It Doesn't Have To Be Right…

… it just has to sound plausible

Tag Archives: science fiction


by Leave a comment

A Heritage of Stars, Clifford D Simak

Simak was one of my go-to sf authors in my early teens, and his Time and Again (1951, USA) was a very early favourite novel. But I reread it about twenty years ago, and was not impressed. A Heritage of Stars (1977, USA) I must also have read back in the late 1970s – I used to own a copy, but sold it when I moved north. I had no memory of its plot. I picked up a copy from my local secondhand sf bookshop, mistakenly thinking it was another Simak novel, one which had been nominated for the Hugo. It wasn’t. But I reread it anyway.

It’s 1 500 years after civilisation collapsed – in the US, at least, although like all American science fiction up until the late years of the twentieth century, the USA is assumed to be the whole of the world. Cushing is a young man who works at a university where knowledge is preserved in ancient books. But not knowledge about technology – all of that has been completely removed. He stumbles across some notes from the author of a “history” written some 1 000 earlier (although it’s not explained how the paper lasted so long). The notes mention a legend about the Place of Going to the Stars, so Cushing decides to go looking for it. Along the way, he picks up various strange companions: an old woman with telepathic powers, the last operating robot, an old man who can talk to plants and his weird granddaughter, some shadow-like creatures, and a pattern of lights called the Shivering Snake. They head west into Dakota, searching for Thunder Butte, which they believe is the location of the starport.

They find it, of course – but it is not a starport. They learn it’s the ground station, in effect, for centuries of robotic missions out into the galaxy. But somehow the sole remaining robot (one apparently fell “victim to a strange disease”!) in the facility, called the Ancient and Revered, can no longer access the data collected. Cushing and his companions come up with a plan to fix this – for reasons.

There’s a lot that doesn’t really add up in A Heritage of Stars. Some of it is Simak just churning out the stuff he was good at, but the plot is cobbled together from a handful of dated sf tropes thrown together with little thought. The same is true of the prose – some of the descriptive prose, especially of the landscape, is quite effective, but the rest is sloppy (to be fair, he was 73, when the book was published):

“… He talks obliquely about what he calls a phoenix rising from its ashes, an allusion that escapes us in its entirety.”

“There is no need to beat about the bushes,” said #2. (p167/168)

The aliens don’t understand the first expression but do the second? 

Simak was known for writing bucolic science fiction, and here he has his cake and eats it too: a central science-fictional idea, but he also gets to write about a USA slowly returning to nature. Except. The story is set fifteen centuries after a period when humanity had interstellar travel… yet the abandoned cities and towns Cushing travels through resemble towns and cities of the 1950s and 1970s. He mentions a collapsed water tower. If humanity can go to the stars, surely they’d have a better solution than sticking a tank of water on a high pole? Not to mention the wreckage of the water tower still being recognisable after 1 500 years of decay… by someone who had probably never come across the concept before…

Further, the tribes of barbarians which inhabit the plains and try to prevent Cushing and his companions from reaching Thunder Butte, and then refuse his plan to gain access to the data, are all based on racist depictions of Native Americans.

A Heritage of Stars is typical of a lot of science fiction produced in the US between the Second World War and the New Wave, almost exclusively by white males (although not always, and Arslan (1976, USA) by MJ Engh is a good female example). A handful of science-fictional tropes, mostly so well-known they require little scaffolding, and a complete absence of imagination in world-building. Mostly, the setting is just the US of the writers’ early adulthood with a handful of sf buzzwords, or, in this case, a few years of neglect. This is poor stuff.


by Leave a comment

Schismatrix Plus, Bruce Sterling

(Another review from Facebook.)

I’m pretty sure I read Schismatrix (1985, USA) back in the very early 1990s… but I also have a vague memory of borrowing the novel when staying with a friend on a trip to the UK a couple of years after I’d moved to the Middle East in the mid-1990s. Schismatrix Plus (1996, USA), published a decade after the original novel, includes it and five short stories set in the same universe. I suspect I’d read a couple of the short stories first, and then read the novel when staying with that friend. Whatever the truth of the matter, I’d pretty much no memory of the novel’s actual story when coming to this recent reread.

