I think I have stumbled upon why the godless sex perverts who made up an influential element of the science fiction crowd of the 1960s lionized and feted Roger Zelazny on the basis of a short story which not only isn’t anywhere nearly as good as his later work, but doesn’t stand up well over time in any context, be it scientific or socio-sexual.
The damning paragraph follows. Note the the Locar of which the patron saint of Gamma fiction writes is Ecclesiastes.
“And ours is not an insignificant people, an insignificant place,” I went on. “Thousands of years ago, the Locar of our world wrote a book saying that it was. He spoke as Locar did, but we did not lie down, despite plagues, wars, and famines. We did not die. One by one we beat down the diseases, we fed the hungry, we fought the wars, and, recently, have gone a long time without them. We may finally have conquered them. I do not know.
“But we have crossed millions of miles of nothingness. We have visited another world. And our Locar had said ‘Why bother? What is the worth of it? It is all vanity, anyhow.’
“And the secret is,” I lowered my voice, as at a poetry reading, “he was right! It is vanity, it is pride! It is the hybris of rationalism to always attack the prophet, the mystic, the god. It is our blasphemy which has made us great, and will sustain us, and which the gods secretly admire in us. —All the truly sacred names of God are blasphemous things to speak!”
No wonder science fiction and fantasy have devolved into diseased lunacy. Their foolish elite literally set themselves against God, and now they have reaped the inevitable whirlwind as their retarded heirs laboriously scribble their deranged fantasies about being gang-raped by gay dinosaurs.
