Collection

A collection of short stories (see reviews below) published by Elastic Press, with an introduction by Alastair Reynolds. It includes the following stories:

The Turing Test
The Warrior Half-and-Half
Monsters
The Gates of Troy
The Perimeter
Valour
Snapshots of Apirania
Piccadilly Circus
Jazamine in the Green Wood
Dark Eden
We Could be Sisters
La Macchina
Karel's Prayer
The Marriage of Sky and Sea

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Reviews
Eric Brown, The Guardian
Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, The Fix
Charles Packer, Sci-Fi Online
Andrew Hedgcock, Interzone
Gareth D. Jones, SF Crowsnest
Colin Harvey, Strange Horizons

The Turning Test, a collection of fourteen stories by Chris Beckett, provides entertaining journeys into interstellar space and the distant past, excursions into the nature of AI, VR, and human identity, and even musings on alien art and theology. These stories were all originally published in Interzone and Asimov’s, and though there are no direct sequels, several feature the same characters and backdrops; this type of conceptual amplification is a strength of the collection, revealing new perspectives to complex problems and situations, often in delightfully complementary ways. The writing style, for the most part, is naturalistic, and the narrative voice transparent, with a few mild concessions to irony that serve to create a subtle cautionary overtone. The extrapolation is solid, and the characters are the most interesting constructs, sharply rendered, but the exposition sometimes gets in the way of establishing the full dramatic tension inherent in Beckett’s well-conceived plots. An entertaining introduction by Alastair Reynolds provides background on Beckett’s publishing history and writing influences, and though based on the technique on display, I’m not sure that these tales are a great example of “science fiction as a literary form,” yet I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend them to anyone interested in robust genre work.

Jessica is the narrating art dealer who, during the course of a particularly difficult day, encounters virtual Personal Assistant Ellie, software smart enough to pass “The Turing Test.” Jessica’s chosen branch of art involves human bodies in various stages of decomposition, a suitable metaphor and overlay to the alienation she experiences in this story—which on at least one level focuses on the troubles between her and her boyfriend, Jeffrey. The first-person voice is well-developed, sarcastic, and hurt but detached enough for insightful self-reflection. Jessica’s initial confession that her screen is her “secret” works in multiple ways, establishing the theme of her relationship woes, her own compulsive nature, and that which she may be afraid to confront within. The dystopian background (the road block as she travels through the “subscriber area,” for example) is also effective.

“The Warrior Half-and-Half” presents more than an annoying conundrum to the far-future society that has had him imprisoned in solitary confinement on the island of Gendlegap—for he appears to be immortal and indestructible, and therefore a clear violation of what should be scientifically possible. The first-person narrator, Major-Cardinal Illucian, is sent to the island to propose a deal with Half-and-Half, and it’s not difficult to anticipate that there will be an unexpected outcome. Most of the fun of this tale lies in the combination of science and fantasy, the origin story and purported neutrality of the sardonic, world-weary Half-and-Half, and the dramatic confrontation of ideals with Illucian, as well as the repudiation of Illucian’s skepticism. The imagery is both mythical and technological, and the pacing suspenseful. The ending raises interesting questions about the true nature of victory, and the story’s scope and point of view make it feel like a fable; as such, it proves to be a sophisticated effort.

In “Monsters,” Mr. Clancy from the central Metropolis pays a visit to the outer colony Flain, comprised mostly of artists. Clancy, however, who writes books on his travel experiences, is not as interested in Flain’s art as much as he is in the famous fire horses. Lady Henry, mother to the young poet William, attempts to repeal his interest in the fire horses, inviting him to a game of sky-ball between the Horsemen and the Rockets. After the game, Clancy spends more time with William, and a trip to the woods reveals a deep truth about William’s art. Clancy’s perception of events (he is more fully developed as a self-absorbed attention-seeker in a latter story, thus showing his perspective here to be skewed in retrospect) provides a few biting comments, particularly in his regard for self-declared artists. The characters, especially William, are vividly depicted, and the details of life on the colony, including the final revelation, are skillfully handled, but the irony never really translates into full-fledged satire, as it did in the similarly-titled and more deftly layered “The Monsters” by Robert Sheckley, published in 1953.

