Dreamer of Dune (9 page)

He had a great deal of mechanical skill, in large part from the influence of his own father. Dad worked on our cars, performing a wide range of servicing and repairs. If he wasn't sure how to correct a particular mechanical problem, he would obtain the diagnoses of two or three mechanics. Then when he was certain of the answer he would perform the repairs himself. It was a technique he employed in order to survive on a limited budget, and he passed it on to Howie.

My parents rarely made any markings in books, not even in pencil. Books were considered sacred. When doing research for his freelance writing, Dad was usually careful to make notes on slips of yellow typing paper, folded vertically and kept between the pages of the books. Frequently these sheets of notepaper were the second sheets put in a typewriter under a sheet he was typing upon, done in order to protect the platen from the hard, sharp strikes of the keys. After a while, these second sheets had indentations on them from key strikes, and on these rough sheets my father made some of his notes. Undoubtedly this had to do with a pack rat aspect of his personality, from having been raised during the Depression. Nothing was ever wasted.

Late in 1952, to augment his income as a reporter, Dad took a part-time job as an early morning news announcer with KSRO, a station owned by the
Press Democrat
. It was 1350 kilocycles on the radio dial, and sometimes Mom and I listened to him. His voice was strong and clear on the air. Since Sonoma County was a prime agricultural region and nearby Petaluma was famous for chickens and eggs, much of the news concerned egg and poultry prices and production levels. He also interviewed farm advisers and other local notables and gave weather reports. If he spoke of political issues, he sometimes laced the news with commentary.

One morning Dad arrived at KSRO so early that only he and the engineer were there. The engineer was a great big guy who loved to play practical jokes on announcers. He would put pictures of naked women in with the news copy, or a wet sponge on the announcer's chair—those sorts of things. Finally Dad had endured enough of this, and decided to get even. From inside a glass-enclosed broadcast booth one morning, with the engineer sitting outside, Dad read the news over the air. Suddenly in midsentence he began mouthing words, without uttering a sound. Intermittently he would start talking again, cutting in and out.

The engineer went crazy, waving his arms wildly and pounding on the glass. Dad just waved to him innocently. After the broadcast the engineer was extremely upset, saying he would have to spend eight to ten hours tearing the transmitter apart to repair an “intermittent” in it.

“What would you give not to have to tear it apart?” Frank Herbert asked.

“Anything,” the fellow said.

“Anything?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay,” Dad said, with a smile. “I got you!” He then told the fellow what he had done, and exacted a promise from him to play no more practical jokes. The engineer kept his word.

While the Sonoma County experiences were a treasure-trove for future works, Dad didn't write much other than newspaper articles during the three years we lived there. One short story written in Santa Rosa was important, because it was his first science fiction sale. “Looking for Something” appeared in the April 1952 edition of
Startling Stories
. In this piece he described a world that was in reality an illusion created by a hypnotist.

His only other publication during our years in Sonoma County was a limited edition book published by the
Press Democrat
, also in 1952. Entitled
Survival and the Atom
, it was a collection of Dad's articles on nuclear energy, with a press run of 750 copies. This formed an early link in the chain that would ultimately make him an anti-nuclear, anti-war activist.

M
Y FATHER
met many famous people by doing newspaper stories on them, and a number would become lifelong friends. One was the political artist Bernard Zakheim, and later it would be the world-renowned Zen master Alan Watts. Another was the noted science fiction and fantasy author Jack Vance. Dad knew Vance's work, and late in 1952 he learned that the writer was living on a small farm not far from us, just outside of Kenwood, California. The reporter was on his way.

Vance, while the same age as Frank Herbert, was much farther along in his career at the time. He had sold many short stories to the science fiction pulps, including his well-known Magnus Ridolph tales. He was also making good money writing scripts for the
Captain Video
television show, a popular half-hour program that ran five days a week. It was sponsored by Post Toasties cereal. In the show, the hero wore a silver helmet, and whenever he flew through the air it was possible to see the wire that held him up.

Jack lived on a small farm with his wife, Norma, and drove a bright yellow Jeepster convertible. A large, scholarly man with thinning hair, Jack wore eyeglasses that had thick, round lenses. He was intense and could be gruff. But his coarse outer shell was frequently employed as a shield, preventing prying eyes from peering into his private world. The real Jack Vance, if he permitted anyone to see that far, was generous and effusive, an exceedingly nice man.

Soon the men were talking of living together in Mexico, and of joint writing projects. This was the opportunity of a lifetime for my father—to work and study with a successful writer. Jack Vance was far better off financially than we were. To save for the trip, Dad scrambled even more to augment his income. In ensuing weeks, he took every extra photography assignment he could get. He increased his hours at KSRO Radio. And, whenever he could fit it in, he worked as an assistant to Irene Slattery in her private psychiatry practice.

But his ex-wife Flora sued him, and a stipulation was entered by the court under which the plaintiff and defendant agreed to compromise the amount of past-due support payments. The required payments and attorney fees added to our financial pressures.