Certainly, the one big thing I’d forgotten about Schismatrix was that it featured aliens. In the future of the novel, a couple of centuries hence, humanity has colonised the Solar system and those based off Earth have split into two factions – the Shapers, who improve themselves through genetic engineering, and the Mechanists, who use technology and cybernetics. The two factions are in an almost constant state of political and commercial rivalry slash war.

Lindsay is born in an O’Neill cylinder orbiting the moon. Despite being a Mechanist, he’s sent to the Shapers for diplomatic training (and some genetic engineering). Later, he’s exiled from his cislunar republic, and embarks on a career bouncing around the outer Solar system, growing more and more politically powerful, although typically as an eminence grise. He has a rival, Constantine, and the two are at constant, if often hidden, loggerheads. Aliens, the Investors, large dinosaur-like interstellar merchants, arrive, and there is a peace of sorts between Shapers and Mechanists. But it doesn’t last.

Sterling’s future solar system is pretty neat, if a little dated in places, such as the frequent mentions of “tape”, but Lindsay’s and Constantine’s political genius, even the reasons they’re so admired, is never explained and never really convinces. They are what they are because Sterling tells us so. The most interesting character in the book, Kitsune, who later becomes an actual space station, doesn’t appear often enough.

The aliens are dull, and not very original. Although the Swarm in the story titled, er, ‘Swarm’, originally published in F&SF in 1982, is based around a neat idea – indeed, something similar to it was used by Paul McAuley in his debut novel, Four Hundred Billion Stars (1988, UK). Sterling went on to write much better novels than Schismatrix, although it remains popular to this day. It was ahead of its time back in 1985, but sf has moved on a great deal since then. Schismatrix Plus is worth a read, the original novel on its own not so much. 


by 4 Comments

The People of the Wind, Poul Anderson

(Another review which originally appeared only on FB.)

Anderson was not one of those authors I read much back when I was a teenager. Perhaps half a dozen of his best-known works. There were other science fiction authors whose books and stories I much preferred. But he was a popular and well-regarded author in his day and, to be honest, his Terran Empire / Ensign Flandry / Nicholas van Rijn novels always struck me as featuring the sort of world-building I sort of liked… And yet I never made any effort to explore it.

Anyway, The People of the Wind (1973, USA) was nominated for the Hugo in 1974 (but lost out to Arthur C Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama (1973, Sri Lanka)). It’s set on a world called Avalon, shared by humans and Ythrians, who are winged bird-like humanoid aliens, and which is nominally part of the Ythrian Domain. The Terran Empire decides it wants a nice and less ragged border with the Domain, which makes no sense, and so decides to launch a full-scale attack on the Domain, which makes no sense, in order to take over those Ythrian worlds it feels will make the border look neat and tidy on a map, which makes no sense. Which makes no sense.

Anyway, Avalon is happy being a mixed human/Ythrian world, and has created a culture all its own. It has no intention of being subsumed into the Terran Empire. And it has a plan to defend itself. And when that works, but not enough, it has a last-ditch plan to defeat the forces of the Terran Empire. Which also works. Oops. Spoiler.

Anyway, reading The People of the Wind I think I understand why Anderson’s novels never appealed to me. The descriptive prose is actually not bad, and its presence not all that common in sf novels of the time, but Anderson’s decision to make use of archaic, and often completely made-up English, works against him – “blent”? “fleered”? WTF? Has either been used since Chaucer’s day? It also doesn’t help that Anderson drops lumps of exposition, which read like encyclopaedia passages, into his narrative. There are many ways to deal with exposition, assuming you even believe it’s necessary, but this is surely the most inelegant. No, wait– “As you know…” dialogue is definitely less elegant.

Anyway, I think even the most cynical would agree that exposition, in whatever form, should at least advance the story. Anderson’s doesn’t. It’s thinly-disguised gazetteer information, and might possibly be of relevance should they ever produce a RPG of the universe (which was not a consideration back in 1973).

Anyway, The People of the Wind. The usual bullshit “underdog defeats vastly superior enemy” narrative – which is, when you think about it, somewhat ironic coming from a US author – written in a combination of clumsy infodumps and pseudo-archaic English, and which presents absolutely nothing interesting in terms of insight… was apparently considered notable enough to be shortlisted for the genre’s premier award in the US in 1974.

