BOOK REVIEWS

1998, Part H: September

1998, Christian Sauvé

September isn't only my birthday month; it's also the get-back-to-work month! Here's what I read during September 1998:

Other books, shorter reviews: Degree of Guilt (Richard North Patterson), Black Wine (Candas Jane Dorsey), SeinLanguage (Jerry Seinfeld), Angle of Attack (Bonnie MacDougal), A Thousand Words for Stranger (Julie Czerneda), Twice Seven, (Ben Bova) and Gypsies (Robert Charles Wilson).

 

 

Antarctica
Kim Stanley Robinson

Bantam, 1998, 511 pages, 34.95 $ Can., ISBN 0-553-10063-7

Kim Stanley Robinson has done it again.

If you loved the Mars trilogy, you will like Antarctica. If you thought Robinson paid too much attention to detail in his trilogy, you will feel the same way with Antarctica. If you liked the political theory in all Mars books, there more of it in Antarctica. If you like his newly-matured stylistic techniques exhibited in the martian trilogy, rest assured that he's doing much of the same thing here. In short, Antarctica is one of the most obvious follow-up possible to the Mars trilogy. Fans as well as non-fans will find what they expect here.

Antarctica is a cold, vast, lonely place. One of this planet's last frontiers (it was only explored at the beginning of this century), it remains, even today, quite mysterious. Far from being a vast plain of eternal ice, Antarctica proves itself a varied, fascinating continent.

In his latest novel, Kim Stanley Robinson tells us about the Antarctica. It's a book best compared to lengthy travelogues written by explorers: Not much of a plot, but a wealth of details.

In 1995, Robinson went to Antarctica courtesy of the National Science Foundation, as part of the U.S. Antarctic Program's Artists and Writer's Programs. It obviously shows. Whatever tax dollars were spent in order for Mr. Robinson to spend some time down under, they were well-invested. The resulting book is a solid testimony of the beauty of the continent.

Even though it's marketed under the mainstream Bantam logo (not the Bantam Spectra SF imprint), Antarctica is straight science-fiction. Not only because it takes place sometime in the early twenty-first century but mostly because it espouses and deals with the themes dearest to SF: the nature of scientific change, the effect of technology on humans and the environment. It's as if Robinson applies the talent he has sharpened in SF to a problem that's almost contemporary. The result is awe-inspiring.

Antarctica contains some technological gadgets, some sociological innovations but many digressions about the history of Antarctica and the human presence on this decidedly difficult continent. Robinson effectively creates and sustain a mystique about Antarctica through historical digressions and carefully selected vignettes. We're not there, but we get the sights without the frostbite.

Characters are well-handled. Although the usual "visitor" character is kept suitably under-developed (a must if he is to be the reader's fictional surrogate), the two other main protagonist are well-sketched, and elicit our sympathy. The assortment of secondary characters is also developed with great care. There are no outright villains, Antarctica being formidable enough as opponent.

The fiction content of the novel is less impressive. The story doesn't revv up until half the book has passed, and then mostly resolves itself in barely more than 150 pages, leaving characters around for almost another hundred pages. This is where fans and non-fans of Robinson will diverge opinions: Fans simply don't care because they like what they're reading anyway while non fans won't care because, effectively, they don't care. Caveat lector, or so to speak.

Antarctica is a good follow-up to the Mars trilogy. Of exceptionally worthy docu-fictive value, it will please those who like this kind of stuff. Robinson really makes Antarctica come alive in his novel. Well-written if thin plot-wise, it's nevertheless one dense, satisfying read. Try not to miss it.

 

 

Flying to Valhalla
Charles Pellegrino

Avonova, 1993, 337 pages, 5.99$Can, ISBN 0-380-71881-2

Charles Pellegrino has lived an interesting life. The full-page author blurb informs us that he's been involved with astronomy, palaeontology, archaeology, the Titanic, the Valkyrie antimatter rocket, the concept of cloning dinosaurs from mosquitoes stuck in amber, composite materials, high-speed global maglevs and a few nuclear devices. Yikes.

