classic]) it is very difficult to achieve and highly dangerous. I could go on; others could go on further …

Ginger Beer and Re-trying Stuff

Bundaberg: My ginger beer of choice

Today I was out with a friend, and I happened to have a ginger beer. It reminded me of the first and second times I had ginger beer. The first time was as a child visiting Fort Edmonton, a fantastic historical park that takes you through the whole history of Edmonton. I thought I’d try something new at the store where they sold old-fashioned pop, so I had a ginger beer. After all, I liked ginger ale.

But I didn’t like ginger beer. Not at all. Indeed, I don’t believe I even finished that bottle of ginger beer.

About a year and a half ago, I was walking along, and my stomach was feeling a bit upset. I slipped into a corner store to see if I could buy a ginger ale. But, of course, Scotland doesn’t really carry ginger ale. Out of spite to North Americans, no doubt.

However, knowing that the medicinal properties of ginger ale come from the ginger, I bought a ginger beer. And, you know what? About halfway through, I started to like it. Now I like ginger beer, whereas for many years I avoided it because I didn’t like it.

This story has a moral to it. Of course.

The moral is — try stuff again! When I was a kid I disliked peanuts and mushrooms. Today I do not. How did I come to this knowledge? I tried them again. The world of food that stretches before me has expanded. I can enjoy more things. Therefore, I can enjoy myself more.

So if you as a child disliked, say, apples, or peanut butter, or all fruit, or bananas, or chicken, or the Beatles — try again. Your taste may have changed. We human beings are not static, and that’s a good thing.

And if you think you dislike certain genres — say, murder mysteries or science fiction or fantasy or ancient literature or nineteenth-century novels or poetry in general — try it again. If you disliked Star Wars, try Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan or Minority Report or something else to see if, perhaps, you like some science fiction, if not all.

If you dislike ‘classical’ music, try Beethoven’s 4th symphony or one of those ‘best of Wagner’ CDs or Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite.

Expand your horizons, be they culinary or cultural! With more to enjoy, the more you’ll enjoy life. I promise.

I now know why the literati think SF sub-literary…

Every once in a while, I am irked by a tone of superiority that comes through some sources — such as my first-year undergrad English short fiction anthology — about genre fiction as not having high literary standards. Part of me reacts and says that these people have clearly never read Ray Bradbury or J. R. R. Tolkien!

Given that sometimes you come across a cover of Bradbury that looks like this, I’m starting to see why people of refined taste steer clear of SF:

I don’t know that ‘poetic science fiction’ or ‘literature of outstanding quality’ are phrases that this cover would ever make a person think. No doubt these bad covers are the real reason Margaret Atwood (author of SF titles The Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake) claims not to write science fiction. This tactic, however, has failed:

Both of these shockingly horrible covers are to be found at the amazing website Good Show Sir, where you can view hundreds of the worst covers in science fiction and fantasy from around the world.

It is a website full or wonder. Or terror. Or horror. Or befuddlement. Good, high-quality SF gets such terrible, loathsome covers. So does bad SF. But these strange and bizarre covers are certainly a force behind the rejection of SF as a genre of high literature by the literati. Who would willingly subject him’erself to such monstrosities, not knowing whether the contents of the book outstripped the cover in terms of worthiness?

Nonetheless, I encourage you to visit Good Show Sir and view the monstrosities. It’s worth a laugh and may consume your day …