Anyway, not a reason, I would think, to start reading Poul Anderson. But perhaps a good reason not to read him.


by 1 Comment

Who?, Algis Budrys

I think this was a reread but I couldn’t swear to it. I think I’ve seen the film adaptation (some stills from which are on the back cover of the paperback edition I read) but I couldn’t swear to it. I certainly know the basics of the story – and if I didn’t get them from the book or the film, then… who, er, knows?

The basics of Who? (1958, USA) are: an important US scientist is blown up in his laboratory in Europe, the Russians get there first and spirit away the heavily-injured scientist and rebuild him, so to speak – robotic arm, new head which is a featureless ovoid with electronic eyes and mechanical mouth. The US (or rather, the Allied Nations Government) demands him back, the Soviets oblige. But is the scientist they returned really the one who was nearly killed in the explosion? This is important because he was working on “K-Eighty-eight”, some sort of vitally important defence project which is never explained (but, to be honest, never really needs to be, and I suppose we should be grateful Budrys chose not to).

Is robot-head Martino the real Martino? The ANG needs to know before putting him back to work on K-Eighty-eight, which is annoyingly never written as K-88. They somewhat reluctantly decide they cannot confirm his identity, so they let him go home to New York and keep a careful eye on him to see if he behaves as the real Martino would have done.

It occurred to me as I read the novel that it would be relatively straightforward to confirm Martino’s identity, especially in a sf novel set in the 1990s (I think; Martino attends university in the late 1960s), even though written in the 1950s. After all, DNA had been discovered decades before Budrys wrote Who?. Surprisingly, it wasn’t known it could be used to uniquely identify an individual until 1984. It’s so ubiquitous now that feels wrong. But there you go.

So, no face. Fingerprints can be faked. (So can faces, for that matter.) Is metalhead Martino a ringer? Once loose in New York, he behaves exactly as the real Martino would do – which the reader knows thanks to alternating flashback chapters covering Martino’s life. Of course, a well-trained replacement would also behave exactly as the real Martino would do. A real puzzler.

Budrys dangles “he’s a fake!” before the reader, then sets up a plausible fake, but soon lets the cat out of the bag. According to my paperback copy, Who? is “one of the classic giants among science-fiction novels – and among spy thrillers too”, and it was nominated for the Hugo Award. But I think it fails as both. It’s no le Carré, and even when it tries for ambiguity, it bottles it. The world-building is perfunctory and unconvincing – the West has formed the Allied Nations Government (hello! the Treaty of Rome was 1957!); the Russians and Chinese and all those other countries in between are now Soviet. Technology has apparently stagnated, other than the tech required to rebuild Martino. The New York of is-it-really-Martino is pretty much the same as that of the real Martino in his twenties.

I think they call novels like this “high concept” – ie, a neat idea you can encapsulate in a handful of words, but everything else is either slapdash or badly done. Who? is neither good nor interesting- Its conceit is interesting, but nothing else between the covers of the book is.

(At one point, Martino takes his girlfriend to the cinema to see a film. They leave when they reach the point in the movie when they entered. That was how people used to go to the cinema: they’d enter the auditorium, no matter when the film had started, sit down and watch it through to the end, then stay to see the part they’d missed. It was Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960, USA) which changed that. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise of Janet Leigh’s murder, so he insisted people were only allowed to watch the film from the start, and cinemas would lock the auditorium doors to prevent people from entering after the movie had begun. It changed the way people visited the cinema.)


by Leave a comment

Private Rites, Julia Armfield

Private Rites (2024, UK) was nominated for the Clarke Award last year, which is why I read it. I generally follow the Clarke, although recent shortlists have been mixed at best: some nominations have been actually quite bad, and this year the award has nominated a book first published six years ago. Armfield was not a name with which I was familiar, but when I looked her up, her previous novel, Our Wives Under the Sea (2022, UK), rang a dim and distant bell. Perhaps someone recommended it or something. Having now read Private Rites, I’m unlikely to seek it out.

Private Rites is, Armfield has said, basically King Lear’s three daughters in a post climate-crash UK. And, er, that’s it. There’s no plot, as such. Irene, Isla and Agnes have as little to with each other as they can, and when they do meet, they bicker. Then their father, a renowned architect dies, and they bicker some more. And argue.

Meanwhile, it rains all the time, and the unnamed English city in which the three live is completely flooded. That’s the extent of the science fiction in Private Rites. It is neither explained, nor solved – the ending might be interpreted as a solution, but if so, it’s pure fantasy, not science fiction.

