Her Smoke Rose Up Forever

Is there any hope for us? For how many of us, me in my way, you in yours, are not our pens the weapons with which we can do something-a tiny something-about wrongs? Even if only to name them? And "name them" she did: from behind the facade of a Virginia post office box and under a pseudonym swiped from a jar of marmalade, Alice B. Sheldon wrote a group of stories that remain among the finest achievements of modern science fiction. At first distinguished primarily by an unremitting manic energy, Sheldon's work soon began to embody the intense and tragic vision of a thoughtful humanist. Th…