A book read, as much as anything, out of spite, because I saw an article insisting Lafferty was 'the best science fiction writer you've never heard of' and, as is usually the case with such headlines, of course I'd heard of him, and even read a bit. But not this book, though I knew enough already to own it. Short stories, mostly very short, but ones which pack a huge amount in; alien worlds where death seems unknown, but the immortality might not be as marketable as hoped; that old mainstay of a strange child suggesting conventional humanity's time is done, but played differently enough that it feels wholly new. All garlanded with little details that, even in such restricted spaces, we get a perfect sense of the societies and people being turned upside down, just from little details such as the macho aliases of the space traders in the title story. The writing is a marvel – intricate, knotted sentences building tales like ships in bottles, where it seems it should be impossible that they can be so obsessive and intricate yet also feel so alive. At a whole 14 pages, The Six Fingers Of Time is one of the longer pieces here, but in that space, still hardly a sprawl, it manages to anticipate both Nicholson Baker's Fermata and, more impressively, 95% of the decades of super-speedster comics which have been published since, also finding space for an ancient conspiracy meddling with humanity since records began, a medical mystery solved, ghost stories explained and - once again - that sense of worlds within worlds which powers the title story. And speaking of titles, Lafferty has a similar way with them to Harlan Ellison and Cordwainer Smith, often coming out with oblique teases that make you want to know more – my favourite here being Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne. Which turns out to be a time travel story which, for all that the supposed brains trust in it are missing an obvious problem, still does a brilliant job of catching the changes caused by meddling in the past. Although dear heavens the way that the wrong intervention suddenly strips the world of all its pleasures feels far too familiar now. It's interesting too, given subsequent developments, that a conservative American writer should have seen safeguarding early trade in ideas between Christian and Muslim worlds as the best way to create a utopian timeline. Similarly, while Narrow Valley initially looks like it's going awkward places given the idiolect of the Native American lead, it turns out to be precisely about colonialism and to give him some wonderfully vicious lines: "How come you're not wearing the Iron Crown of Lombardy if you're a white girl? How you expect me to believe you're a little white girl and your folks came from Europe a couple hundred years ago if you don't wear it? There are six hundred tribes, and only one of them, the Oglala Sioux, had the war bonnet, and only the big leaders, never more than two or three of them alive at one time, wore it." Not that it quite gets left there, mind; very few Lafferty characters ever meekly take their medicine, and in a recurring motif for these stories, she is a very peculiar little girl.
Contrary to the wilder claims of that Wired article I was spiting, not every story here is a winner. The other 14-page epic, Frog On The Mountain, uses devices too familiar from subsequent SF, without quite the same Lafferty twists and tweaks. Also, both the leads are incredibly annoying, and unlike in the other stories, not in the enjoyable way. Still, even here there's the fabulous notion of a man who prefers to be sedated when his spaceship approaches a planet, as otherwise he sees it growing from a dot and so is unable to be sufficiently awed by the scale of its mountains once he's down on the surface. There's so much to unpack in that, isn't there? But in the weaker pieces, the sing-song names and air of baffled superiority, normally displayed by small children, can feel merely glib. Still, it's not like you're ever stuck there for long, and soon you'll be back among the wonderful and worthwhile, presented with some fabulously odd puzzle. A man wakes one day knowing who everyone in the world is - all three billion of them (and yes, I had a little grieve there at the notion that so recently there were so few). Sometimes, as in Snuffles, I felt sure I was missing some kind of allegorical import, but I still thoroughly enjoyed the relatable title character, a genial alien bear given to occasional bouts of ingenious savagery. Here too are Bellota, a planet where gravity works differently, "made by a wild child or a mixed-up goblin just to put the rest of them in proper perspective, to deflate the pomposity of the cosmos"; perhaps it was the same thinking which inspired Lafferty to create another planet called Analos. Back on Earth, Lafferty will prod at the anomaly where humans are the only mammal not to have roughly the same number of heartbeats across their lifespan; show why seeing the world through someone else's eyes might not be the panacea as which it's sometimes proposed; or propose a future where after the removal of the "mental stutter" of the Abebaios block from human minds, we make decisions faster - acceleration taken to the point that a man can make and lose four fortunes overnight, and as many marriages – a not entirely inaccurate portrayal of the trajectory of the past few decades, at least until the Event, and even now the way that a parish council or feline lawyer or sea shanties will be absolutely ubiquitous for a fortnight feels like it's proving his point. And if we do get the world returned to us, I would love some venue to take its lead from In Our Block, where alien visitors start replicating Earth businesses in ways which work much better even if the details are a little out. Because come on, who wouldn't want to visit a bar called Cool Man Club?