Readers are going to come to this book because of the writing, not the lack of plot, poorly-grounded setting or well-drawn characters. I value good writing. But I also think less is more, when it comes to literary fiction writing. Armfield shows some nice insights and turns of phrases, but all too often it veers into creative writing degree prose. She’s not a genre writer, but I feel it’s a problem in both literary and genre fiction. Creative writing degrees and MFAs on the one hand, genre residential writers’ workshops on the other – neither claim to be prescriptive, but they’re slowly imposing a prose style on authors. It’s the singular voices which are often the most memorable, and are certainly the most innovative. That may be why translated non-Anglophone fiction is becoming increasingly popular in both mainstream and genre circles – it doesn’t follow the same “rules” as graduates of MFAs and writing workshops.

Private Rites was a slog in places, and the ending was not really worth the investment in reading it. The Clarke that year was won by Annie Bot (2024, USA), which I felt laboured its point to the extent it undercut its argument. The Ministry of Time (2024, UK; my review here) and Extremophile (2024, UK; my review here) were enjoyable enough, but I wasn’t blown away (Service Model (2024, UK) and Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock (2024, UK) I have yet to read). It felt like there were better books they could have chosen. So too this year (mostly). No Slow Gods (2025, UK; my review here)? One of the best UK writers currently writing in genre, and she’s ignored by both the BSFA and Clarke Awards. The Clarke, a juried award, is supposed to be an antidote to the popular vote BSFA, which is like all other genre awards of its type, increasingly dominated by tribalism. In recent years, however, it sometimes seems like the Clarke is nominating books based on how many copies it’s sold, and not its science-fictional or literary credentials…


by Leave a comment

Barrayar, Lois McMaster Bujold

I’m reading this series in order of internal chronology rather than publication order, which no doubt affects my responses to the books. Although the seventh book published in the Vorkosigan series, Barryar (1991, USA) follows on directly from Bujold’s debut novel, Shards of Honor (1986, USA). I read both in the omnibus Cordelia’s Honor (1996, USA; it also includes a short story, ‘Aftermath’). I was impressed Bujold had picked up a narrative from five years previously and continued it so seamlessly… until I read the afterword in Cordelia’s Honor and learnt Shards of Honor and Barrayar were originally written as a single novel, and then split. And now I wonder why it took five years for the second part to appear…

In Shards of Honor, Cordelia Naismith, a Survey captain from Beta Colony, encounters Aral Vorkosigan, a military officer and aristocrat from the Russian-derived martial world of Barrayar. His reputation is not good but, of course, (mostly) undeserved. After various ups and downs – war, invasion, torture, that sort of thing – they marry. Barrayar opens with Cordelia trying to adjust to life on the titular planet with her new husband.

Vorkosigan retired from his military career but is asked to become regent for the five-year-old grandson of the emperor when the mortally-ill emperor dies. He accepts. He is not a popular choice. To make matters worse, Cordelia is pregnant but the foetus is damaged by an assassination attempt using a poisonous gas grenade. She persuades the Barrayans to implant the foetus into a Betan “uterine replicator” in order to better manage its development, but this causes a rift with her father-in-law.

Civil war kicks off, one faction supporting Vorkosigan, the other supposedly acting in the interests of the dead emperor’s daughter. The latter get hold of the uterine replicator, and Cordelia sets off on a rescue mission, without her husband’s knowledge. She succeeds, partly through luck, but mostly because she does not behave as Barrayarans expect women to behave – something she demonstrates throughout the novel. Which brings to mind, yes, the shopping scene…

I’m almost one hundred percent sure I’ve never read Barrayar before, but the shopping scene felt like I was rereading it. Perhaps an excerpt appeared in an anthology or magazine. All the same, it was fun.

There’s a big difference between Shards of Honor and Barrayar, even if there’s almost none in story terms. The latter is so much more polished: the backgrounds, especially Barrayar, are better grounded, and while you have to wonder why it took an additional five years for Barrayar to see print, it was clearly worth the wait. The story focus in Barrayar is also much clearer. While it’s effectively an origin story for Miles Vorkosigan, chief protagonist of much of the series, the novel is about Barrayar, about a woman who not only does not fit the mould when it comes to women on Barrayar but also breaks it wide open, and about her response to her new life and the trials it throws at her. It’s about women in Bujold’s space opera universe.