Alex and his friend, Hannibal, experience many things, including “The Gates of Troy,” during their golden summer vacation. The initial plan is for them to set off on the yacht of Alex’s dad, but this quiet time of travel and lounging is soon interrupted by the dad’s arrival by helicopter and his delivery of a temporal navigator, which he insists they use to visit the ancient past. And so they do, witnessing the pillaging of Troy; the experience reveals truths about Alex and Hannibal’s personalities that cannot be undone upon returning to the present day. For anyone who enjoys time-travel stories, this piece is highly recommended. Beckett does a fantastic job of bringing to life myriad brutal and smelly details about the myth-shrouded battle at Hisarlik, and the difference in reaction between Alex and Hannibal is evoked with the poignancy of tragedy. Also, earlier intimations of a greater bond between them, and its homoerotic implications, are presented without sensationalism or self-importance, truly in the service of character development. This further allows us to empathize with Alex by making his desire for connection and his tentative, experimental expression of said desire so explicitly manifest; it also creates a sense of resonance when placed in the historical context of Troy.

“The Perimeter” is one of two stories set in a future London where a Consensual Field of reality exists in superposition to quotidian physical reality. Lemmy Leonard makes this discovery when, in what will prove a reversal of Alice in Wonderland’s fall through the rabbit-hole, he follows a white hart through virtual neighborhoods and literally comes to London’s end. At first experiencing her as a disembodied voice, Lemmy encounters an old woman named Clarisa Fall (her last name may not be trivial when one considers this story’s vision of a depopulated London and how it got that way), and what she teaches him literally causes him to see existence in a whole new light. Clarissa and Lemmy make for engaging characters, but the story’s world-building steals the center stage with its intriguing, whimsical propositions (for instance, social class in the VR being defined by number of pixels and colors). However, I’m not sure I fully bought into the justification for the elaborate Consensual world (talk about extreme variants of environmental conservationism!) or all of its details—for instance, why do some sensory modalities overlap, but not all? There is a lot to tickle the brain here, but not all of it is new or particularly exciting.

In “Valour,” Victor, a young Englishman, encounters an elderly German philosopher called Gruber while on a flight. Gruber is not a dualist but a trialist, after the belief system of the recently discovered Cassiopeians. Victor spends time with his friends, Franz and Renate, in Berlin, moving in a world superficially not too far removed from our own and populated by “synthetik” air-hostesses, VR “phantasiums,” and genetically recreated mammoths. But a sense of unease both personal and political propels Victor to seek out Gruber and to probe into whatever he may have discovered in his analysis of the Cassiopeian’s interstellar signals. This story, framed as a character study rather than a typical conflict resolution, is outstanding. It captures the flavor of contemporary European youthful angst and sterilely repressed anomie and perfectly extrapolates it into the future, as reflected by Victor and his circle. The way in which one of the most momentous events in history, the discovery of extraterrestrial life, is relegated to tedious mundaneness feels at once inevitable and tragic. On the idea front, the Cassiopeian’s tertiary division of abstract principles, modes of being, and gender is smoothly integrated into Victor’s journey. His realization about the meaning of Valour, while not groundbreaking, serves as a powerful personal statement, and the final short scene is suitably chilling.

“Snapshots of Apirania” delivers exactly what its title promises, as the narrators provide a running commentary to an imaginary display of pictures capturing various moments and experiences on the titular planet. They expound on local flora and fauna, evolution, gender, their interactions with a set of twins called Karl and Kara, the adult couple Bunnoo and Thrompin, and much else. This story may be the most inventive piece in the collection, constructing a wholly alien society in plausible and comprehensive terms. The nuanced narrative flow, short of becoming a tedious run-through of facts and ideas, reveals as much about the tunnel vision of the narrators and human culture as it reveals about the exotic domain. Once again, a sense of ironic deflation permeates the proceedings: I was somewhat reminded by the tone and structure of Robert Silverberg’s 1972 story “When We Went to See the End of the World.”

Clarissa Fall is the protagonist this time, though not the narrator, and her desperate trip to “Piccadilly Circus” in search of the lights she remembers proves to be a tasking and complex affair. This story provides a lot more grounding for the Consensual world introduced in “Perimeter,” elaborating on the role and existence of Agents, and the degree of congruence between the consensual and physical levels of reality. Unfortunately, some of this slows down the pace, and the cleverness and ambition of the ideas don’t dovetail into the more traditional portrayal of Clarissa’s classical pathos as elegantly as one might hope. The setting and handling of a nearly deserted London is memorable, taking on an eerie, poetic voice all its own, but when that voice begins to resonate more than that of Clarissa or the narrator, one feels a dilution rather than a concentration of dramatic tension.

