Dictionary of Literary Biography on James H(enry) Schmitz
James Henry Schmitz as a writer of science fiction combines acceptable improbabilities with good prose. His work, often republished, is obviously enjoyed by his readers, and the comments of the editors of anthologies indicate that his appeal extends to writers as well. Schmitz was born of American parents in Hamburg and spent the first twenty years of his life in Germany. He studied briefly in the United States and then returned to work in Germany for a few years. After serving in the U.S. Air Force during World War II, he began his career as a writer in 1943. He did not become a full-time writer until 1959.
The hallmarks of a Schmitz story are capable agents who, even under the most stringent circumstances, never forget an important detail or piece of equipment and who, therefore, bring their missions to successful ends; involved, obscure dangers; convincingly inimical "monsters"; and unusual protagonists. The true significance of events tends to be revealed at the end of the tale, and, with a few exceptions, the narratives move swiftly. There is no Schmitz "formula"; it is more to the point to speak of favorite devices. One such device is the destruction of the enemy by means of its communication system, for example in "The Searcher" (1966; collected in A Pride of Monsters, 1970), "The Machmen" (1964; collected in A Nice Day for Screaming, 1965), and The Witches of Karres (novelette 1949; novel 1966).
His stories are "problem tales"; his characters generally have an impressive assortment of instruments and weapons, but the technology behind them is taken for granted. The protagonists are always apparently outmatched--the classic fairy-tale stance. As in the fairy tale, the antagonist is not a vague menace, but a clearly defined foe. Again, like fairy tales, these stories affirm a positive view of man's capabilities and better impulses that has no necessary contact with reality, but which is enjoyable nevertheless.
Schmitz's first published story, "Greenface" (1943), is a typical "monster story," but the best example of this side of Schmitz is "The Searcher." The gloyal, an energy-beast capable of passing through anything but the most intense energy barriers, terrorizes a research installation when it comes to claim a communications device invented by the long-lost race that had bred it. The gloyal creates many terrifying episodes with its unexpected appearances, and the chase it gives to Danestar Gems and Corvin Wergard, two agents working on the thefts of artifacts, is intense and skillfully narrated. What elevates the gloyal above most bug-eyed monsters is speech--limited, to be sure, but its three phrases make the creature more maleficent than any of its purple-luminescent ragings and devourings. Effective, too, is the subtle parallel between the search of both the agents and the gloyal for lost artifacts.
Not all of the beasts who appear in Schmitz's work are monsters. The helpful beasts range from the two-hundred-pound telepathic feline, Tick Tock, in "Novice" (1962; collected in The Universe Against Her, 1964), or the carnivorous, space-warping, rug-like Hlat in "Lion Loose" (1961), to the articulate mutant otters in The Demon Breed (1968) and the denizens of the diamondwood forest in "Balanced Ecology" (1965; collected in A Nice Day for Screaming). In the last story, a current topic becomes a springboard for fantasy. The children Ilf and Auris, owners of a grove of much-prized diamondwood, are instinctively aware of the ecosystem of their world and befriend those animal members that are not actively dangerous. When potential exploiters threaten to abduct the children, the quasi-sentient forest defends them, coordinating an attack involving all members of the ecosystem and destroying its antagonists and their equipment. "Balanced Ecology" combines many of Schmitz's thematic and narrative motifs: the success of the "little person," the casual efficiency of the dangerous beasts, and the charm of the friendly ones are given narrative unity by the central idea of the title; mood and pace vary from the foreboding of the first pages to the swift nastiness of the last battle and the resumption of somnolent calm.
Although the dramatic movement of Schmitz's stories is conventional, the characters tend not to be. The closest Schmitz comes to a stereotype is the activity of his espionage agents in the stories of Vegan Confederation that make up the collection Agent of Vega (1960). But the agents themselves seem unlikely choices. Pagadan, in the 1949 title story, is in her exuberant fierceness quite distinct from the grim, maternal determination of her colleague Zamman Tarradang-Pok of "The Truth About Cushgar" (1950), not to mention Erisa "Grandma" Wannattel in "The Second Night of Summer" (1950). Schmitz's most appealing characters are those who are not trained and who stumble into adventure. Captain Pausert, in The Witches of Karres, seems at first to be an amiable blunderer, but discovers in himself something of the resourcefulness of a Schmitz agent when he and the three young witches of Karres become the focus of hostile attention. He even acquires a witch-skill--the handling of vatches, capricious energy creatures--but this portrayal is always tempered by his dependence on his partner, the witch Goth, and his caution in the face of her five-year-old sister's exasperated condescension.
Of the involuntary adventurers, however, Dr. Nile Etland, in The Demon Breed, best exemplifies Schmitz's way of combining vulnerability and skill. Cast in the role of a member of a mythical super race by a fellow researcher attempting to defeat an invasion attempt, she eludes and terrorizes the invaders with the help of her mutated hunting otters. Schmitz makes her adventures believable since, because of her training as a biologist, she is able to use the plants and animals of the "floatwood" forest to her best advantage. The only flaw in the narrative is the speech, left to our imagination, in which she delivers her ultimatum to the invaders; her actions are more convincing.
The Demon Breed provides a good example of another of Schmitz's narrative devices, the end-of-story revelation that places the whole in an unexpected context. What seems to be simply an opportunity for chase and adventure is shown to have extensive political and psychological consequences. When this device succeeds, as it does in The Demon Breed and in "Lion Loose," the thematic structure of the story is instantly reoriented and illuminated for the reader, who is then led to reconsider the tale.
Schmitz has not published much new fiction since the early 1970s, but the works written between 1943 and 1973 have established his high rank among the science-fiction writers. There is a place for the tale of pure escape, especially when it is as well conceived and well written as the best work of James H. Schmitz.
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