ABSTRACT
The whole question of science fiction, even without the added problem of gender, is vexed. Science fiction is not only all things to all women (and men), but is now merely a label stuck upon a jar filled to breaking with all kinds of things. The kind of jar I mean is the one on the mantelpiece into which are put pins, hairgrips, rubber bands, receipts, old lipsticks, plastic gewgaws out of the cornflakes and anything else which does not properly quite belong elsewhere. It may also harbour valuable jewellery and large notes, but it is not the jar containing the pot pourri, because some of it stinks. There was a time when a sound definition of the term was 'stories in which some scientific idea was extrapolated, and was integral to the action and plot'. This has not been the case for a long time. It would seem that anything with a streak of 'otherliness' fits the bill, alongside the usual hard core of spaceships and robots.