A young man living in a town dominated by women, in a world in which the disease TTX targets males, encounters a stranger who literally appears to drop out of the sky, searching for “Jazamine in the Green Wood.” The narrator’s mother is the Town Convenor, and perhaps because of this, he feels drawn towards the stranger, striking up conversation with him first at the Mother Church and then at the Men’s Pub. The more he learns about him, the more unreal the stranger seems, until he finally finds he must accept the stranger’s transitory passage through his life in more ways than one. As Reynolds points out in the introduction, the explicative mechanism for this “drifter” is just about “taken absolutely for granted by the characters,” which is part of the reason I find the story only partially successful. The inversion towards a female hierarchical power structure is adeptly conveyed, and the narrator’s conflict of impulse versus environment rings true (it brings to mind a similar theme explored in John Kessel’s “Lunar Quartet” stories in The Baum Plan for Financial Independence and Other Stories). However, the story’s conclusion suggests the importance of the stranger’s traveling abilities, the significance of his interaction with the protagonist’s reality. While this works on a symbolic level, the story’s success at drawing us into the social structure ironically pushes against our caring about the stranger’s plight (whom we see from the outside, and in whom we therefore have little emotional investment). Therefore, it is the ambivalence in the story’s emotional/character point of view, and the unsurprising acceptance by the world’s denizens of the drifter’s abilities, that structurally undermine it. Still, the dialogue is involving and the pacing swift enough to maintain our interest and provide at least partial insight.

Tommy Schneider and Angela Young are two crewmembers of the starship Defiant, whose fate it is to land on a “Dark Eden.” After a government communication informs the crew that their mission has been discontinued, they decide to take matters into their own hands and perform a series of leaps with their “gravitonic” engines. After arriving at an eerily inhabitable planet, serious and potentially irrevocable decisions must be made. From a technical point of view, this may be the collection’s best story, constructed as it is in the alternating first-person voices of the two leads. This rotating narrative approach allows Beckett to say much about the characters and their interactions whilst swiftly moving the plot forward; as a result, the balance between exposition and action is better served. Beckett also introduces a number of interesting elements to do with perception and expectations, and his multiple first-persons augment those themes. The final outcome also maintains plausibility and rewards the journey, veering neither towards the jarringly grotesque nor the predictably facile. This dark Eden is a radiant experience.

Affluence is pitted against destitution when art gallery owner Jessica has a chance encounter with a beggar that leads her to believe “We Could be Sisters.” Whether or not there is any real chance she and the beggar could be genetically related dictates subsequent events, but the story’s climax, wisely, does not coincide with the resolution to the question. Instead, Beckett once again makes use of the “drifter” motif and sidesteps the mechanisms of the characters meeting one another to focus on its emotional ramifications. The story’s final scene provides a memorable metaphor for alternate realities and at the same time eloquently comments on Jessica’s inner self. This story may not pack quite the philosophical punch of a story like Jorge Luis Borge’s “The Other,” but it is successful as a character study, one which makes use of parallel lives to illuminate its central purpose.

Tom and Freddie, brothers, spend a holiday in Florence, and this setting is perhaps the most interesting aspect—and character—in “La Macchina,” a story about humans and robots that, because of its backdrop, may feel less old-fashioned than it really is. While visiting the Accademia and looking at paintings, Tom is approached by an unusual robot, one who doesn’t acquiesce to his commands and clearly poses a danger. The robot gets away. After describing his interaction with the machine to Tom, a cybernetics expert, he follows his brother’s advice and reports it to the local authorities&mdashbut his journey of discovery is far from over. Problematic to delivering an emotional punch is the fact that both Tom and Freddie feel like generic characters to me. I never got a sense of their deeper motivations or goals, and Tom’s dream-crystallized insight felt like more like intellectual revelation than character change. Also, Freddie serves mostly as an expository mouthpiece (“So what is a Rogue exactly? Like a Robot that’s picked up a virus?” Freddie explains: “Not really. A virus is something deliberately…”) A scene describing Tom’s realization that the city is in fact occupied by different cities—“city of the Florentines, the city of the Eurotechs, the city of the tourists, the city of the displaced…”—that exist in the same space but hardly touch one another reminds us of the Consensual field and Beckett’s ongoing preoccupation with what we might call the “levels of reality.” This might define the most engaging element of this story.

