The works in this book are far-reaching: bright, creative, innovative, and inventive. Many of his characters change sex like breathing—naturally and without apology. Cloning and body sculpting are integral to his vision. Each tale is carefully shaped to pull the reader into a world of detail, essentially saying, “There is all the time in the world to explore this story and this universe.” Varley treats his characters not as cardboard sexual stereotypes performing as backdrop to weird technology, but as fully human, with desires, ambitions, needs, hopes, and aspirations. They are entwined with the story; they are the story.

Even though it has been more than two decades since I read it, my personal favorite of what I have read of his short writing remains “Overdrawn at the Memory Bank,” in which Mr. Fingal, who appears to have no first name, returns from a computer tourist journey only to discover that his body has been lost. Virtual reality—two-way virtual reality—takes on new meaning, and it’s a sweetheart of a story.

As an additional bonus, read the preface to each story. The stories are previously published, with the exception of “The Bellman,” which contains an interesting recurring character, Anna-Louise Bach. However, the prefaces are “new”; these prefaces are entertaining and enlightening. For a real eye-opener, check the dates these tales were first published in the “Copyright and Permissions” page at the close of the book. The first one was published more than 30 years past.

The works remain rich, groundbreaking, and very vivid. Read, think, reflect, and be challenged. This book is satisfying; the tales are memorable, not always comfortable, but sturdy, solid, and whole. This science fiction presents truth.

The author opens with the devastating fire of the famed Fenice opera house on January 29, 1996, and uses this event as structure and symbol for all of the fair city in the remainder of the book. Seamlessly working between past and present, he weaves the events of the fire—consequences, construction, reconstruction, speculation, fact—with splashes of architecture, the biographies of known and unknown personages, and vignettes of art and history. Venice emerges as flamboyant, extravagant, cultural, and, above all, kaleidoscope-colorful. The fire represents all that is unique, from decadence to opulence, about this centuries-old city.

Read this book. Enjoy it for what it is: a brash, amusing romp through one of the great European cities. Berendt’s writing is great fun, slightly vulgar, highly detailed, quite specific, and very, very entertaining. The tone is not-quite-gossip, and very well suits this rather novel documentary. John Berendt captures the essence and core of what makes Venice breathe.

As an informational postscript, the book takes the title from the widespread crumbling of edifices. When a marble figure tumbled from a church, a notice was posted: “Beware of Falling Angels.” Apropos, don’t you think?

In this book, the number devil appears each night to a young lad, Robert, in his dreams, and compares the dull world of school learning with the exciting real world of large and small numbers, infinity, zero, one, and many other fun and exciting facets of numbers. For 11 nights, the devil invades Robert’s dreams with rabbits, trees, classmates, and snowflakes to demonstrate various concepts in higher mathematics. Robert’s mother is quite concerned that Robert is feeling ill, but all ends rather well with Robert demonstrating a difficult concept to his very dim teacher. It is quite an astonishing frolic where Robert learns rather quickly and easily—and the reader along with him (which is the whole point: the wonderful flexibility of mathematics). The Fibonacci sequence never looked so yummy, nor so exciting.

Of a more serious note, but equally yummy and exciting is Unknown Quantity: A Real and Imaginary History of Algebra. For those who have moaned and griped about “the new math” for years, algebra isn’t new, and its roots—pardon the pun, again—can be seen at least as far back as 800 B.C. John Derbyshire provides a remarkable mix of history and mathematics, blending them seamlessly and effortlessly. He explains difficult concepts with ease while presenting the gripping and sometimes all-too-brief lives of those who, in his words, “discovered” the properties of mathematics and developed abstractions.

Take time to read the notes at the close of the book. They are very droll, and there is at least one joke that only mathematicians will fully appreciate.

Both of these books, Number Devil and Unknown Quantity, are a lighter look at the world of mathematics. They are undemanding—although I did read Unknown Quantity twice (once for the history and once for the mathematical concepts)—and designed to be starting points in an adventurous journey. Mathematics is fun, flexible, amusing, thought-provoking, and present in our everyday lives. Mathematics is also very sexy. Really.