Of course, both books were originally published in the late 1980s/early 1990s, and space opera – US space opera – has changed a lot since then. At that time, New British Space Opera was still, well, British, and had not been appropriated and distorted by US science fiction. The Vorkosigan series, for much of its length, was in a mode of US science fiction that was often identified as either space opera or military sf, as the two subgenres were often indistinguishable in US science fictions. Barrayar does in fact read like military sf – much of the plot is set during a civil war, after all – but it’s only one instalment in a series containing over twenty books. And an early instalment, too. Certainly, Barrayar strengthens my resolve to read the full series, when the two books preceding it did not.


by Leave a comment

The End of Eternity, Isaac Asimov

(Another review from Facebook, posted before I unshuttered this blog.)

I read The End of Eternity (1955, USA) because it was nominated for the Hugo Award in 1956, and I’ve been trying a few of the old Hugo nominees. It’s also one of the few Asimov novels I managed to miss reading back in my very early teens.

Normally, of course, I avoid his books like the plague – I think he was a terrible writer, who managed a couple of ideas per book but everything else was just 1950s USA with a thin wash of paint. He’s the exemplar of Men in Hats sf. Asimov was 35 when The End of Eternity was published, but much of it reads like it was written by a much younger man – even though he didn’t even start it until 1953.

The invention of time travel has led to the creation of Eternity, a series of stations outside of time, with access to every year from their creation to the distant future, which are staffed by an all-male (for reasons that probably were unexceptional in the 1950s) corps who make carefully calculated changes to history in order to prevent future rough patches.

One such staff member, a Technician, Andrew Harlan, born in the 95th Century, despite the resolutely 20th Century US name, falls in love with a young woman from the 575th Century, and jeopardises his career, and Eternity, in order to have a relationship with her. This also includes jeopardising the plan in which he is unwittingly instrumental – sending a technician back to the 24th Century to invent time travel. No time travel, no Eternity, no Andrew Harlan, no nookie.

Everything goes entirely as expected, even the plot twists. The prose is anodyne and the level of invention low – one mission involves sabotaging a clutch on a vehicle in the 223rd century because of course they would still have cars with gearboxes 20,000 years from now; although I was… bemused by “her long legs shimmered in faintly luminescent foamite”, which is a really tone-deaf neologism and likely doesn’t evoke the image Asimov intended.

The End of Eternity lost the Hugo to Heinlein’s Double Star (1955, USA), although Leigh Brackett’s The Long Tomorrow (1955, USA) would have been a better winner.


by 1 Comment

The Stars Undying, Emery Robin

(This is another review I posted to Facebook before I unshuttered this blog.)

The blurb and publicity for The Stars Undying (2022, USA) make a lot of the fact it’s Cleopatra in Spaaaace. Or rather, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra; followed by Mark Antony and Cleopatra. In a space opera setting. But subtly changed so it’s not obvious– No, of course it’s not subtle. The book makes a nine-course banquet of its inspiration. Which is no bad thing, and not uncommon in science fiction, from Asimov butchering Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776-1789, UK) and calling it Foundation (1951, USA), Blish doing the same to Spengler with his Cities in Flight (1955-1962, USA; see my review here) quartet, and, more recently and more pertinently, Kate Elliott space-operaficating Alexander the Great in Unconquerable Sun (2020, USA)…

In The Stars Undying, “Alexander the Great” dies but his memories are uploaded into an AI, and that becomes Alekso Undying, a god, and advisor to the rulers, of the people of Szayet, the latest queen of which is AltaGracia (Gracia). Gracia’s sister seized power after the death of their father, but Gracia won it back. With the help of Ceirran, the commander of the Ceiao military, and de facto ruler of the Ceiao empire. The two fall in love. Gracia follows Ceirran back to Ceiao (too many goddamn vowels), where she either charms or disgusts the locals. Because Ceiao is atheist, does not like the concept of Alekso Undying, and is a bit iffy with the idea of Ceirran, Gracia’s lover, controlling everything anyway. Gracia offers Ceirran immortality in the same form as Alekso – an AI running on uploaded memories in a “pearl” (a magical supercomputer substrate type thing), but this eventually proves Ceirran’s undoing. Et tu, Brute, and all that.

