As I continue my never-ending mission to read through the history of science fiction, I once again revisited the nineteen seventies. According to my spreadsheets, this was one of the weaker decades for science fiction literature. While some unquestionably great novels came out of the period, they were outnumbered by a whole lot of duds. So when I came to these three books from the seventies, I had no idea what to expect. Here are my findings.

The World Inside, by Robert Silverberg (1971)

Around this time, one of the major sociological concerns was population growth. Looking back, it’s strange to think people were so genuinely concerned with global overpopulation. Silverberg’s proposed solution to this is simple: massive city-sized towers to house an ever-growing population. It’s a wildly dystopian image, but Silverberg has a more optimistic outlook. Why? Because this is a seventies Silverberg novel. And that means lots and lots of sex. It’s a free love culture taken to the ludicrous extreme that turning down someone’s advances is an incredibly offensive taboo. Even leaving aside the rather sinister implications of that, this is a terrible book. We skip form character to character, all of whom are just as randy as the last, and then the book sputters out, having gone precisely nowhere.

Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, by Philip K. Dick (1974)

My second experience with Dick is less impressive than Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? At its core, this has an interesting premise. What if you woke up one morning and found you had been erased from existence? Unfortunately, Dick gets distracted by his protagonist’s convoluted love life, and throws in as many drugs as he can for good measure. Any sense of coherence rapidly fades, and the shaky worldbuilding collapses in on itself if you poke it too hard. On an emotional level, there is a successful resolution to it all, and the epilogue is genuinely very good. But to get there, you have to throw any sense of logic out the window. This is less a book, and more the disturbed trip of a drug addict, and how it was nominated for so many awards, I simply do not know.

The Long ARM of Gil Hamilton, by Larry Niven (1976)

Not a novel, but a collection of three novellas, all featuring the titular investigator. While the other two authors here were indulging the weirder aspects of the seventies, Niven was writing firmly in the Hard SF tradition, give or take a telepath or two. None of the mysteries particularly jump out at me, but the underlying idea of black market organ smuggling and a slowly-revealed setting are a good introduction to some of Niven’s recurring ideas. It’s not going to blow your mind, but this would be a good starting point for a newcomer to Niven, and I look forward to reading Hamilton’s next, full-length adventure. The edition of this I read also features an essay on the nature of SF detectives, written by Niven and referencing countless prior works, which ends up being the highlight of this slim collection.

If you’re a fan of seventies’ science fiction, I would love to know what you enjoy about the period. Any recommendations for further reading from this particular decade will be greatly appreciated.