Paol Anderson: Hidden in Plain Sight

In his 1977 introduction to the chapter “Spacecraft and Star Drives” for The Visual Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, the prolific Golden Age science fiction author Poul Anderson describes humans’ desire to explore outer space in terms of the three Greek forms of love: eros (sensual love), phile (brotherly love), and agape (love of the greater Truth). Though Anderson is ostensibly introducing a chapter on spacecraft and star drives, spacecraft are mentioned only once, under “eros,” where he takes issue with the “fashion among intellectuals to deride the rocket as a phallic symbol”. At the same time, he claims that seeing an Apollo rocket launch can be “as intense for the onlooker as any climax between man and woman.” He quickly turns away from the erotic pleasure of the rocket, however, to replace it with a more spiritual feeling about outer space itself: “Religions traditionally use [erotic] imagery to express our relationship to God. Why should we not feel likewise about our relationship to the stars?” (68). He never again refers to any type of spacecraft, real or imagined. 

Why this sudden move from the rocket to the stars? Why is the rocket, or any type of spacecraft for that matter, not mentioned under “phile” and “agape”? Perhaps because the erotic pleasure of the rocket seems somehow base and animalistic (and also potentially homoerotic, considering his comments about the rocket launch), while converting that desire to some “higher goal” such as God or the stars is noble, more worthwhile. All that considered, we would like to propose the possibility that as a science fiction writer, Anderson has purposefully turned his back on the curtain that hides Oz: we, critics and fans alike, are not supposed to think too much about the spaceship because, as a setting in fiction, the spaceship is simultaneously visible and hidden. We can enjoy the show of the liftoff, but we should keep our eye on the larger picture “out there” because that is where the tale lies, and not spend our time thinking too much about the phallus that got us there. By our reading, Anderson is merely repeating the well known pattern for most space-faring science fiction: “Here is the wondrous ship. Look it over. Adore it for a moment. Now, let us get on with the story, please.” There are, of course, notable exceptions to this trend in TV and film, most notably what we might term the “sick ship” trope where the ship becomes like an actor in its own right. But these plots are very much the exception rather than the rule. Most often the ship is either working (a tool in use) or not working (a tool in need of repair). The necessity of space-faring science fiction narratives on screen to blatantly foreground the spaceship in order to turn it into background is more apparent in visual media where its function is both to instill wonder while, at the same time, immersing the reader as quickly as possible into the surface of the made world. But what exactly are we being encouraged not to see in the spaceship? We would like to suggest that what is hidden beneath the surface of the spaceship is, quite simply, sex. Not just a “phallic” impulse (to exploration, colonization, or violence) but an increasing, and barely controlled, panic about the mounting technological assault on the primacy of the sexed, human, male body.