With Flying to Valhalla, he now turns his formidable imagination to hard Science-Fiction, complete with a forty-page scientific addendum.

(It's at this point that the liberal-arts crowd roll their eyes and quietly go away. I'll be talking to those who will stay.)

Yessir, Flying to Valhalla is pure, undiluted, ultra-hard Science Fiction. No substitutes, no wishy-washy fuzzy concept straight out of media SF, no fancy prose. No fancy characters, and no gripping plot either, but we'll get to that.

In the same vein than Robert L. Forward and John Cramer, Pellegrino is a working scientist with bursting ideas who finds in SF an ideal medium of expression. So who cares if his characters are cardboard and the plot's free of any suspense? Pellegrino is constructing the basis of tomorrow's SF: lesser authors will mine this book for years to come.

What's in Flying to Valhalla? A lot of stuff.

The Chronology begins with "First Contact: 33,552,442 B.C." and ends with "Effective end of Earth: A.D. 2076". The book continues with Pellegrino, Powel and Asimov's Three Laws of Alien Behaviour:

  1. Their survival will be more important that our survival,
  2. Wimps don't become top dog and
  3. They will assume that the first two laws apply to us.

No Star Trek goody-humanist doctrine, here. You already want to read the novel? Good, because this stuff is still all in the introduction.

Before the novel's over, you'll read about antimatter rockets, space disasters, alien civilizations, theories of cosmogony, near-c insanity (or lucidity), relativistic bombs, galactic predators, electronic civilizations, sun-driven antimatter factories, lunar colonization and so much more!

It's redundant to say that Flying to Valhalla is a novel of ideas. It's also redundant to say that hard-SF fans will devour it with glee while everyone else will look on in incomprehension. So let's do the only decent thing and point out that if you're looking for good hard-SF, Flying to Valhalla, and Pellegrino, are good buys.

 

(The most fascinating thing about Flying to Valhalla is the concept of relativistic bombs. Accelerate relatively small objects to near-lightspeed velocities and let them smash in something -say, a planet- you want destroyed. There is almost no warning due to the near-c speed, and the impact is such that destruction is total. There is no real theoretical obstacle to this: just do the math. Now imagine that other civilisations in the galaxy that have the power required to send these relativistic bombs.

This is where hard-SF shines: It anticipates a problem that has very real foundations years -possibly *centuries*- before everyone else. Flying to Valhalla also instill a deliciously real sense of paranoia: What if our TV signals are, at this very moment, reaching a civilization that doesn't want any competitor...?

Sweet dreams.)

 

 

The Scariest Place on Earth: Eye to Eye with Hurricanes
David E. Fisher

Random House, 1994, 250 pages, 32.00 $ Can., ISBN 0-679-42775-9

In August 1998, CNN's web site conducted an online poll about which natural disaster would be the worst to face personally. Upon viewing the results (topped by "Volcanic Eruption"), a co-worker commented that the danger of hurricanes is always severely underestimated.

Which can be understood: From an uninformed point of view, hurricanes are just big storms. What's a few more centimetres of rain and faster winds? Our buildings can tolerate big storms; what's the deal with hurricanes? If anything, wouldn't it be fun to go through a hurricanes, having a good party indoor while it's raining outside?

The difference is that hurricanes are not just "big storms." 200 kph winds can drive a two by four plank straight into a tree trunk. The waves whipped up by hurricanes are called "storm surges": They can rise over five meters and sweep coastal areas, destroying everything in their passages up to several kilometres inland.

David E. Fisher explains all of this and much more in The Scariest Place on Earth. It's not only a witty, readable account of the mechanism of a hurricane (a far more complex process than what could be expected) but also a collection of historical anecdotes about the terrifying power of hurricanes.

Part of what gives The Scariest Place on Earth its power is the first-hand testimony of Fisher, who lived through Andrew, the 1992 hurricane that devastated a part of South Florida. Fisher lives in Miami; Andrew passed in his neighbourhood. Chapter by chapter, he describes the initial signals, the growing alarm, the hasty preparations, the unwavering disbelief, the terrifying power of the storm itself, and then the devastation afterward. It's incredible storytelling.