“Karel’s Prayer” may be the only thing left to Karel after he awakens in what appears to be his hotel room to find himself the captive of two men, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Occam, who are just a little eager to extract certain information from him. Will Karel endure the torture or give in? I have to admit I didn’t develop the kind of attachment to Karel—or, on the other hand, the detached interest in the possibility of a devilishly clever plot at work—to care much either way. This story is only superficially SF, and many elements feel too familiar. In addition, the dialogue doesn’t show Beckett at his best (“I will hit you Mr. Slade if you don’t put your arms on the rests”), which is distracting and works against the urgency needed in these scenes. If there was any humorous intention, I missed it. The most intriguing aspects of this tale are the questions of identity and theologically justified ethics, but even these felt somewhat perfunctory.

The writer and traveler Clancy, who has built fame and fortune on selling his accounts of foreign lands and exotic experiences to his native Metropolis, discovers that “The Marriage of Sky and Sea” may hold more wonders than even he can capture. This tale presents his attempts to construct a narrative that will be faithful to his latest trip, one to a primitive and possibly idyllic planet, while at the same time recounting those experiences directly. But unlike the dozens of times he has followed the same process before, Clancy now struggles to provide a commercially viable work that will be snapped up by the masses. His difficulties supersede the ordinary art-versus-commerce polemic, delving far deeper into his psyche and his predicament. In a delightful twist, his creative process is brought to life by his dictation to Com, his artificial assistant. Beckett’s ambitious story works on all fronts, fully rendering a complex individual, intermingling past with present, commenting on tropes like the “stranger in a strange land” or the “noble savage,” but never reducing itself to them. It’s a superlative, unexpectedly lyrical story and the perfect choice for a final piece: the ideal marriage of idea and execution.

As a collection, The Turing Test should satisfy readers interested in well-plotted stories centered around interesting characters. A majority of the tales respect and explore the “classical” themes of and approaches to science fiction; they will probably not fulfill the expectations of readers seeking more boundary-pushing, genre-crossing speculative fiction. However, Beckett’s finely constructed short fictions are not as straightforward as they always appear, and taken as a whole, they create a kind of consensual field of possibility as rich as any VR, and in which one may lose oneself just as readily.

Reality is often a lot more tenuous than it initially seems. Safe behind our ‘I think, therefore I am’ barricades we comfort ourselves with uncertain certainties. But how do we really know the nature of internal and external reality, and what happens when our certainties start to erode? What is it that makes us human...?

The Turing Test is a fine collection of short stories by Chris Beckett, which examine the nature of reality and especially what it is that makes us human. Now that all sounds like it’s going to be a little on the heavy side and full of existential angst when in fact Beckett has produced fourteen stories, which, whilst they are thought provoking, are also immensely entertaining. These are stories with many possible layers. So, if you like spaceships and robots - a particular favourite of my own - then Beckett provides these in abundance, as well as deeply personal stories about the nature of humanity.

Like all good writers he produces a nice mix of ideas and characters, some of which he uses more than once. In The Turin Test, Jessica is an art dealer who mainly panders for those with a taste for flesh art. Arriving home one day she discovers that a colleague has allowed his holographic personal assistant to copy itself to Jessica’s computer. Faced with this new entity, in the form of Ellie, Jessica is disquieted by how much like a real person Ellie is. Feeling that Ellie may be self aware, Jessica distrusts this supposedly free software’s motives.

Although, initially paranoid about Ellie, the two turn up again in We Could be Sisters, where Jessica finds a duplicate of herself who is slipping through the dimensions using a drug. A drug which also brings another shifter to a world almost bereft of men in Jazamine in the Green Wood.

There is a dystopian feel to a lot of Beckett’s work. Jessica lives in a compartmentalised London where the impact of poverty has turned the county's capital into a patchwork of gated communities. This is possibly the precursor to the eventual Consensual Field depicted in The Perimeter and Piccadilly Circus, where the population have had their selves reduced to their most basic components so that they can live in a virtual reality London in order to escape the impact that the human race is having on the planet. Once again Beckett examines the nature of reality as the inhabitants of the Consensual Field have, for the most part, forgotten that they were once solid humans and view the few remaining humans, which encroach on their world, with derision and annoyance.

Clarrisa, the main protagonist of both stories, is a wonderfully rounded character. Initially, in The Perimeter, she is portrayed as slightly twisted as she spends her time introducing the Consensual’s inhabitants to the reality of their position. By the time of Piccadilly Circus this has turned into a loathing for their existence and self loathing for her own, making her a tragic figure.