Unfortunately, Robin seems to have no sense of scale, and there’s no real sense the story is set in an interstellar empire. Cities are treated as if they’re worlds. Distances are farcical – 24,000 light years to fetch some cheese, as one memorable sentence mentions. Ceirran’s campaign, to conquer a distant world, doesn’t depart until the river that runs by the capital of the Ceiao, also called Ceiao, thaws. They’re going to another planet, what does the local weather matter?

It matters because this is a story told in a limited geographic area – southern Europe and North Africa – and all events and actions are predicated on that. It’s supposed to be a space opera, set in a galaxy, with thousands of planetary systems and worlds. And yet every place mentioned reads like it’s no further away from Rome than southern Spain or northern France.

It doesn’t help that Robin’s inspirations are so thinly-disguised, so it’s ridiculously easy to guess who is who, and what will happen. Admittedly, my knowledge of the period is limited to reading Robert Harris’s excellent trilogy about Cicero (yes, he’s there in The Stars Undying), but even so I had no problem identifying the people involved. From my reading, I also thought Robin’s characterisation of Caesar was far too kind. I know nothing about Cleopatra, and am more than willing to take her, er, take on Cleopatra. But, seriously, Caesar was not a nice guy, and Robin makes him into a romantic hero.

She also gender-flips Mark Antony, which arguably makes him more interesting than his inspiration. But does make her seem a little like, well, Starbuck from BSG (the reboot, of course).

The Stars Undying could have been an interesting space opera, but I think Robin made too many bad creative decisions. The sense of scale makes no sense, and actually detracts from the story. The worldbuilding is good in places, but poor in others (there’s no sense the book’s setting is interstellar). A big thing is made of Gracia lying about how she came to power, but when she reveals the truth it’s frankly hard to care.

An interesting idea, implemented in a way that undermines its source material and its purported setting. I won’t be reading the sequel.


by 2 Comments

Time Out of Joint, Philip K Dick

I’ve never really understood why Dick’s novels are held in such high regard. He appears multiple times in the SF Masterworks series, more so than any other author. To me, his novels seem slapdash, written at speed and with very little idea of what they were supposed to be about. Some of his short fiction is excellent: ‘A Little Something for Us Tempunauts’ has been a favourite sf story for many years. But his novels – well, the only reason I’m reading them is because they’re in the SF Masterworks series, and once I’ve read those I’ll likely never go near a novel by him again.

Time Out of Joint (1959, USA) is a Wizard of Oz story, specifically the bit where Dorothy pulls away the curtain and reveals the truth about the Wizard. And, as in that situation, the truth behind the story of Time Out of Joint proves disappointing. Ragle Gumm is a WWII veteran in a small midwest town in the 1950s. Each day, he submits an answer to a newspaper competition, Where Will the Green Man Land Next. He spends the day researching, then fills in his answer on a map grid, and submits it by post. He always wins. He’s become something of a celebrity because of his winning streak.

But something weird is going on in the town. Gumm’s brother-in-law (he lives with his sister, her husband and their son) has a vivid memory of entering the bathroom and pulling a light-cord – but their bathroom has no light-cord. Gumm himself has memories of things that never happened. The son builds a crystal radio set, and they pick up weird conversations. In the Ruins, a derelict section of town, Gumm finds some magazines which feature celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe – they know she’s a film star, but on the other hand they’ve never heard of her.

Gumm’s world is beginning to unravel – a common Dickian trope. He plots an escape, but is brought back with his memory of his escape erased. So he tries a second time, this time with the help of his brother-in-law. They steal one of the trucks that delivers produce to the brother-in-law’s supermarket. And they make it out into the wider world…

It’s not the 1950s, it’s the 1990s. And Earth is at war with a small colony on the Moon. Gumm has a talent for predicting the targets of the nuclear missiles from the Moon. But he had a breakdown, so they created an artificial 1950s town, erased his memory, and use the competition as a cover for his predictions.

And, er, that’s it.

Gumm’s breakdown was triggered by a defection to the Moon’s side and a desire to emigrate. Once he uncovers the truth about himself and the competition, he contacts the “lunatics” in order to join them.

