David Starr, Space Ranger; Lucky Starr and the Pirates of the Asteroids; Lucky Starr and the Oceans of Venus; Lucky Starr and the Big Sun of Mercury; Lucky Starr and the Moons of Jupiter; Lucky Starr and the Rings of Saturn; Asimov. Yes. Reading the introductions to these was a little like listening to the John Hughes commentary on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off: it seemed like Asimov hated (or at least wanted to apologize for) everything that made these books charming. Charming they were, nevertheless, though the latter three are somewhat less so as Asimov strove to render them indistinguishable from his other work.
Charming though they were, the former three could have used some editing attention. My favorite example, I think, was this:

There were four of them. The number increased as more men joined the group.

I also have to wonder whether, in a conversation set in the asteroid belt, when a character from the asteroid belt says “We’d have to take it to one of the rocks,” I can blame the editor for compelling “Anton turned to Lucky, explaining suavely, ‘We always refer to the asteroids as “rocks,” you understand.’” or only for leaving it in.
Very much of its time, the series has a simple optimism unlikely to be captured again:

In this age of Galactic civilization, with humanity spread through all the planets of all the stars in the Milky Way, only scientists could properly cope with mankind’s problems. In fact, only the specially trained scientists of the Council were adequate.

Stephen Fry in America: Fifty States and the Man Who Set Out to See Them All, Fry. Non-fiction. I think I love Stephen Fry as much as he loves America, and with similar layers of feeling: I admire his wit and talent; I admire that he strives to be gracious, and if he has sometimes failed, well, who among us hasn’t? The delightful Mr Fry visited each of the 50 United States over the course of several months, driving a London cab through the continental states, and this book is the companion to the tv series in which his journey was chronicled. The book could have used somewhat more careful fact-checking and editing, but a list of errata does not make a very interesting review. Overall, it’s an intriguing look at the States from the point of view of an outsider who was very nearly one of us.

The Road to Amber: Volume 6: The Collected Stories of Roger Zelazny, ed. Grubbs, Kovacs, Crimmins. Yes. I was a little surprised to find I hadn’t read all of Zelazny’s contributions to George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series, and so was pleased to have the opportunity to rectify that situation. I was disappointed to see some reports that Robert Sheckley was not the most honorable of collaborators: re-writing Zelazny’s work after being asked not to, claiming to have written the first of their novels with almost no Zelazny input, and other contrary-to-documented-events assertions. Doubtless every human endeavor is freighted with, well, humanity.
A treat in this volume is an essay by Michael Whelan providing insight into his lovely cover art for the series. When he says “…once I had the essential foreground/background areas defined I went to work, trusting myself to find the shapes in the image as I worked on it”, I hear echoes of one of Zelazny’s most frequent approaches to composition.
Many thanks to the New England Science Fiction Association, and especially editors David G. Grubbs, Christopher S. Kovacs, and Ann Crimmins, for tackling this project and seeing it through.

Nine Black Doves: Volume 5: The Collected Stories of Roger Zelazny, ed. Grubbs, Kovacs, Crimmins. Yes. Another collection that does what it says on the tin, this one includes the last of the Dilvish shorts and other later work. I found myself increasingly fond of the story “Permafrost”, contained in this collection, due in no small part to passages such as this one: “The wind, already heavy, rises, hurling particles of ice against the building with a sound like a multitude of tiny claws scratching.”
I had not at all remembered reading “The Bands of Titan”, so was surprised to see that it had been collected in Frost & Fire. On the other hand, I found it fairly forgettable on this reading, too.
Friends of the Collective will likely recognize one of the names listed amongst the proof-reading corps in the backs of Volumes 5 and 6.

