Okay, this isn't
Trek-related, but it kind of is.
In January 1967, in the middle of
Trek's first season, Quinn Martin Productions forayed into science fiction with
The Invaders. You often hear about it in the 'zines in the same breath as
Trek, usually with the qualifier that it's not nearly as good as
Trek (which it isn't). QM, by the way, also did
The Fugitive (which
Invaders largely apes) and also
Twelve O'Clock High, from which
Star Trek cribbed it's most famous fanfare (Dah da DAAH dah dah dah dah DAAAAAH).
So, in
this month's Lighthouse, science fiction writer Joanna Russ has this quite funny bit about
The Invaders (and it describes the show, too, if you have no idea what I'm talking about):
The Invaders vs. The Milford Mafia
by Joanna Russ
ANNOUNCEMENT FOR SCIENCE FICTION WRITERS OF AMERICA
THE INVADERS is a new television series recounting the tribulations of a young architect, David Vincent, unable to convince a cynical and indifferent world that aliens from a more advanced planet have begun making secret landings on our own. The Invaders assume human form, blend into all phases of our day-to-day life, and bide their time. Thus, each week, our young man, having had his life wrenched out of orbit, must ferret out and thwart -- virtually singlehanded — some new and ingenious alien master-plan for hastening the day they will take over.
One week, for instance, Vincent learns they have persuaded the war-weary commanding general of an atomic testing site that, by detonating a catastrophic antimatter bomb along with the scheduled nuclear explosion, he can frighten humanity into renouncing war forever. On other occasions, he destroys a swarm of man-eating locusts that the aliens have bred in order to decimate our population...foils a plan for the simultaneous assassination of all the world’s rulers...keeps aliens from assimilating and erasing the accumulated intelligence of the nation’s top scientific minds...tracks down and destroys a laboratory where human life is being chemically reproduced beneath the sea.
The producer of the show, Alan A. Armer of Q-M Productions, Goldwyn Studios, 1041 North Formosa Avenue, Hollywood, is in the market for many more such intrigues and master-plans. Science-fiction writers who can excerpt from existing published material, or who happen to think of any new ones, are urged to submit their notionsto Mr. Armer as soon as possible.
[The Submission]
Alan A. Armer
Q-M Productions
Goldwyn Studios
1041 North Formosa Avenue
Hollywood, California
Dear Sir:
To say that your recent communication fascinated me would be an understatement. In fact, so pronounced was the shock of its arrival that it was only after a quarter bottle of Calvados and some very serious talking to myself in the mirror that I could gather myself together sufficiently to answer you.
That I had to answer you was only too clear. The Invaders are not fiction at all; they are a desperate fact.
They are here, and the first place to look for Them is in your public relations department. Or possibly in the mimeograph machine. I know perfectly well what is going to happen! next, but pursuant to the flimsy stratagem by which you pretend that this whole diabolical plot is nothing but a television series, I will offer it to you in the form of a suggestion:
THE INVADERS vs. THE MILFORD MAFIA
Anyhow, here’s this poor slob of an architect, David Vincent, who alone knows that They are invading -- though how he could find out, or why on earth he should be an architect, I can’t imagine, unless the Aliens have begun their plan to insidiously warp the human psyche by distorting the lines "and angles of our better known architectural monuments like, for example, Grand Central Station. (Something of the sort happens in a Lovecraft story called
The Call of Cthulhu, which I offer you free of charge, especially since it isn’t mine.) So okay, he knows the Aliens are coming and by this time -- about halfway through the series -- he’s pretty much ground to a nubbin, what with foiling plots and destroying swarms of locusts and mousing around underneath the sea, which I should imagine would take not only a lot of time and energy but also an awful lot of money. In fact, he’s beginning to realize that he may not be able to make it into the summer re-runs, what with the strain on his health and his bank account. On top of this, his architectural business has just about given up the ghost because every time some poor nudnik comes in to see his secretary (who now has nothing to do except take cryptic messages and buff her fingernails) and asks, "Miss, could I please have a building?" his secretary has to answer, "Look, crumb-bum, do you think Mr. Vincent has time to run up some plans for some lousy palace or villa or something? He's off fighting Them, in case you didn’t know, and I suggest you take your gas-station or whatever it is to Mies van der Rohe. He got less on his mind."
So Vincent finally lures the chief Them to the annual Milford SF Writers' Congerence, knowing full well that not only are science-fiction writers the only people in the world likely to believe him (what science-fiction writers will believe, especially about editors, TV producers, etc. is phenomenal) but that they are actually the secret rulers of everything: The Masters of the World, as we call ourselves, or (in moments of modesty) the Milford Mafia. (I admit this to you knowing that you will not abuse a confidence.) Now, the Milford Conference is not only held among some perfectly charming country in Pennsylvania; it also takes place in a lovely old house decorated with all sorts of lovely old mottos (including antique Communist posters), and the owner, Mr. Damon Knight, President of the Science Fiction Writers of America, is not only intelligent, charming, honest, fearless and dedicated; he has an extremely handsome beard which I am sure would photograph beautifully.
Anyhow, the confrontation takes place, with the Them naturally extremely uncomfortable, but hiding it under a show of self-confidence while Mr. Vincent goes into the kitchen to recuperate, get a beer and strike up a romance with one of the female Mafia (perhaps you could work me into this). The science fiction writers have gone through all the standard arguments why They can’t win, but It remains adamant until Mr. Knight brilliantly plays humanity's trump-card.
"All right," he says. "
You can have Earth!"
Now, of course They are rather taken aback by
this. Still, the They pulls Itself together and accepts. Nothing can shake Its resolution, not even descriptions of the New York subway in August —
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire — Miami Beach Los Angeles — nothing. They allow in an iffy sort of way that They might nave to put up with a good deal when They take over humanity, but They insist They will take over anyhow, blast it, and that any Them who gave in -now would be unworthy of the name (of Them). Then, as fear rises in every Milfordite's throat, Mr. Knight -- who has left the
piece de resistance for last -- leans forward, his eyes glittering, and whispers seductively, "What about television shows?" As the Them sinks back, fainting in terror and half-reverting to Its proper shape (the make-up department can take care of this)', the s-f writers bind It to Its seat, piling 1940’s science-fiction novels on Its stomach. A hitherto concealed television set emerges from the paneling.
Behold! Just spreading onto the cathode-ray tube is a drama entitled -- well, I won’t name names. But let me tell you, it does in that Them
completely and
entirely.
It’s a new television series recounting the tribulations of a young architect, David Vincent, who is unable to convince a cynical and indifferent world that aliens from a more advanced planet…
But I think you’ve already heard about it.
Sincerely,
Joanna Russ
7 Montague Terrace
Brooklyn, N.Y. 11201
I am fortunate to have access to a complete archive of all extant 60s 'zines. I've put them all in chronological order by date. Vulcanalia started early this year (1967) but it's a Brooklyn based club, so I'm not surprised it's unfamiliar (though they are spreading, thanks to Nimoy talking about the club).