But Fisher is a scientist by formation, and The Scariest Place on Earth has for mission to be the ultimate layman book on hurricanes. For the most part, it succeeds. After a historical overview of our growing understanding of this natural phenomena, he spends a lot of time explaining how and why hurricanes form. It's time well spent; despite the many interacting factors, you will understand hurricanes after this book. Fisher writes clearly, concisely and not without humour. The chapter explaining the origins of hurricanes ("Out of Nowhere") is nothing short of a textbook example on how to write scientific non-fiction.

Fisher also discusses the effort that have been made to control hurricanes, and the grim prospects of more powerful hurricanes caused by global warming. In the end, he does manages to convince the reader that truly, there is no scarier place on Earth than in the path of an oncoming hurricane.

It almost seems ungrateful to criticise such a good account, but despite an excellent bibliography and complete notes on sources, The Scariest Place on Earth lacks an index. It's a serious flaw, especially if you plan to use this book as a reference work.

Despite this significant shortcoming, The Scariest Place on Earth is an effective, poignant popular science book. It's fascinating, easy reading and has a place on the bookshelf of any serious nonfiction reader. As for me, I no longer confuse hurricanes with "big storms."

 

 

The Probability Broach
L. Neil Smith

Tor, 1996 rewrite of 1980 original, 305 p., 7.99$Can., ISBN 0-812-53875-7

Reviewing The Probability Broach is going to be impossible to do without talking politics. (Some readers may wish to leave at this point)

The reason is simple: L. Neil Smith has been a Libertarian for (says the blurb) more than thirty years and this novel espouses his chosen political views perfectly. The Probability Broach is one of the purest, hardest political propaganda SF I've read in a long while.

Which does not mean that the novel sucks. I know, I know: You would expect novels-with-a-message to be stuffy, boring and insufferably didactical. While The Probability Broach does have its slow moments, it usually charges ahead with the readability usually associated with Heinlein. Edward Bear is a policeman in an alternate America where economic decline is so evident that private corporations are slowly being annexed by the government, cities are in full-scale decay, corruption is omnipresent and air-conditioning equipment is illegal. Your basic dystopian scenario.

Through a freak series of circumstances following his investigation of a strange murder, Bear finds himself transported in another dimension where everyone wears weaponry, but also where the standard of living is immeasurably higher than even our own Earth. What's more, this is a completely libertarian America: There isn't much of a central authority but everyone seems to get along quite well.

A fertile ground for political propaganda? Of course. Smith spends most of The Probability Broach explaining how (well) his anarcho-capitalist system works. All his characters are unusually well-articulated, and like the best Heinleinian characters, they speak as if any other opinion is obviously, laughably wrong.

From the above, I wouldn't expect a good novel and yet, I was fascinated by Smith's utopia. Despite thinking that Libertarianism is really inappropriate, I felt that Smith's world was an interesting place.

Up to a certain point, then, The Probability Broach is convincing. But even if it would not have been, the truckloads of ideas brought forward by the novel are enough to make this a must-read for anyone even remotely concerned with innovation. (The Libertarian Congress session, in particular, is a hoot.) In a sense, I'm grateful that Smith vulgarized the ideals of the Libertarian movements to make them accessible to a wider readership. Mixing gritty murder mystery with a classic science-fiction approach to exhibit political ideas is a great idea. The characters are fun, again in a Heinleinian everyone-is-ultra-competent way. Female characters are well-handled, even though they too suffer -benefit?- from the Heinleinian beautiful-and-smart-and-tough stereotype. Despite the original publication date (1983), the novel doesn't feel dated, though some seventies-era gadgets (talking chimps and dolphins, environmental concerns) add a charming eeriness to the whole.

I had fun going through The Probability Broach. Few novels read recently even approach it in term of pure readability. There might not be much of a plot, but the whole book is pure delight anyway. Of course, people with low tolerance for sermonning might disagree, but they're probably not the kind of people who enjoyed Heinlein's novels either.