We had a 1950 Hillman in those days, a little four-door sedan that got excellent gas mileage. In an era of big cars and low-cost fuel, Dad predicted that most people in the world would drive economy cars one day, forced to do so by petroleum shortages and high fuel prices. “Petroleum is a finite resource,” he said.

He put the Hillman up for sale to raise funds, to apply toward purchase of a Jeep station wagon with the Vances for the Mexico trip. One evening while I was riding in the backseat of the Hillman, our car was hit by another, knocking us into a ditch. The other car, a big sedan, kept going, a hit and run. I remember Dad shouting out the window and swearing, and kicking our car when it lay damaged in the ditch. The other vehicle had administered a glancing blow against the side of our car, denting the doors on that side. Fortunately, none of us were injured.

But the accident created big problems for us. Our auto insurance had lapsed for non-payment, and, since the guilty driver had disappeared, we had no hope of receiving payment from him or his insurance company. Dad didn't want to spend his Mexico money repairing the car, and now, in its damaged condition, the vehicle couldn't be sold. It ran, but rattled badly. The damaged doors didn't open, and one of the windows on that side was broken away, letting air in all the time.

Mom and Dad had taken out a loan on the Hillman from a Santa Rosa bank, but because of our credit problems, the bank had required additional guarantees. Dad had the
Press Democrat
as a co-signer on the car. After the accident he and Mom stopped sending in car payments, and instead applied all available money to their other bills and to their Mexico fund. About the time we were on the way to Mexico with the Vances in a new Jeep station wagon (paid for by the Vances), the
Press Democrat
was discovering that they owed money on a badly dented 1950 Hillman.

Several years later, when Dad got back on his feet financially, he telephoned the
Press Democrat
and, in a long, jovial conversation, made arrangements to pay them back with interest.

When my father decided to do something, he didn't allow anything to get in his way. And, while he had his lapses in paying money he owed, be it to the
Press Democrat
, his ex-wife or a variety of bill collectors, he invariably made amends later and repaid every cent.

We received a battery of typhus, typhoid, and cholera shots for the Mexico trip, and shopped for necessities we didn't expect to find in Mexico. Most of our possessions were left in storage with the Slatterys. By September, 1953, we were on the road. Eleven-year-old Penny, since she lived most of each year with her mother, did not accompany us.

The Vance's Jeep wagon was blue, with a top rack, and the men alternated driving duties. Mom kept a close accounting of our expenditures, in a ledger book. Initially I couldn't utter a word of Spanish, but I practiced on the way, and soon—at the age of six—I was speaking the language fluently.

When we arrived in Mexico, I was assailed with tropical colors and rich, earthy odors such as I had never before experienced. Tropical downpours were new to me, too. Sometimes the rain came down so hard that we had to pull the car over and wait for it to stop. I recall winding roads, green, terraced hillsides of crops rising steeply beside the highway, and a treacherous river crossing we made on a one-car ferry, where the bridge had been washed out in a flood. Once, after several hot hours of driving in the interior of the country, we came to a promontory on top of a hill, where our eyes were suddenly filled with the breathtaking blue of the Gulf of California.

Just north of Mazatlán in the State of Sinaloa, we stopped for a break at a roadside monument that marked the Tropic of Cancer. Norma placed her purse on the front fender of the car, and forgot it was there. A few miles down the road, with Jack driving, she suddenly missed it, and we made a quick “U” turn. When we arrived back at the monument, we saw the purse on the ground. It had been run over. Inside, Jack's favorite writing instrument, a fountain pen, was ruined. Since Jack did his writing by longhand, this was a serious matter, indeed. His favorite writing instrument felt right in his grip and disseminated ink perfectly. With it he had written a number of excellent stories. The pen, silver and black, now lay crushed beside a Mexican highway.

A short while later we arrived in the seaside resort city of Mazatlán, and checked into an old hotel on the southern end of the great crescent forming the bay. A massive sea wall stood across the street from our hotel, with a wonderful sandy beach there. The insects, large and black, were either flying in my face or lying dead on the beach and sea wall. I paid them little heed while Mom took care to avoid them. As Bruce and I played in the sand, she drew in her sketchbook. Later, as we sat together on the sea wall, she taught me how to draw a house in perspective, as her artistic mother Marguerite had instructed her.

The following day we set off for points farther south. Near Guadalajara in the State of Jalisco, we rented a large house in the village of Chapala, on the shore of beautiful Lake Chapala. Famous for its fishing, pleasant climate and scenery, it was the largest lake in Mexico, approximately fifty miles long and fifteen miles wide. At an elevation of five thousand feet, it had a number of small islands in its midst and four villages around the rim, including Chapala. The region had numerous farms, growing subsistence crops such as alfalfa, beans, corn and maguey.

A fishing village and artists' colony, Chapala was much favored by tourists, especially Americans. The town, while small, boasted one of the world's great beer gardens—a large tavern by the lake that had outdoor seating under a shady, striped canvas roof. On hot days, my parents and the Vances could be found there, cooling themselves in the shade. Sunsets on the lake were spectacular.

