STARRY MESSENGER: The Best of Galileo

From the Dust Jacket

When Galileo Galilee said “You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him find it for himself” he might not have had magazine publishing in mind. But he would have been truly honored by the creation of Galileo Magazine of Science & Fiction, a journal dedicated to illuminating the future of man. In its short history Galileo (called “one of the best among SF mags” by the library Journal) has establish itself with its intense commitment to quality, greatly surprising all the experts in the field to become the first successful science fiction magazine since Galaxy began in the 1950s. And just as Galileo is the essence of a burgeoning science fiction field, STARRY MESSENGER is the quintessential Galileo, combining 12 short stories that together represent a wondrous dare to dream.

Charles C Ryan, the editor of the magazine, has selected the most inspired writing on the scene today. Harlan Ellison’s “Django” is a poetic masterpiece; a French gypsy jazz guitarist is chased by Nazi storm troopers, eluding death will chained to a sinister object that glows in the night. Alan Dean Fosters “Ye Who Would Sing” is an elemental story of space travel and an untouched, musical forest; Kevin O’Donnell’s “Do Not Go Gentle” moves into the mind of a woman who has transcended her own senses; Brian Aldiss’ “Where the Lines Converge” is a blood-curdling tail of the body’s secret language. These stories stand on their own as messengers to far-away places—places beyond the boundaries of time and space, where the mind has rarely travelled. To take the dare of STARRY MESSENGER is to travel there with them, and to find those places for oneself.

Story Previews

“Some have believed that this structure of the universe should be rejected as impossible.”

—Galileo Galilei, The Starry Messenger, 1610

I’m a journalist, a newspaper reporter by profession, which is why stories fascinate me. They always have. And this book has a history behind it which is probably more curious than most. Because of my involvement, it has been a story I’ve been unable to relate—until now….

In the spring of 1975, the future of Avenue Victor Hugo Pub­lishers (AVH) was still trapped in the bleakness of winter. The eighth issue of Fiction magazine had prompted a disastrous finan­cial setback when commitments to distribute it fell through. Bill collectors were waving their scalpels over the magazine’s barely breathing body like so many morticians waiting for the death certificate.

Begun in 1971 as Publisher Vincent McCaffrey’s ill-fated at­tempt to create a national magazine dedicated to “the art of storytelling,” Fiction was grossly undercapitalized, published ir­regularly, and never drew more than 2,500 subscribers. Even though it had been launched with enormous hopes and dreams and staffed with inexhaustible volunteers, the ideal never came to be.

When the weather improved that spring, McCaffrey took to pushing a book cart along the historic streets of Boston in an attempt to raise enough money to get things rolling again.

It was an unacceptable situation. If Fiction had succeeded—and the stubborn publisher refused to consider failure—he had optimistic plans to unleash a series of sister publications: Now Voyager, a children’s storybook; Baker Street, a mystery periodi­cal; Sundown, a Western publication; and Galileo, a magazine of science and fiction—all focused on the craft of entertaining through storytelling.

While hawking books to passersby at the corner of Boylston and Exeter streets, the thought occurred to him that it might be easier to obtain financial backing for special issues of Fiction than it was for the magazine in general. He was partly right. The special Western issue ended up being the death knell for Fiction. The science-fiction issue metamorphosed into an entirely new pub­lishing venture.

Four volunteers survived the transition: the publisher; Thais Coburn, the assistant publisher; and assistant editors Thomas L. Owen and Charles C. Ryan. McCaffrey was the glue that held everything together. A 1969 graduate of Mark Hopkins College with a degree in creative writing, he never seemed to sleep. The feisty publisher kept scheming to convert the total lack of assets into an asset in and of itself. Thais Cobum put her B.A. degree in International Affairs from George Washington University to good use acting as the sounding board for some of the more exotic ideas the magazine’s founder continually generated, and kept a close eye on production schedules. Tom Owen, an Alaskan and a graduate of Reed College in Oregon, flourished in the Boston climate and used his talents as a general coordinator. Later, his knowledge of the science fiction fan scene became a valuable resource. Charles Ryan, a former Peace Corps volunteer, was experienced in dealing with impoverished conditions. A profes­sional journalist and a Boston College graduate, he had been a science fiction buff since the age of five.

Ryan and Owen were assigned the task of collecting material for Fiction’s science-fiction issue. Offering a whopping 1¢ per word, they began writing letters to authors and fan publications. The response was unexpectedly positive. There was clearly a lively, interested readership out there. Several skull sessions were held and plans for Galileo were formalized.

Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, Hal Clement and Carl Sagan were among those who responded to the plea for material. Through contacts he had made as a journalist, Ryan began discus­sions with Fred and Carmen F. Zollo about financing Galileo as an independent company. Carmen Zollo, the proprietor of a leather import-export firm, had brought Ingmar Bergman’s film The Magic Flute to this country for a highly successful run, and in recent years, had become deeply involved in several award­ winning Broadway productions.

Plans coalesced, schedules tightened, and by the spring of 1976 letters were sent out announcing Galileo’s debut as a quarterly magazine of science and fiction at the 34th World Science Fiction Convention (dubbed the MidAmericon) in Kansas City, Missouri, on the coming Labor Day weekend. The announcement initiated a trickle of subscriptions and advance orders from specialty bookstores.