Even if you do not consider yourself a political theorist, a libertarian or an anarcho-capitalist, I'd recommend The Probability Broach. I found in it most of what initially attracted me to SF: Strange, new ideas worth evaluating, crystal-clear prose, strong readability and a happy ending. Preachy, sure, but that's part of the fun.

(For the record, I consider myself a complete centrist in political terms. This, of course, is easier to achieve in Canada than in the USA. Even though I tend to consider politics as a spectator sport, I respect the idea of democracy too much not to vote, but am too cynical to vote for any of the major parties. While writing the above review, it dawned on me that I had voted Libertarian during the last federal election!)

 

 

Rude Astronauts
Allen Steele

Ace, 1995, 263 p., 6.50 $ Can., ISBN 0-441-00184-X

As a self-proclaimed Hard-Science-Fiction fan, it seemed a bit strange that I came to discover Allen Steele only recently, several novels after his debut in the SF field. But I'm finally catching up, and read A King of Infinite Space last spring. While that novel suffered from a cheapening conclusion, the remainder of the narrative was so good as to encourage me to read other material by Steele.

Which brings us to Rude Astronauts, Steele's first collection of short stories. Ten stories, five short science non-fiction articles. Not even a dollop of fantasy in sight.

A collection always offer a good portrait of an author's common themes and approaches. If nothing else, Rude Astronauts convinced me that Steele was an author worth reading. Steele obviously knows his science stuff: The technical details are impeccable, the science is integral to the stories and the attitude is quintessential hard-SF. Furthermore, Steele writes with a style that's both journalistic-clear and with a potent stylistic kick. The Diamondback Jack's story trilogy, in particular, represents Steele at his best.

The fun thing is that Steele writes hard-SF but, contrarily to other practicers of the art, knows the real world. His stories are not about the scientists who think about stuff, but about the mechanics, the technicians, the grunts who take the scientists's plans and make them into tangible reality. This working-class perspective is unique and refreshing.

Rude Astronauts is divided in three parts. The first, Near Space, is easily the best: Pure hard-SF, with a perspective far removed from the usual squeaky-clean portrayal of space exploration. Here, stories about beer in space, retired astronauts, work-caused deaths in space and Martian music. There's the Diamondback Jack's story trilogy, a series of tall tales heard (where else?) in Diamondback Jack's, a rough bar catering to the Cape Canaveral blue-collar crowd. They make interesting companions to Spider Robinson's fudgy-goody Callahan's sequence.

The second part is Alternate Space, two stories about an alternate history where the Americans and Nazis first competed for space exploration and humans landed on Mars in 1974. Both stories are told in an appropriate pseudo-historical-journalistic style. "Goddard's people" will probably make more sense with people already familiar with wartime american scientists, but "John Harper Wilson" is a good tale of... well, why spoil it?

The third part is not quite as hard-SF. It's called "Contemporary Space" and presents, quite appropriately, contemporary tales. One, "Hapwood's Hoax" is a clever examination of the uneasy relationship between SF and the lunatic UFO fringe. Some will see it as a retelling of Scientology; I just consider it a pretty good yarn. "Winter Scenes of the Cold War" is a run-of-the-mill techno-thriller about spies and advanced technology. "Trembling Earth" is a thriller in the vein of Jurassic Park, but nastier, and with a lovely kicker that catches you by surprise.

Interestingly, "Live from the Mars Hotel", "Hapgood's Hoax", "Winter Scenes of the Cold War" and "Trembling Earth" all share a common storytelling structure, which is of either a series of interview of people connected to events, or the "official" version of events (usually during a testimony) intercut with what "really" happened. Coupled with the Diamondback Jack's trilogy and the pseudo-journalistic approach to the Alternate Space stories, it makes a slightly repetitive effect when read back-to-back like this.

But even then, Rude Astronauts is a good collection. Easily readable, well-written, in the mould of the best classical hard-SF but with a modern varnish of its own, it's the kind of short fiction that I'll read again with pleasure.

