SheVaCon's Tribute to

Hal Clement

May 30,1922  -  October 29, 2003

 

Memories of Hal Clement – Paul Dellinger

 The first time I saw "Hal Clement" was at a 1963 WorldCon in D.C., on a panel with P. Schyler Miller. I can't remember the topic of debate, but Hal was winning hands down — so much so that he deliberately threw a verbal lifeline to Miller. Now there, I thought, is a gentleman.
I had no reason to change that view in the past 18 years when he started coming to Roanoke Valley SF cons (one year with his leg in a cast) and gave of his time speaking to science and writing classes in area schools. I guess he remained an educator after retiring from teaching; even his stories taught scientific points. By the time of that WorldCon” in Washington D.C., I'd probably only read "From Outer Space" (the paperback title for his "Needle," a story somewhat ripped off by the movie, "Brain from the Planet, Arous"). Later, of course, I got to "Mission of Gravity" and much of his other work. I think we took him too much for granted. We should have been recording those panel discussions with him, and spending all the time picking his brain and memories that he could have tolerated. Although a Campbell author up there with the likes of Heinlein and Asimov, and an SFWA Grand Master like them, he never seemed to regard himself as anything special.
But he was.

 

HAL CLEMENT: a Note

         If I hadn't been on a panel with Harry Stubbs in the late '80s, all I'd have known about him was that he wrote as Hal Clement and taught high school as his day job. I liked some of his very intelligent fiction a good deal, though even when I was thirteen I knew you didn't pick up Hal Clement for fast-paced adventure.  The panel, on Military Stupidity, put him in a perspective I wouldn't otherwise have had. For that reason, I'd like to tell a story from that panel for the benefit of those who haven't heard it.  Harry, at the time I suppose Lt. Stubbs, was piloting B-24 Liberators, four-engined heavy bombers, in Europe in 1945. His squadron was re-equipped with a new model of the B-24. This had a number of improvements, two of which were important to the story.  First, the ball turret in the belly was deleted, saving a thousand pounds from the aircraft's weight. This was a beneficial change, because the heavy bomber squadrons were meeting very few German fighters at that point in the war.  Second, the engine cowlings were armored, adding a total of 600 pounds. This too was beneficial, because flak remained a problem right up to the German surrender. Cowling armor made it less likely that a bursting anti-aircraft shell would damage an engine and perhaps start a fire.  The squadron flew its old aircraft to a depot and traded them for the new models. They then returned to their base (this was not a combat mission). Harry was co-pilot of the squadron commander's aircraft, which was in the lead. The flight was uneventful until it came time to land. The squadron commander had the controls. He approached the runway in a shallow dive, then pulled back on the stick to bring the nose up for landing. The nose didn't come up: they were headed into the concrete. The pilot screamed for Harry to pull back also. The controls still didn't move. Both pilots braced their feet on the instrument panel for leverage and pulled back with both hands while screaming for the navigator.  With the navigator also braced on the panel and hauling back on the shoulders of both pilots, the nose finally came up. They pulled clear and made a circuit while warning the remaining fifteen planes of the squadron not to try to land. After they'd retrimmed the aircraft, they were able to land normally. What’d happened was quite simple: the aircraft's total weight was very close to that of the model they'd been flying, but the ball turret had been behind the Liberator's center of gravity while the engine cowlings were in front. The aircraft's nose was 1600 pounds heavier than they expected, a change that didn't affect handling until the pilot tried to come out of a dive.  And almost didn't, because nobody'd mentioned it to the crews when they were issued the new aircraft. When you next read or reread SF by Hal Clement, keep this story in mind. To Harry, the laws of the physical universe were much more than equations on a blackboard.   

Dave Drake

david-drake.com

 

Hal Clement –- by Kelly Lockhart

 

I first met Hal Clement in 1994 when I was Vice Chair for a
small literary convention in Atlanta. Antares was a
one-shot convention that quickly became legendary among
Southern Fandom, earning the nickname "FireCon", and Hal
was a major part of that legend.

The basic story is fairly simple. On Saturday evening, the
hotel generator caught on fire in the basement. For some
reason, the entire hotel lost power — even the emergency
lamps in the stairwells! Needless to say, we had a job on
our hands evacuating the hotel out into the parking lot on
a rather chilly evening.

Directly across the street from the hotel were a Wendy's
and a McDonald's. The filkers decided to take over the
McDonald's (yes, the first ever "McFilk") while Hal lead a
sizeable group over to the Wendy's. Both restaurants had
actually closed for the evening, but their managers, seeing
the large and somewhat colorful crowds of conventioneers
shivering outside, decided to reopen their restaurants and
serve whatever they still had on hand.

The Wendy's only had French fries, salads, Frosties, soda
and coffee, but that was enough for the fans. We are, it
is well known, rather adaptable in unexpected situations.
So, while everyone was settling down in the restaurant with
their salads, fries and Frosties, Hal decided that this
would be a great opportunity to stage an impromptu
discussion on two of his favorite subjects: astronomy and
planetary physics.