The first half of the book is the sort of stuff Dick does really well. All is not as it seems, but is it the protagonist or the world that is wrong? Dick keeps the details light, and focuses on a handful of characters and locales – which makes you wonder what’s happening in the rest of the town. His 1998 is less convincing. There is a world state called One Happy World, and people talk a particularly tin-eared creole. Time Out of Joint then jumps straight into exposition, and ends on a hopeful note.

Time Out of Joint was No 55 in the original SF Masterworks series, the tenth book of fourteen by Dick in the 73 books of the series. No other author appears as often. Personally, I’d keep No 20 A Scanner Darkly (1977, USA) and No 73 The Man in the High Castle (1962, USA), but ditch the rest. 

But then there are plenty of other books in the original SF Masterworks series I don’t think belong in it.


by 2 Comments

A World Out of Time, Larry Niven

I’m still not entirely sure why I’m continuing to read, or reread, Niven’s novels. He was never a favourite of mine when I was reading science fiction back in the early 1980s, although Ringworld (1970, USA) does continue to hold some fascination. A World Out of Time (1976, USA), which is not part of Niven’s Known Space universe, was a reread – at least, I used to own a copy of the book (the 1982 Futura edition with the Peter Andrew Jones cover art) and I’m pretty sure I read it… But reading the book this year, none of it was familiar. And I’m usually pretty good at remembering books I’ve read, no matter how long ago.

Anyway, A World Out of Time is a Larry Niven novel. Corbell is dying of cancer, so he has himself frozen. And wakes in 2190, in the body of another man. Criminals in the worldwide State of 2190 have their personalities wiped. And the personalities of people who had themselves frozen in earlier centuries are then decanted into the criminals’ bodies (the process destroys the frozen body). The State which runs the world is mostly fascist, although Niven wants to present it as near-utopian. But people such as Corbell are considered less than human, and are employed in the sort of professions that would otherwise be occupied by slaves and, well, inmates in present-day US corporate-run prisons.

Corbell seems best-suited to become the pilot of a “rammer”, which is a single-person Bussard ramjet-powered spaceship which carries “biological package probes” used to terraform planets that are almost Earth-like. He is trained in his new role by being injected with RNA (not how it works, but never mind). Eventually, he is launched in his ship on a mission planned to take some 200 years at near lightspeed, returning him to Earth 300 years later. He’d spend most of the trip in cold sleep. But Corbell rebels, and aims his spaceship at the galactic core, intending to return to Earth 70,000 years later (not how it works, but never mind).

He judges it likely the State will still exist 70,000 years in the future, because it is a “water empire” but has no external enemies to bring it down (not how it works, but never mind; in fact, the concept of water empires has long since been debunked). Unfortunately, his watchdog back on Earth manages to upload his personality into the spaceship’s computer and it sabotages Corbell’s plan. So Corbell actually returns to Earth three millions years after he left.

Unsurprisingly, a lot has changed since 2190. Not least of which is that the Sun is now a red giant (which it won’t be three million years from now), and Earth has been moved into orbit about Jupiter. The State has long since vanished – eventually brought low by its own colonies. The secret of immortality was discovered, but only a select few, the Dictator class, were privy to it. But then an alternative process arrested development at the age of eleven, resulting in warring civilisations of immortal Boys and Girls.

On landing on Earth, which is now mostly inhospitable desert, Corbell is taken prisoner by the pilot of a Bussard ramjet spaceship who left centuries after him, and returned millennia before him. She had been kept in a “zero-time prison”, but later escaped. She is now old, but repeatedly mentions how beautiful she used to be (you can probably guess where that leads). She wants the secret of immortality for herself. Corbell escapes, and flees to Antarctica, which is temperate, and where some surviving Boys live in the ruins of one of their cities.

Nothing in A World Out of Time is even remotely believable, even for a science fiction novel. The trip through the galactic core manages to make a hash of everything from cosmology to physics. The Earth of three million years hence is just far too familiar – cars might fly, but cities have subways (and matter transmission booths, huh) and hospitals and police stations. The characterisation of the female antagonist is mostly offensive; Niven struggles to show the Boys are as super-intelligent as he tells us they are. The politics are everything you would expect of a white American male author who lives a life of unearned wealth and privilege.

A World Out of Time is actually a fix-up of three earlier stories, and the State apparently makes an appearance in two later novels, The Integral Trees (1984, USA) and The Smoke Ring (1987, USA).