 

 

Expendable
James Alan Gardner

Avonova, 1997, 337 pages, 7.99$ Can., ISBN 0-380-79439-X

Being a faintly patriotic Canadian reader (born and working in Ottawa, no less!) I usually feel almost duty-bound to report favourably on the Canadian SF that I read. While Expendable isn't bad, it does have enough deficiencies to make one wonder.

National borders aside, James Alan Gardner is a hot new author. In two years, he has published two novels (Expendables and 1998's Commitment Hour) and a few stories, winning the 1998 Aurora Award for "Three Hearings on the Existence of Snakes in the Human Bloodstream". He seems to be poised to become as big a success as that "other" Canadian author, Robert J. Sawyer.

But like in Sawyer's novels, the good mixes in the eek! in Expendables, with uneven results.

Festina Ramos would be a babelicious chick if it wasn't for the ugly wine-red birthmark covering half her face. Not living in a particularly forgiving society, she's drafted into the exploration corps as an "expendable" contact specialist because... hey... she's ugly.

No kidding. First pages. Is this an excuse, a bit of window-dressing, a portent of deeper reasons? No! Though we wish otherwise, ugly makes you a perfect candidate for high-risk job: "In a society where people expect to ease confortably out of this world at a ripe old age, the thought of anyone being killed is deeply disturbing unless... the person who dies is different. [...] If the victim was not so popular, not so well-liked and above all, ugly... well, bad things happen, but we all have to carry on." [Page Three] Right, mate. Explains today's army, right?

Take a big pill of Disbelief Suspension, and call me back in the morning. Forget about the implication of such a society, or the various alternate methods by which this could be implemented. This is the make-or-break premise. Take it or leave the book.

Those who choose to remain with the book shouldn't regret their decision. The tale of Festina's exploits is told reasonably well. The narration is suitably sarcastic -it helps covering up the logical flaws- and the portrayal of a goof tough female heroine is always welcome. Despite many dead moments and a few suspicious scenes (as well as improbable gadgets we sense included just-for-cool), Expendable is a well-crafted SF adventure. Unlike other writers who like to present a clear-cut, rigidly straight vision of the future, Gardner puts a lot of texture, details and off-hand trivia in his prose. The result that even given the ludicrousness of the situation, it has a kind of weird legitimacy as long as one doesn't think about it too much.

Other aspects of the book, like the over-the-top fiendish plan, are unfortunately head-scratchers when objectively considered outside the self-assigned scope of the novel. Much like a villain who acts in an evil manner for no other reasons that, heck, he's a bad guy!

As with most other "planet mysteries", the initial troubling setup works better than the actual revelation of the mystery. Unlikely coincidences abound, like the presence of a gallery of Festina's friends later in the story.

Sometimes interesting, sometimes discouraging, Expendables is likely to please some and discourage others. It shows, mostly, the promise of James Alan Gardner as an author... especially if he can restrain his initial situations and tighten up his plotting. In the meantime, let's see what else he'll write next.

 

 

QUICK REVIEWS

Some more interesting books:

Degree of Guilt (Richard North Patterson) reminded me once again of the strengths of written crime fiction: Characters and intricate plots. In this case, it might not be terribly plausible to set up one celebrity killing another and being defended by an ex-lover, but it sets up interesting situations. This is one novel when you're rooting for the lawyer, but not the client. The strength of the plot comes in large part from the out-of-courtroom life of the characters. I presume that the "earlier" relationship between the protagonists is all described in Patterson's previous The Lasko Tangent. If so, it's an interesting aftermath for the standard "two lovers triumph over a conspiracy" plot. Characters are very well-defined, style is brisk, plot is intricate: excellent beach reading.

