seventeen years old at the time, this made him not only the youngest chief in Lancashire, but also some months short of satisfying the legal minimum age requirement. To circumvent the law, the Tivoli employed Jack Russell Fearn, the locally-based science fiction writer, as projection room boss.”
Bob Simms recalled his memories of the period to me in 2001. The situation could have been extremely awkward. Fearn completely lacked the technical experience to be Chief Projectionist at a larger cinema, and the young Simms actually knew far more about the job than he did. There could have been friction between them. But Bob found Fearn to be utterly disarming. He freely confessed his lack of knowledge, and was happy for the youngster to actually be in charge “behind the scenes.” He was happy to assume the role of second projectionist. The two men became friends and got along “like a house on fire.” Steve Nuttall again:
“Despite the fact that the precocious Robert could ably teach him everything he supposedly needed to know, the eccentric author, who was also a member of the Magic Circle, stayed quite aloof from the technical side of the job, preferring instead to regularly entertain the staff with his astonishing feats of prestidigitation.”
Being an amateur magician was in fact another of Fearn’s hobbies, and Bob recalls that he was an extremely good at it. His skill and good humour kept the cinema staff entertained during the long hours of what was something of an arduous job. As Nuttall explains:
“A typical day would begin at ten in the morning and finish around midnight. Moreover, if an air raid was in progress, the staff could sometimes be forced to spend an entire night in the building.… Robert recalls seeing low flying German aircraft passing regularly along the Fylde Coast to bomb Liverpool. As incredible as it may seem, Blackpool Tower was the safest site in the area due to the fact that the Luftwaffe used the famous landmark to gauge the precise co-ordinates for their deadly aerial assaults on Lancashire’s principal seaport. From the vantage point of Fairhaven Lake, one could see the night sky all aglow as most of Merseyside tragically went up in flames. As one might expect, the task of fire watching was considered to be of primary importance; however, it does come as a surprise to learn that this was one of the duties that regularly befell Robert (as it did Fearn). Apparently, the job of cinema projectionist was deemed to be a “reserved occupation.” After all, the cinema was no longer simply a venue for entertainment, but had a crucial role to play in the dissemination of information, including the showing of numerous training films for armed forces personnel and what some observers would label as propaganda movies.”
Bob recalled to me that he discovered Fearn was a science fiction writer when he was briefly hospitalised. Fearn came to visit him, and loaned him a pile of his published stories in Amazing Stories and Astounding Stories, to help while away the hours. He quickly became a fan, and borrowed many more of Fearn’s stories when he returned to work. He was fascinated to see Fearn scribbling away on notepads whilst the film reels were turning. During his time off, Fearn would then type up his notes and throughout the war, he continued to sell stories to the American pulp magazines. He also began to write more serious works, and Bob recalls that he was constantly revising his ms. of Blackpool life, Little Winter, the mainstream novel with which he hoped to break into higher literary markets. (Unfortunately the book was never published, and the ms. appears to have been destroyed.)
Projectionists were also responsible for operating the background interval music, and Bob recalled to me that whenever Fearn was on duty and he spotted his beloved Mother in the audience, he would play her favourite piece of music, “Stardust” by Hoagy Carmichael. He remembers Fearn as an ingenious and fascinating character, and regretted losing contact when they went their separate ways.
In May 1945, following VE-Day, Fearn applied to the War Ministry for release from his job, in order to return to full-time writing. Permission was granted, and he gradually quit writing for the American pulp magazines as he became established in England as a novelist. Whereas his early magazine stories had been purely imaginative fiction, for his novels Fearn began to draw more upon his real-life experiences.
Fearn wrote several detective novels that centred around murders committed in a cinema, with the plots hinging on the technical side of film projection, and the cinema staff as leading characters (and murder suspects). They included One Remained Seated (1946) and an unpublished 1957 ms., Many a Slip. The latter novel was posthumously published as Pattern of Murder in 2005. Other “cinematic” sf novels included The Grand Illusion (1954) and Voice of the Conqueror (1954)
The name of the middle-aged “hero” of Voice of the Conqueror is ‘Albert Simpkins,’ known to his colleagues as “Old Simmy.” Obviously, the surname is derived from Fearn’s own work colleague Bob Simms, whom he knew as “Simmy.” His actual character, however, is modeled on Fearn himself. Albert’s fascination with science was clearly based on Fearn’s own predilections.
The novel’s extraordinary plot, telling how “old Simmy” actually succeeds in his idealistic dreams of reshaping the world, can be seen as amusing wish-fulfillment by the author. The scientific background to the novel is made up of several quite disparate elements. Some of them are extremely plausible and scientifically accurate (particularly on the cinematic side), and the concept of using an artificial satellite to broadcast worldwide radio messages is an inspired one. As everyone knows nowadays, the concept had, of course, first been visualized and invented by Arthur C. Clarke in his famous 1945 paper on “Extra-Terrestrial Relays.” It is virtually certain that Fearn never saw this, or even knew of Clarke’s idea, and if so he seems to have stumbled on the idea himself. Fearn’s novel may well be one of the very first sustained fictional uses of the idea of broadcasting via an artificial satellite. (It was, of course, written some years before Sputnik and the actual advent of space travel.) One important difference was that Clarke visualized the satellite as relaying messages, rather than originating them.
Conversely, however, as was often the case with Fearn, some of the scientific background was highly implausible, and requires a willing suspension of disbelief. One of the enduring myths about early pulp science fiction was that stories supposedly abounded wherein a scientist built a spaceship in his own backyard! In actual fact, very few, if any, such stories exist! I have read as much early sf as most people, and I cannot remember reading a single example of this—except for Fearn’s novel!
The author was of course well aware of the basic implausibility of this, and so, in the style of the skilled science fictionist, he tries to make it plausible. In my view, he succeeds in doing so by sheer storytelling skill, and in his sympathetic portrayal of the altruistic Albert Simpkins, he obviously wrote from his own personal beliefs. This gives the story a definite believability, and adds to its appeal.
CHAPTER ONE
Because Albert Simpkins looked a fool, everybody believed he was one. Yes, everybody. The only one who had known he was not a fool was dead, and that had been his mother. Being a quite normal woman, she knew she had not given to the world a genius, but on the other hand she had not produced a fool either. It was just a case of looks being deceptive.
Albert Simpkins was forty-five, but prematurely thinning hair made him look ten years older. He held the not too lofty position of chief projectionist in a local cinema, a position to which he clung with all his might because here, in his own little domain, he was absolute boss. At least he had reached the top as far as buildings were concerned. Here he had the chance to exercise traits of character that were normally crushed—and the boy and youth who worked with him as assistants were fairly obedient, mainly because they rather liked “Old Simmy.”
It was at home where Albert Simpkins received the biggest blows. At twenty-five he had married Emily Dawson. At that time she had been a fetching cashier with curly blonde hair and an infectious smile. Albert had then been a second projectionist, and they had walked home together. Inevitably, they had seen the future as all sunbeams, romance, and progress—and now, twenty years later, in the present-day hurrying scientific world, they found themselves very much wearied with each other, just about able to get along, and saddled with the responsibility of three daughters and a son. Yes, Albert Simpkins had a lot on his mind and little in his pocket.
“It wouldn’t be so bad, Emily,” he said one evening, when he had returned from his usual night’s