Wings Over the Pyre

06:54 am - Angels of Man

Thanks to some discussion on various blogs about the relative rarity of conservative SF and SF writers, I chased a link to the free copy of Fallen Angels by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle & Michael Flynn.

High over the northern hemisphere the scoopship's hull began to sing. The cabin was a sounding box for vibrations far below the threshold of hearing. Alex MacLeod could feel his bones singing in sympathy.

Piranha was kissing high atmosphere.

Planet Earth was shrouded in pearl white. There was no break anywhere. There were mountain ranges of fluff, looming cliffs, vast plains that stretched to a far distant convex horizon, a cloud cover that looked firm enough to walk on. An illusion; a geography of vapors as insubstantial as the dreams of youth. If he were to set foot upon them . . . The clouds did not float in free fall, as was proper, but in an acceleration frame that could hurl the scoopship headlong into an enormous ball of rock and iron and smash it like any dream.

Falling, they called it.

Yes, I'm a late-comer to the book. The geeks in the audience probably know why, the fen certainly do, and the rest of you should probably read it, anyway.

Current Mood: tired