I must admit, I personally wanted to know why there were so few women in the science industry. Although this book doesn’t answer the question definitively, it does address, with currently existing information, an unbiased consideration of the problem in thoughtful, articulated strokes presenting documented evidence—hard numbers, in other words—and an evaluation of the documented sources.

To a large extent, science drives our lives. The consumer products that we use every day—from telephones to computers, from medicine to traversed roads—require a core of people who understand the basics of science. Implementation, research, and development demand vision, drive, and the underlying skills in order create and build products and services. There are fewer women in the scientific fields even despite the awareness that technology is a prime force within in our lives. Many aspects including innate abilities, environment, heredity, sex difference, talent, and social expectations are critically examined in this book in an attempt to understand the “why” of so few women in the science industry.

The geek in me loved this book because it revealed so many avenues of exploration and so much analysis of pertinent and timely data. As the editors point out in their conclusions, ”the way many of the arguments are framed makes it difficult to pit one type of evidence against another. Often, all sides in the debate draw on the very same evidence but interpret it differently.” Indeed, it is so, and the old arguments remain in place, with such books as this one carefully and fairly exploring and challenging old questions and old assumptions. The fact that the question is seriously framed at all indicates an awareness of a stereotype situation within our society.

The book takes its name from a river in western England, and Tamar is also the code name given to a highly intelligent and sensitive resistance fighter. He and a colleague are sent to Holland to maintain communication with the British military, and they become embroiled as observers and participants in the lives of the villagers.

These two young men, their compatriots, and the villagers, are tense, close-mouthed, and frightened with too much at stake; they are highly visible despite all efforts to maintain low profiles. From the foreshadowing in copious hints and detail, the conclusion is obvious, but the work is so gently tuned and executed, it is impossible not to be drawn into the telling and the lives of the people who exist only on paper.

The tone and author are British, ever so British, with the unique British tone of circumspection, but the message and themes have greater impact and a greater circle. Mal Peet has created a memorable statement with his thoughtful book, and I look forward to his future writings.

Scholarly and well-researched, the author presents London, England, in the nineteenth century without the romantic mystique that often surrounds this great cosmopolitan city. Society was stratified, the city strained to handle a burgeoning and rapidly expanding population, and waste disposal was sorely inadequate. It short, it was a breeding ground for disease and epidemic. As cholera relentlessly spread though the urban community, two forward-thinking and energetic men, Dr. John Snow and Henry Whitehead, pursued research and presentation to halt the progress of the disease. While Dr. John Snow mapped deaths and sources of water supply, Henry Whitehead determined all social classes were affected, not merely the impoverished lower-class. Scholarship, footwork, and invention on both their parts served to halt the spread of the disease.

The author clearly and cleanly presents the discoveries of these two intelligent and articulate men in step-by-step, logical fashion, allowing a glimpse of the scientific mind to find a correct solution in the face of popular and prevailing, but unsound, untested opinions. Parallels are drawn between our city-society problems and yesterday’s urban difficulties. Interesting, thoughtful, and well-written with new perspective, this book clearly demonstrates that a necessary understanding of the past allows us to implement solutions for the future. As the author states in the final paragraph, “However profound the threats are that confront us today, they are solvable, if we acknowledge the underlying problem, if we listen to science and not superstition, if we keep a channel open for dissenting voices that might actually have real answers.”

The author skillfully integrates the tale with scientific knowledge, and it becomes a pleasure to read the enhancements and training of these codgers—detailed by the protagonist—as their abilities in combat matters are honed to a fine, fine edge. The Colonial Defense Forces teams resolve problems and situations proactively, decisively, and realistically; they do so using old-people experience, understanding, and humor.

The book is a fast read, extremely comprehensible, and very refreshing in approaches and explanations. The author’s writing is quite satisfying: bold, insightful, informative, provocative, and entertaining. It’s definitely shades of little green men and bug-eyed monsters—with a twist and plenty of flourish.

