James Nicoll Reviews

Alfred Bester’s 1980 Golem¹⁰⁰ is a stand-alone near-future science fiction novel.

In the vast, overpopulated, resourced-strapped squalid megalopolis of tomorrow known as the Northeast Corridor, eight bored rich women — the ​“beeladies” — entertain themselves with innocent Satanism. What possible harm could come from dabbling in forces beyond their pampered ken?

Subadar Adida Ind’dni, confronted with a series of grotesque murders, might be able offer insight into the matter.

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Alfred Bester’s 1956 The Stars My Destination is a standalone tale of REVENGE! And a change of heart. 

Psychic teleportation transformed society. The economic effects triggered war between the Inner Planets and the Outer Satellites. 

Gulliver Foyle survived the destruction of the interplanetary space craft Nomad only to spend six months trapped on the hulk. When finally another ship, the Vorga, came within rescue range, Foyle was quick to fire off distress signals. Inexplicably, the Vorga ignored the flares and continued on its way. 

Until this moment, Foyle had been an entirely unremarkable prole, uneducated, unmotivated, and destined to live and die in obscurity. Vorga​’s act gave Foyle the motivation he had previously lacked. Now he has goals: survive and make the crew of Vorga pay for leaving him in deep space. 

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The fact I own this book shows that my terrible memory, while often a bother, can sometimes work in my favour. I was aware of Bester as the author of two classic novels The Demolished Man, which I had read, and The Stars My Destination, which I had not read. Until I picked up this collection I had never knowingly read his short fiction. The only reason I bought this collection was because I had a vague memory of having read the title story and liking it. I thought there was a chance I would like the rest of his work just as well.

I soon realized that I was actually thinking of another story entirely, Mark Clifton’s ​“Star Bright”. (Clifton, author of the Hugo-award-winning novel They’d Rather Be Right, seems likely to be mentioned a lot in the next few days.) Clifton and Bester sold to some of the same markets, but the two authors were as unlike each other as chalk and cheese a cynical, witty drunk sneering at some kid’s bad taste. Of course, in the good old days of the1970s there wasn’t all that much SF being published. We didn’t abandon a book just because it turned out not to be the sort of book we expected. Fans of the 1970s weren’t delicate flowers who had to retreat to their languishing couches whenever confronted with novelty. 

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