Not all the stories are interlinked. Snapshots of Apirania is written as a travelogue of a trip to a distant planet. Here Beckett demonstrates humanities ability to take the wondrous and reduce it to the sort of mundane experience that most of us feel watching other peoples holiday snaps. The Warrior Half-and-Half proposes an immortal warrior, in its examination of the meaning and price of victory. Whereas Warrior is more fantasy, than science fiction, Dark Eden is an old style tale full of big space ships and the old Adam and Eve ending.

Two of my favourite stories, The Gates of Troy and La Macchina, show off Beckett’s writing at its best. Troy is a time travelling story about a rich kid, Alex, on holiday with his friend, Hannibal, whose father provides the three of them with a time machine to visit Troy. What could have been a shallow romp turns into a character study of the two friends different reaction to the pain and suffering that they witness. The brothers Tom and Fred in La Macchina mirror the relationship between Alex and Hannibal, with Tom providing the sympathetic voice of the story after he becomes troubled about the treatment given to robots that display sentience.

The entire book holds fourteen of Beckett’s short stories, with an introduction by Alastair Reynolds, and in truth they are all well worth reading.

Interzone readers will have already encountered many of the stories – 11 of the 14 were published in this magazine first – but Beckett’s worlds merit a return visit. Furthermore, the collection showcases the increasing sophistication and richness of his storytelling, and offers the enormous pleasure of an exploration of themes of shifting identities and conditional realities through an impressive range of sf and fantasy forms.

Chris Beckett made his first American appearances in 2004 with two stories in Asimov's and his debut novel, The Holy Machine, which was published by Wildside Press. Most readers who know of him are likely to associate Beckett with Interzone. Since 1990, he has appeared in the pages of that magazine more often than any other writer except Greg Egan, and has recently been featured in a special issue (#218).

That close association may be one of the reasons why—as Alastair Reynolds points out in his introduction—Beckett is perhaps not as well known as such contemporaries as John Meaney and Reynolds himself. (Even Stephen Baxter has only been writing for three years longer. But Baxter published his first novel in 1991, and first appeared in Asimov's a year later). Writers who write primarily short fiction for only one or two markets tend to obscurity until something—be it a change in fashion or a specific event—makes them an "overnight success." Carol Emshwiller is such an author. After almost forty years of writing for small press, non-genre venues, and literary SF venues like New Worlds and Orbit, in 2001-2 Emshwiller published a novel, a collection, a half-dozen shorts in F&SF and SciFiction—and won a Nebula award at her "first" attempt.

Perhaps the publication of Beckett's first collection, The Turing Test, will provide such a catalyst. It comprises fourteen short stories, from his second published story in early 1991 to his nineteenth in late 2006, providing a useful sampler to this most underrated of writer's careers. Omniverous readers of the Gardner Dozois and Hartwell/Cramer Year's Best series will recognize four of the stories included here.

There is astonishing diversity. In the most recent story, "Karel's Prayer," a hotel guest awakes to find himself in a Kafka-esque situation. He has effectively been vanished from society and is now at the mercy of security forces who appear to answer to no-one. In "The Gates of Troy" (2000), a time-traveller and his best friend learn the truth about the Trojan Horse in all its unpalatable reality. "Snapshots of Apironia" (2000) is an anthropological lecture disguised as a presentation of a couple's holiday snaps which shines a light obliquely on our own relationship with the 'developing' world. In "Valour" (1999), humanity has intercepted a transmission from Cassiopeans, 200 light years away. By the end of the story, Beckett has highlighted the folly of trying to decode alien messages when humanity can't even communicate among its own members.

But for all that diversity there is a web of connections between the various stories.

Most straightforwardly, there are two pairs of stories that share worlds. In "Piccadilly Circus" (2005) and its direct prequel "The Perimeter" (2004), humanity has been uploaded, but unlike many such stories, reality in the form of economics intrudes; with the drain on power that so many uploads causes there is a direct cost to the quality of the virtual representation, so that the poorest of the consensuals can only afford a low quality image, and the society is visibly stratified:

Lemmy and his friends were Dotlanders. They were low-res enough to have visible pixels and they only had 128 colours apiece, except for James that is, whose parents had middle-class aspirations, and had recently upgraded to 256. There were all low-res, and up in the West End they would have looked like cartoon characters—even James—but down in Grey Town they looked like princes, the objects of envy and hate (p. 66).