There is a marvellous moment halfway in Black Wine (Candas Jane Dorsey) where character identities are revealed, everything seems to crystallize and we finally think that what has up to then being a fairly boring feminist novel is worth reading. Sadly, the excitement of the revelations soon subside, and we're left with an average feminist "SF" novel, with the expected sex (a lot of it), tangled relationships (a lot of them), fuzzy world-building (airships, lasers and forklifts, but no communication network...?) and fine prose that doesn't seem to lead anywhere. (more than a lot of it.) I'm fully aware that I'm far from being the target audience for Black Wine, but the novel has completely failed to raise more than a temporary interest in me. (Though it did win the Aurora award)

You're enjoyed the series, now read the monologues: SeinLanguage (Jerry Seinfeld) is a compilation of short paragraphs much like the stand-up bits of the first few seasons of "Seinfeld". Fans will love it, but even non-fans should find something funny in here. Readable in slightly more than 30 minutes, this is a book best bought really cheap, or borrowed from the library. You can take quotes out of this book for years to come.

Angle of Impact (Bonnie MacDougal) is the kind of perfectly unremarkable, average thriller that's a lot of fun but also won't remain in your mind for long. The setup is ludicrous: A lawyer talks on a cell phone to a co-worker in an helicopter when suddenly, the helicopter crashes with a small plane in mid-air, falling on a rollercoaster track in the middle of an amusement park where the lawyer's two daughters are playing. If that wasn't enough, let's just say that... oh, why spoil the surprise? Some of the plotting (and a few scenes) are suspicious, and the conclusion is abrupt, but it's okay. Just okay. Presents an interesting glimpse in how large civil court cases are handled by big law-firms. A lot of technical details.

I just couldn't get into A Thousand Words for Stranger (Julie Czerneda), and this annoys me for several reasons. The first -and not the most trivial- is that Czerneda is a Canadian SF author, glimpsed a few times at Con*Cept convention. She made a favourable impression, and it really annoys me that I couldn't muster interest in her first novel. Part of the problem is that while A Thousand Words for Stranger is your run-of-the mill SF adventure (published by DAW, so no surprise there), the writing is so good that you've got the plot pushing you onward and the fine prose pulling you back. Add to that my increasing reluctance to get excited about Yet Another Amnesiac who's really A Really Powerful Person (in this case, member of a telepathic race). Oh well. I'll try her second novel.

Ben Bova's new collection, Twice Seven, stays true to the author's no-frills approach by presenting fourteen stories of, mostly, quasi-journalistic hard-SF. Not everything's of equal value, however, and if stories like the tragi-comedic "In Trust" and the wonderfully creepy "The Café Coup" are almost small classics, there's also boring material like "The Babe" (of interest only to baseball fanatics) and "Legendary Heroes" (sub-par fantasy). Other stories cancel themselves: "Conspiracy Theory" and "The Great Moon Hoax" essentially say the same thing so why include both? Many stories, like "Appointment in Sinai", "Life as we Know it" and "Risk Assessment" hamper their great premises with maudlin drama. Alternate histories, hard-SF and a smattering of other tales make this a satisfying, though not great collection. Much at the image of Bova's work itself.

Robert Charles Wilson is a science-fiction author who seldom deals with interesting ideas, far futures or fancy hardware. He prefers soft SF, usually focused on a few well-written characters stuck in strange situation. He explores stock ideas, but with a sensibility that has proven quite successful. Usually, this approaches works, but with Gypsies, for some reason, it doesn't snare the reader with the same power than his other novels. Part of it is that the central concept of a family of people able to shift from one alternate reality to another is handled much like contemporary fantasy. Another part of it is that it's difficult to identify with such characters. A final part of it may be that this reviewer wasn't quite in the mood for such a novel, quite a problem when dealing with Wilson's fiction.

A.J. Holt's Watch Me is a deceptive little thriller. It lures you in with a blurb that implies that you're going to read a cutting-edge technological crime story about a female hacker bringing down a serial killer. What it doesn't tell is the mean streak the hacker is willing to achieve and to accept in order to do so. This isn't a "comfortable" crime thriller where everything is black and white and unambiguous justice triumphs at the end. Expect to be squicked by a few moments -beware the Trekkie Serial Killer!-, even though plausibility isn't quite achieved. (The computer details, however, do appear better-than-average.) Not without a few deliberate similarities to The Silence of the Lambs, including the solid and readable prose.