On a Planet Alien

Malzberg satirizes science fiction tropes that other authors in the genre take seriously. I’m not criticizing the instinct of an author — or any artist — to use a culturally relevant form to impart their ideas. But Malzberg wields them with sardonic wit, and since he’s writing under the banner of science fiction about the psychotic monologues of a disillusioned, megalomaniacal astronaut, he’ll set it on an alien planet (or is it?) and throw in a galactic federation.

Hans Folsom, the captain and our protagonist, represents a form of tyrannical indoctrination. He is a walking sponge, absorbing all forms of bureaucratic propaganda. Folsom does not question the world he lives in; he allows reality to be designed for him. And why would he? On paper, he’s everything the average man should envy — an astronaut hired to command an elite mission, a golden few among the many, a model citizen, strong and capable, and what the hell, let’s also make him debonair and a marathon runner in the sack. As the exemplar of the American Dream, there is no better character to obliterate into psychosis, no face more fitting than that strong white patriotic jaw to descend into psychological hell. It’s no wonder Malzberg chose this kind of man as his lead for so many novels and stories — he wanted to deconstruct the illusion of an ideal, to impart a truth upon a lie that had been sold.

Inevitably, Malzberg’s protagonists begin to question their nature. Before everything goes downhill, Folsom, in a moment of vulnerability, questions the purpose of the Federation (Malzberg’s characters always do this), wondering whether their voyages for missionary purposes serve the will of humanity or simply reinforce an oppressive power structure. In short, he tries to have a heart, a moral center. But as he dwells on these thoughts, debating with his inner monologue, he nearly vomits. Literally — the act of rebuking the Federation, acknowledging the truth of reality, and resisting his conditioning makes him physically ill. Throughout the entire novel, Folsom fights to keep his sandcastle belief system intact as the waves of a horrible truth close in.

The ending of this one is particularly harrowing. The metaphor is clear: the aliens are a pre-technological race, literally the humans of antiquity, still harmonizing in small communities and working toward the betterment of the tribe. Folsom and his crew, however, are the devils of the future — missionaries of technological profundity who offer a corrosive opportunity, bringing thermodynamics and guns, and whose gift is ultimately the death of knowledge.

Plagued by rumination and a lie of self-aggrandizement, Folsom looks out into the alien world, into the faces of its inhabitants, even into the faces of his own crew members, and he only ever sees himself. Which, in turn, means he sees nothing.