Clarissa Falls is the protagonist of both stories, one of the few last remaining physical human beings, or "Outsiders" or "spooks" as the consensuals prefer to refer to them. In "The Perimeter," Clarissa cuts a hole in the Perimeter within which all consensuals in London live, allowing the physical wildlife to enter, and in "Piccadilly Circus," Clarissa drives into London in her car, and is stranded. Both events cause huge disruption to consensuals and humans alike. Jessica ultimately realizes that for all their differences, both consensuals and humans may be more alike than she had previously realized.

Art gallery manager Jessica Ferne features in both the title story (2002) and in "We Could Be Sisters" (2004). Highlighting the ossified divisions of social classes, these stories are set in a near-future London split into "subscriber areas," compounds of the comparatively affluent managed by specialist companies. In "The Turing Test," a client sends Jessica an AI which is designed to act as her personal assistant, but which she quickly realizes has an agenda of its own. The incident highlights Jessica's uneasy relationship with both the cyberverse, and the world of flesh and blood. As she reaches crisis point, she asks both her lover and the AI, "What do you want?" But is really asking herself that question.

In "We Could Be Sisters," Jessica the AI is never mentioned, but instead Jessica meets a woman who bears an astonishingly close physical resemblance to her. This woman, Tamsin, is a Shifter, someone who crosses between alternate realities by taking a drug.

"We Could Be Sisters" is one of two Shifter stories in the collection and one of several such stories Beckett has written, including a couple not in this collection which have been reprinted by Gardner Dozois, and expanded into his forthcoming novel Marcher, due out early in 2009. "We Could Be Sisters" highlights the different courses that one person's life can take, in a myriad of possible outcomes, with Jessica again questioning the nature of her identity. The other Shifter story, "Jazamine in the Green Wood" (1994), features a matriarchal post-plague society, and shows the effect that one outsider has on an alienated adolescent boy.

One of the subtler threads running through these stories is the presence of art, from the Jessica Ferne duet, through "Monsters" (2003), in which a journalist visits what seems to be a bucolic colony to write a series of profiles on the local artists, with devastating effect, leaving the reader clear just who the monster is. "La Macchina" (1991—later expanded into The Holy Machine) features a tour of Florentine museums and churches by the narrator, who encounters a Rogue robot on one such visit—a robot that has unexpectedly developed self-awareness.

One of the recurring concerns of much of Beckett's work is the next stage of intelligent life, be it the AIs, robots and "synthetiks" of "The Turing Test," of "La Macchina" and "Valour," or the quasi-immortal superhuman warrior of "The Warrior Half-and-Half" (2000). This latter story is SF so far-future that at times Clarke's Law is invoked. Helicopters sit alongside gun-platforms, airships and suspended animation; yet this same techno-society encompasses a man who can shape-shift and has "apparently magical powers." Reluctantly, the Empire which is represented by the Major-Cardinal must release the warrior from imprisonment to fight a war on behalf of a cause he "betrayed" centuries before. That at the end the warrior dies in mysterious circumstances—or not, as the case may be—is entirely appropriate.

Another of the notable features of Beckett's work is setting, which is sometimes so powerfully evoked as to be a character in its own right. This is most notable in "Dark Eden," and the almost hallucinatory power of the description of this strange world—

that we could now clearly see to be gently glowing over much of its area, as if the planet was covered by a huge candle-lit city. But it wasn't a city. It was a forest. It was a shining forest of glowing trees and luminous streams and pools (p. 162)

—is the single redeeming feature in what for me is the one comparative failure in the book. But others may like its reliance on plot contrivances and strident characterization, and its ironic return to a simpler, freer life may work better as the novel that Beckett is working on.

Over half of the others are set in either a near-future London, or variations (in "Monsters" and "The Marriage of Sky and Sea") such as The Metropolis, and are determinedly British in their quiet understatement. Even the colony worlds have a very self-effacing quality, but where Beckett really stands out among SF writers is in understanding and showing us the way bureaucracy is likely to evolve (privately managed compounds in London, or police divisions specifically responsible for robots).

These are almost contra-Libertarian stories, in that unlike many American fantasies of a simpler—less regimented—society, Beckett realizes that as our world, even our universe shrinks, so we become more and more known to the various authorities, companies and individuals who have a stake in information-gathering and application, and who use it for good or ill—for Beckett does not necessarily endorse or condemn this trend; it simply is, he implies.

Like a British Philip K. Dick, with whom Beckett has been compared, the protagonists of these stories, whether they inhabit bucolic colonies, dark Edens, or world-spanning metropolises, must cut through the (often) literally shifting nature of reality to strive to understand their place in the universe.

Dear God forgive me, he tried again. I just didn't know. I didn't know who I was.