For several hours he regaled an enthusiastic crowd with his
charm, wit, and deep knowledge of astronomy and celestial
mechanics, especially his thoughts on lunar orbital decay.
Everyone who was present that evening came quickly to
understand why the con-com had invited Hal as our guest
that year, and it still ranks as one of my favorite moments
in more than twenty years of attending conventions.

The last time I met with Hal was at this past SheVaCon,
where we had a very pleasant dinner together on Saturday
night in the hotel restaurant. At his heart, Hal was
always a teacher. And he enjoyed nothing more than finding
a willing audience who wanted to learn. In my case, I
wanted to know more about his theories of orbital mechanics
(okay, I admit it — I'm a bit of science geek) as well as
his early days in fandom.

It was a great time, and I will remember fondly how the
tables near us all became rather quiet so that they could
eavesdrop in on Hal. I know they weren't listening to me,
but I didn't mind. Hal was a special treasure, and I will
miss him.

 

 

“An Hour With Hal”

Some thoughts by Elizabeth Massie

 

Anyone who has ever read science fiction, written science fiction, or appreciated science fiction in any of its varied forms — stories, art, movies — knows of Hal Clement. Author of fifteen science fiction novels and numerous collections, a science teacher, artist (painting as “George Richard”), and former Army pilot, Hal Clement Stubbs lived a life as full, if not fuller, than is humanly possible. He was well respected by others in science fiction, and in 1999 was named a “Grand Master” SF writer by the Science Fiction Writers of America. Isaac Asimov gave deference to Hal in 1994 when he said, “On occasion, (Hal) has pointed out errors in my science essays … any time he corrected me, I took it seriously, for he was always right.” Clement was of the “Golden Age” of science fiction, a writer who not only loved science fiction and all its possibilities, but the science from where it all originates.

 

I’d never met the man, though his name and works were certainly familiar to me. I imagined an intelligent if not somewhat aloof individual, just a tad above the rest of us because of his keen knowledge of science, his literary successes, his awards and accolades. It wasn’t until SheVaCon 11 when I was privileged to “panel” with him. The topic was about finding our own nightmares as writers — about what scared us and how we used our fears in our writing. Immediately before the panel, I introduced myself to Hal, who was settling himself next to me at the table. I was surprised and pleased to find someone with a relaxed and genuine smile, someone who looked me in the eye as I spoke, showed a genuine interest in who I was and listened fully to what I had to say. As the panel got going he shared his own fears with the audience, most of them realistic and one of which he said he’d rather not discuss. (This piqued my interest, but I was not going to press for more details. It did leave me even more intrigued, however.) He joked and laughed, listened to the other panelists’ comments intently, and answered the audiences’ questions respectfully and kindly.

 

When it was over, he told me he enjoyed the panel and sharing it with me and the other writers. He shook my hand and was off to his other obligations at the convention. That was my sole hour with Hal Clement. But this time spent with the “Grand Master,” the “Golden Age” science fiction writer, was time I will not forget. His passing in 2003 was a huge loss for the genré, but as is true for other giants in their field, his passing will not bring an end to what he’s given. It will live on through his novels, his stories, his paintings, and through those who were lucky enough to have met him.

 

 

 From Bud Webster

 

Harry Clement Stubbs published his first story, "Proof," in the June 1942 ASTOUNDING, and as of last week, was telling convention attendees that he was working on a new one after a long hiatus. Hal was a terrific writer, a terrific teacher, and was a convention favorite. He was last year's GoH at SheVaCon in Roanoke, VA, and his panels (as always) were eagerly and heavily attended.  At one point, fellow amateur sf historian Paul Dellinger and I were interviewing Hal in a panel, when he began to repeat himself and grow restless. When he realized what was going on, he pulled out a bag of M&Ms, carefully counted out a dozen, and ate them. Within a few minutes, he was as bright and alert as ever. It was my first realization that he was diabetic. He was a common sight in the dealers' rooms, too, poring over books displays and buying seemingly incongruous titles, whistling softly to himself the whole time. There is no way to adequately measure Hal's effect on sf and sf readers and writers, but to some degree, almost every hard-sf writer owes a debt to Hal Clement. He explored concepts and conditions that no one else had, and by doing so encouraged other writers to go even further. He was a man of wit and intellect, of warmth and kindness, and he saw wonder in the world long after others grew jaded and cynical. It's a hideous understatement to say that he'll be missed.

 

HAL CLEMENT: AN APPRECIATION

by

Steve White

             The funny thing about being at a con hosting Harry Stubbs/Hal Clement was the ease with which you could miss him altogether. I have never known another science fiction author of generally recognized importance who was less afflicted with the Great Man Syndrome. (Although Poul Anderson came close.)

            You could find him, though, if you knew where to look: the writer’s workshop he always held, featuring some rigorously thought-out concept which he freely and unreservedly offered as a story seed to anyone who could grow a story from it. At most other times he was inconspicuously in conversation with those same aspiring writers, and anyone else who wished to learn from him. He was a teacher by profession and also a teacher in the true sense – not always the same thing, unfortunately – and like all true teachers he wanted everyone to know everything he knew, and to share his joy in knowledge. His legacy to us lies less in the body of his own work than in the countless younger people he stimulated, encouraged, and forced to think. He will be much  missed.

 

 

 

 

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