The Adoration of Jenna Fox, Pearson. Yes. I’m not sure I would recommend this book to anyone: it bears the earmarks of sf written by a non-sf writer in that some obvious questions are implied but not explicitly raised (and certainly not addressed); I found the scientific rationale to be very hand-wavy, yet at more length than hand-waving can really support (repeating the same hand-waving several times doesn’t make it any more credible); and it more reminded me of books I would recommend than it was one.
Pearson’s writing was reasonably solid (the appearance of the alternative spelling “imposter” for “impostor” distracted, but it is a time-honored variant); in particular, characterization of individuals (if not society) was believable, with one glaring exception (my librarian tells me that the omission was most likely in order to meet grade-level criteria). Nevertheless, I can recommend several other explorations of the same themes over this one, most of them non-fiction.

The Likeness, French. Yes. My librarian brought this home on spec, in the same delivery as What the Dead Know, and I’m quite grateful. The two mysteries share a plot element, but French’s work is much more solid than Lippman’s. Nothing struck me as filler, and even the segments that weren’t driving the plot were well-constructed and engaging. I am somewhat troubled by something that I can’t quite identify. It may be that none of the characters is all that sympathetic, but I could also argue that’s because they’re presented with human complexity, so I surely shouldn’t complain about that.

What the Dead Know, Lippman. No. There is plenty of very good writing in this book. Unfortunately, there is also a disqualifying amount of not-very-good writing. This is the second time Publishers Weekly has let me down, describing this in their Staff Favorites issue as an “outstanding stand-alone thriller.” I did not find it particularly suspenseful (by and large), much less thrilling, perhaps due to several sections that felt like so much filler. Toward the middle and end, I found myself reading it at every opportunity; not—as is the case with a book I’m loving—because I was burning to know how it would turn out, but just so I could get it over with and move on.

This Night’s Foul Work, Vargas. Yes. I hadn’t planned to read another Adamsberg so soon after the last, but I saw this on the library site, and it was the next after Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand, and translated by the same person, so I picked it up. I enjoyed it as much as I have become accustomed to enjoy them. I think I liked it even more than Wash This Blood, because the B story wasn’t quite so over-the-top.

Leviathan, Westerfeld. Yes. To start with my only substantive complaint, while Leviathan does not have the clumsiest exposition I’ve ever read, there were several rough patches. I don’t recall being as distracted by previous Westerfeld, but I fancy steampunk brings its own set of challenges (we’re at this point in history, and it splits from our history at this point, because this happened), and the writer doesn’t have the vast catalog of traditional sf shorthand to rely on. None of this excuses clumsy exposition, of course; it’s the writer’s responsibility to tell the story well.
And, by and large, Westerfeld does tell this story well. His viewpoint characters charmed me, and their adventures kept me turning the pages. I was a little disappointed that it is only the first in a series, though I could hardly have been surprised. Even as the first in a series, though, I might have wished for a more self-contained story. The end of the book was not unmitigated disapointment, however; I was pleased to find there an afterword, in which Westerfeld details which pieces of the historical framework were inventions. As one of the history-impaired, I found it very helpful, and its placement at the end keeps it from disturbing the proper unfolding of the story.

Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand, Vargas. Yes. I believe I enjoyed this book even more than I enjoyed Have Mercy on Us All, though I think I probably will continue not to seek out the other Commissaire Adamsberg books, as I fear possible disappointment (alternatively, I want to pace myself). I expect much of my warm feeling should be directed to Siân Reynolds, the translator, though I imagine the original French is as pleasing to those who can read it. It’s not quite enough to make me want to bring my French up to snuff, but I do sometimes want to have a copy of the original so I might see where a particularly interesting turn of phrase came from.
Things I like: Vargas does a great job with the settings, capturing the feel of diverse locations; she also creates a genuine desire—nearly a compulsion—to find out how things will unfold (which I’m pretending is a different thing from suspense, but it’s clearly related), which tempted me to just finish the book last night rather than getting any sleep (I resisted the temptation, since I had more than half the book remaining, but finished it today); and while I’ve read only the two books, I believe that Vargas has created in Commissaire Adamsberg a detective worthy of a franchise. I don’t know how much he’ll evolve, but I don’t know how much a franchise character should evolve. Russell Davies has done an excellent job with The Doctor in letting him change without letting him change, so it can be done.