Coming Attraction — Edition Insights

Diction and the Weight of Objects

Leiber's word choices consistently emphasize the physical and the broken. The coupe is described as "shouldering up" like a nightmare, the smoke as a "thick cloud like a black flower." Objects carry menace or decay: fishhooks, a torn skirt, a radionic oven that leaves ice in the meat. The narrator's internal voice is dry and understated—"Suppressing the urge to say, 'For as short a time as possible'"—which contrasts with the violent world around him. The language of bureaucracy intrudes via the policeman's demand for papers and the phrase "British Barter," a term that reduces nationality to a trade agreement. These lexical choices build a setting where even the moon is a weapon: "You can't look at it and not think of guided bombs."

Dialogue as Veiled Exchange

Conversations in the excerpt are terse and often evasive. The girl's first words to the narrator are a question about his accent, then a rapid invitation. Her later confession—"I'm afraid of the Moon"—is delivered in a "dreamy and brittle" voice, as if rehearsed. The narrator's replies are clipped: "Certainly," "Why?" "Everything." When the three men from the coupe confront them, dialogue becomes a power game: "Drift off, man" and "We'll wrestle a fall, sister." The foxlike man, Zirk, uses a musical laugh and thin smile to defuse tension. Leiber lets silences and gestures carry meaning—the girl shrinking from Zirk "just a little," the narrator squeezing her fingers "as if courage could be transmitted."

The Mask as Character and Barrier

Masks are not mere accessories; they are central to the story's visual and emotional logic. The girl wears a "sleek black satin mask" that hides her face, and the narrator notes her eyes searching him "from behind the black gauze." The mask becomes a locus of fear: the narrator mentions "the lust that undresses your face." Other masked women appear in the crowd and in the bar, one with a "big yellow bruise on her forearm." The mask is both a fashion and a necessity in a world where faces are vulnerable. Leiber uses it to create a constant tension between visibility and concealment, intimacy and distance. The narrator never sees the girl's full expression; her fear is conveyed through trembling and voice alone.

Setting as a Character of Decay

The New York of "Coming Attraction" is a radioactive "pest spot" where streets are patrolled by rocket-assisted police and bars host women wrestlers. Leiber builds the setting through small, cumulative details: the "hot exhaust" from a coupe, the "black flower" of smoke, the "kernel of ice" in a meal. The narrator describes the city as having a "brand of misery" distinct from British austerity. The bar is a place of deep shadows and a foxlike man who glides like a ballet star. The setting is not explained in exposition but emerges from the characters' movements and fears. The girl's list of terrors—cars, gangs, loneliness, Inferno, wrestlers—maps the geography of this future, where even the moon is a shared threat.

Narrative Voice and Unreliable Observation

The first-person narrator is an outsider—British, visiting, and repeatedly identified by his accent. His observations are filtered through a dry, slightly ironic lens. He notes the policeman's focus on the smoke rather than the attempted murder, and he reflects on the difference between American and British austerity. Yet his own reliability is questionable: he admits his reflexes "weren't shy" for once, and his sympathy for the girl mingles with infatuation. Leiber uses this limited perspective to keep the reader guessing. The narrator does not know what the girl truly wants, nor does he fully understand the rules of this society. His ignorance becomes a tool for suspense, as the reader pieces together the world through his partial view.

Leiber's story rewards attention to its small, precise details—the rip of a skirt, the musical laugh of a villain, the ice in a heated meal. The excerpts offer a concentrated sample of his method: a future built not from grand proclamations but from the texture of everyday fear. Readers may find that the story's power lies in what is left unsaid, in the gaps between dialogue and the shadows behind the masks.

I think of how Leiber’s masked city teaches us that seeing is never simple—faces hidden, truths deferred. Years of shelving have shown me the same quiet kinship in Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Volume 02 — Inside the Classic, where crowns and loyalties wear their own disguises, and every glance strains past what is shown. Both linger in memory like half-heard whispers.