Small fishing skiffs, some with butterfly nets extended, crossed the water from early morning to late evening. Just outside town, alongside the shore, rose a massive dirt mound that locals said concealed a mysterious ancient structure. They theorized this because during heavy rains little clay figurines and pieces of pottery washed down the hillside. Recently, archaeologists had been made aware of the mound, and an excavation was planned.

Chapala was an idyllic spot in which to relax, almost too pleasant for the disciplines required of writing, too sleepy. Jack and my father would immerse themselves in their writing nonetheless.

Our two-story adobe and white stucco house, which had been converted to a duplex, stood on a hillside a block above the shores of the lake. Whenever the men were writing, usually from mid-morning to late afternoon, they enforced strict silence throughout the premises. The house had a long outside corridor where I played with my toys. Especially a little army tank.

I was in the habit of simulating war noises, and as I immersed myself in fantasy and made too much commotion Jack or Dad would bellow from one of the rooms, “
Silencio!
” (“Silence!”) Or “
Callate, niño!
” (“Shut up, boy!”) Dad was at his typewriter in one room clacking away, while Jack labored in another room, writing longhand passages that would subsequently be transcribed into typewritten form by Norma.

In Mexico, Jack and Dad plotted several stories together, but for a variety of reasons never completed them. Jack did go on to write and sell a solo novel based upon an idea the men developed together. The men, while fast friends, were perhaps too individualistic to write in concert. They were, each of them, assertive and dominant. Alpha males. And at the time they had divergent writing styles. Jack's imagery and skill with words were ahead of Frank Herbert's choppier abilities, although Dad was fast developing in those realms and was also learning characterization and plotting. Of key importance, he was beginning to understand the importance of “getting inside a character's head,” as he liked to say later. Once a writer got sufficiently inside a character's head, my father discovered, the character behaved in a manner that was consistent with his personality. Motivations were no longer muddled, and his actions made sense to the reader. Plots fell into place.

In Chapala, Frank Herbert was hard at work on
Under Pressure
, his submarine thriller. The unfolding novel described, with great psychological insight, a submarine crew in wartime, a plot constructed with building blocks that the author had learned about human motivation. Of equal interest, the story described a world of the future where oil supplies were limited. This was not easy to envision at the time, since petroleum products were plentiful and inexpensive. For the concept, Dad recalled that oil had been of strategic importance in World War II, and he extrapolated this to another war, under much more severe conditions.

But the novel was progressing slowly, and to pay immediate bills, Dad worked primarily on short stories. They could be finished and mailed in a much shorter period of time, and if they sold, checks would appear.

The kitchen of our house was permeated with diffused tropical light, making it a cheerful room. A wooden table sat by one window, and a large basket of fruit was always on the table. I made daily trips to the outdoor market stalls with Mom or our maid, Paulina. A fine cook, the maid regularly made a seafood stew that my parents and the Vances liked.

There were flies everywhere, and, with the exception of Mom, we grew somewhat accustomed to them, even if they crawled across our plates as we were eating. We always examined our food carefully before lifting it mouthward with a fork.

Cockroaches were a great concern to us as well, and especially to my mother. Each morning we developed the habit of shaking out our clothes and shoes before putting them on. Many roaches entered through the drain in the bathtub, and if Mom or Norma saw them when they wanted to take a bath, they came out and waggled two fingers (like cockroach antennae) at one of the men. Then Dad or Jack went in and flushed the filthy creatures down the drain with hot water. Sometimes there were as many as twenty roaches at a time.

Dad wrote of this and other adventures with Mexican insects in a humorous thousand-word piece, “Life with Animalitos.” (In Mexico, insects of all kinds are called “animalitos”—“little animals.”) It was a first-person story, written with
Reader's Digest
in mind, since they paid well for such material. Unfortunately this yarn, like a number of others from the pen of Frank Herbert, did not find a receptive editor.

I was tutored by my mother, using schoolbooks brought from the United States. She taught me Spanish as well, and what she didn't teach me I learned from children in the streets.

By Mexican standards, the cost of living was high in Chapala, and money was running low. Short story sales weren't coming through for my father, and Jack wasn't doing much better. Jack also lost one of his steadiest sources of income, the
Captain Video
TV show. It was decided that we could get by on less in a non-tourist environment.

After two months in Chapala, we moved to another town in the state of Jalisco a few miles south, Ciudad Guzman. With a population of twenty-four thousand, it was considerably larger than Chapala. In Ciudad Guzman we rented a smaller, two-story adobe and white stucco house. It was in the midst of town, on a level street where the houses were lined up side-by-side, with small yards. Dad, recalling his farm upbringing, wanted to raise his own food and become as self-sufficient as he could. So he purchased a number of baby chickens, which he kept in an adobe-walled outdoor compound on the street side of the house.

Some of the rooms in the house had earthen floors. I remember the loamy odors of earth there, and market smells, and donkeys in the streets swatting flies from their flanks with their tails. The outdoor markets bustled with activity.