No book in a long time has meant more to me than The Road. It’s been years since a book has grabbed hold of me and taken me on such a captivating, stunning journey. And I don’t remember any other contemporary literature that is more beautifully, starkly written. In other words, Cormac McCarthy has written a book that is on par with Beloved or The Shipping News—landmark modern novels by authors at the pinnacle of their craft. In still other words, The Road is the best book of 2006 and beyond.

This is just my opinion, of course. Naturally, I didn’t read every book published last year. And other book critics would disagree with me. (Many critics hailed the supremacy of Philip Roth’s 2004 novel The Plot Against America, while I was fairly nonplussed about the fuss.) But The Road has greatness on multiple levels: a story that is under-wrought and overwhelming; pacing and plotting that are perfection; characters that are timeless and yet painfully mortal; and page after page of writing that is so accomplished that it begs to be read again and again. I couldn’t get enough of uncounted passages in The Road, and found myself re-reading entire paragraphs—for the simplicity and power of the dialogue, for certain astounding plot developments, and for the sheer beauty of McCarthy’s voice. This is not a book written for the sake of prettiness. It is a tight, austere, harrowing tale about the death of the world that happens to be gorgeous in its horror and its humanity. Consider the following excerpt:

Beyond a crossroads in that wilderness they began to come upon the possessions of travelers abandoned in the road years ago. Boxes and bags. Everything melted and black. Old plastic suitcases curled shapeless in the heat. Here and there the imprint of things wrested out of the tar by scavengers. A mile on and they began to come upon the dead. Figures half mired in the blacktop, clutching themselves, mouths howling. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Take my hand, he said. I don’t think you should see this.

The Road is the account of a nameless father and son who are making their way down an unnamed road in an unknown country at an unspecified time. Ash covers everything and is carried in every gust of wind. The father pushes a shopping cart filled with their only possessions—dwindling food stores, threadbare clothing, and a gun with two bullets. The sun orbits a dimmed horizon, which appears to be obscured by a nuclear winter. History, animals, and vegetation are dead, as is the vast majority of the human race. The goal of the pair is simply to survive … and to keep heading south along the road to possible warmth. On their journey, we glimpse their struggle (illustrated by ghastly scenes like the one excerpted above), urge their survival, and embrace their tenuous yet tenacious bond as father and son and solitary travelers in a silent but perilous world. When I finished their story, I was stunned by its purity and power. I was amazed by McCarthy’s skill, and at his ability to simultaneously convey such fragile hope among such harsh hopelessness. And then I closed the cover of a book I knew was unlikely to forget.

Isaac Asimov, best known for his robot tales, also wrote of a crumbling Galactic Empire and, in Foundation, of the efforts to create a colony that would “incubate art, science, and technology, and form the nucleus of the Second Empire.” The concept is still fresh, and these books make for fascinating reading and encompass, if I may lightly pun, a universal approach to the rise and fall of civilizations.

What happens when an alien culture from another world and human civilization make contact? C.J. Cherryh, in her Foreigner series, explores just that concept. The focal character, Bren Cameron, is a diplomat on the tightrope wire—intercessor to human and the Aveti (an alien species that is mathematically gifted, relatively technologically unskilled, and subscribes to an unusual code of conduct). These books present totally alien culture in unrest and uneasy forging of resources.

Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars, is a neoclassic trilogy that covers the colonization and transformation of the planet into a human-livable environment. Kim Stanley Robinson’s underlying science is solid and quite realistic. I read these when they were first published and was impressed by the substantive and detailed descriptions. The author is meticulous in his writing, and, in my opinion, they are more the story of the evolution of the planet than the characters who inhabit it.

If you haven’t tried the field of science fiction, I suggest you start with one of these series. There are no bug-eyed-monsters; no conquering heroes that save the universe single-handedly; and no skimpily clad females with an intelligence quotient equivalent to bust size. Instead, these tales deliver good, solid, crisp, analytical writing and draw alternate futures in bold, realistic strokes. The books are refreshing and well worth the read.