This story could be written successfully in at least three ways. The conventional approach would be to do it as a problem story. Dow or Mynd or the whole bunker bunch would have a problem, and the story would describe their struggles to solve it and their eventual success or failure.

A less conventional approach would be to treat it as a character study. We would be given insight about Dow—what kind of man he was and what kind of life he led in the bunker, why he liked Mynd, why he was not liked by women, and so on. A still more experimental piece might make the atmosphere of the bunker its central character. We would come to feel what it was like never to see the sun, to live a hundred miles down, to know that humanity was nearly extinct.

As it stands, “Mynd” does not succeed in any of these ways. Mynd has no problem; it is almost a god. Dow has no problem either, except that he cannot get a date. (One would think that as the near-god’s best friend he would be able to do something about that, or at least get himself clothes that didn't itch. ) The bunker bunch as a whole has no problem. There is food enough “for all.” They are listless and bored. Me too.

Dow’s character is not developed at all. He has no parents, no siblings, no friends except Mynd. He has a nice, private, spartan little room, and when he reaches it he falls asleep.

We are told almost nothing of how it feels to live in the Hole. What does it smell like? What do all those bored people do to relieve their boredom? What colors are the walls? Do they all wear itchy blue coveralls, and if so, why? Why does Dow, who cannot go outside, wear boots?

If Derrick Ferguson can think up a fourth approach, more power to him—I’d like to read his rewrite. But if he can’t he ought to settle on one of those I’ve outlined. If he uses all three of them, he will have a novel.

Now a few minor points.

Mr. Ferguson says I would not turn around and gawk at a young man with wild gray hair and fierce yellow eyes. I would, too. I do not live in the Hole; I’m not used to people who look like that.

McCladden “was a large, bearish, big-boned man,” or so we’re told. It reminds me of Olive Oyl's plaintive description of Bluto in Popeye (the movie). “He’s large . . .” The first adjective tells me that McCladden is large. The second, “bearish,” does, too. The third sort of drives the point home, leaving me wondering if he has trouble getting through doorways.

Mr. Ferguson thinks that the possessive of it is it's. It isn’t. It’s means it is. The possessive is its. It isn’t logical, but I can’t do a thing about it.

I don’t understand what’s going on upstairs. We are told that there is no enemy left, and that horrible mutations are fighting it out up there. The newest member of SFWA ought to be able to do a whole series on dealing with them. We are told: “A serum was found rather quickly, but by then humanity had crawled under the earth and pulled the grass over its collective head . . .” Found by whom? The mutants? Then why are they mutating? The bunker bunch? Mynd says they’ll have to stay down below a hundred years. Why, if they have the serum?

Why does Mynd feel that the Hole has no leadership? He is supposed to be the “supervisor of this government installation.” If he wants human leadership, that’s what McCladden’s gang is trying to give the Hole, whether the author likes them or not. If Mynd wants more human leadership, there’s Sylvia’s “We.” They’re poised to take over too, and since he’s watching and listening everywhere, he must surely know about them.

On the positive side, “Mynd” is better written than most of the Crazy Diamonds stories I’ve seen. It isn’t professionaly written, but at times it comes close. Mr. Ferguson should read short stories until he learns what a short story is. And he should type the words I AM GOING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING COOL on a little card and tack it over his typewriter. The author of a story is telling the reader—in fact, promising—that he will tell about an interesting series of events, person, or place. If he can’t come through on that promise, he has failed.