The staff of AVH was excited. Even before the first issue was published, Galileo had generated almost as much interest as Fic­tion had in its entire existence. Galileo’s welcome at the conven­tion was cordial and even enthusiastic. More experienced profes­sionals and fans, however, were skeptical. The stated goal of Publisher McCaffrey and Editor Ryan to make Galileo into the “biggest and best” magazine of its kind drew many knowing glances and amused shakes of the head. On the face of it, the goal was impossible. The magazine had only modest financial backing, it was not produced by a major publisher and—what seemed the most quixotic of all—it would not be distributed on the newstands. They proposed to sell it by subscription only. In truth, it was the only way AVH could go. Newsstand distribution would have required a minimum press run of 100,000 copies, and the budget was barely adequate for the 8,000 copies which had been printed. Because of limited distribution and the fact that the first issue was produced on newsprint stock, certain fans referred to Galileo as a semiprozine—not quite professional. A bit more than 800 copies were sold at the convention.

The absence of an advertising budget necessitated the negotia­ tion of trade ads with existing SF publications, pro and fan alike. Subscriptions continued to seep in, and by its third issue, the magazine had accumulated two thousand subscribers and Galileo’s first issue was practically sold out. At that point, what had been an agonizing decision the year before became Galileo’s greatest legacy. Budgetwise, it had been hard for the magazine’s staff to justify a four-color, wrap-around cover. It pushed a skimpy $3,000 budget well beyond $4,000. But every other SF magazine had color covers, and the staff agreed it would be impossible to compete without it. In the spring of 1977, eight thousand extra covers were printed and mailed as the magazine’s first direct-mail solicitation. It was moderately successful, encouraging additional mailings with even larger responses.

Around the same time, several computer firms were approached to handle subscription fulfillment. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Galileo’s small staff to process each new subscriber and type individual labels to mail each issue. Over the next two years subscription fulfillment became a very costly problem.

The magazine continued to grow. By the time the 35th World Science Fiction Convention came along, the staff was optimistically talking about reaching 20,000 readers with the fifth issue. It turned out to be 29,000. The original computer firm had become unreliable and a second was contacted, lasting four issues before it, too, began to cause more problems than it solved.

By the spring of 1978, Galileo had over 40,000 subscribers, and continued success with direct-mail campaigns goaded the pub­lisher into a nearly fatal mistake. Test mailings amounting to nearly a million pieces were scheduled over the next six months. They did poorly, losing money the magazine could not afford. At practically the same time, the third computer firm went bankrupt, tying up the list of subscribers. It was impossible to mail the next issue and equally impossible to send out renewal notices due at that time, which were needed to compensate for the floundering of the direct-mail effort. The loss of money on the mailing and the computer foul-up handcuffed the entire operation. Cash flow dropped depressingly low and little could be done to correct the situation. Gradually, enough money was scraped together to print the next issue, but it took nearly three months before the fourth computer firm was able to reprogram the subscription list. And when the issue was mailed in early October of 1978, thousands of returns swamped the office because of improper labeling. Incredibly, the new computer firm was even worse than its predecessors, and the list had to be entirely redone for the fifth time. Cash flow became even worse than before. Renewal notices could not be mailed, and it was difficult to add new subscribers to the list. The eleventh issue was held back from the printer. Even if it had been printed, it couldn’t be mailed.

Ironically, the magazine should have been at its healthiest. It had 57,000 subscribers and was selling 3,000 copies through bookstores. A few months before, at the 36th World Science Fic­tion Convention, Galileo was deluged with congratulatory com­ments. It had become the third largest magazine in the field.

In the fall of 1978, it became painfully obvious that the magazine could no longer rely solely on computer firms to decide its fate. The decision was made to put Galileo on the newsstands, and negotiations were initiated with several major distributors. Dell provided the best offer, and arrangements were finalized to release the first newsstand issue in May of 1979. With 110,000 copies being put out for sale and a press run of close to 200,000, by the time these words appear in print, Galileo will have finally attained the threshold of its seemingly impossible goal—it will have become one of the largest magazines in the field.

Through it all—the minor successes, the delays, the costly com­puter problems—McCaffrey and company kept plugging away. Working for little or no pay, they continually upgraded the magazine. Originally an eighty-page publication, it grew to ninety-six pages or more. What started as the lowest rate of pay­ment for stories and articles became one of the highest. The quality and variety of editorial material improved from issue to issue, and the magazine’s reputation blossomed.

The Galileans are stoic about the future. Prepared to cope with success or failure on the newsstands, they aren’t about to relax. They’ long ago learned to ignore the odds against them. If they have anything to say about it, Galileo will, tenaciously, inevitably, become “the biggest and best.” They won’t settle for anything less.

The appearance of a Galileo anthology—this anthology—is only one of several projects primed for the launching pad, and in the science-fiction field, it is not such a long step from concept to reality.

That’s the story—a bit biased, perhaps, but the basic facts. Which brings me to the stories which follow. They are Galileo. In the magazine’s first year, a reviewer in Library Journal said Galileo was, “one of the best among SF mags.” We feel each story in the magazine is well done. The ones which follow are prime examples. But I do not intend to comment on them. They speak well enough forthemselves. These, and the other authors we have published, helped us become what we are. If you like this collec­tion, tell them about it. They deserve the kudos. If you don’t, blame me.

—Charles C. Ryan, Editor

March 1979