THIS YEAR'S MODEL

Undeterred by allegations of critical overkill, CHEAP TRUTH hastens to laud:

BLOOD MUSIC by Greg Bear, Arbor House, 1985, $14.95(?)

It is sometimes claimed that the future of SF lies on its experimentalist fringes; in "magic realism," "postindustrial fiction," or in a metaphorical SF hybridizing with mainstream. With his latest novel, Greg Bear has dealt this theory a serious wound.

To date, Bear has seemed a rather conventional, establishment SF figure, cheerily paying his SFWA dues and writing for, horror, ANALOG. He is the only "cyberpunk" writer to show no trace of punk attitudes; if anything, he seems stuffily right-wing, suspicious of "Naderites" and inclined to give good ol' nukes the benefit of the doubt. You will search the Bear opus in vain for a chrome stud or coke-corroded razorblade. You are more likely to find stiff-necked Poul Andersonian lib-futurists struggling manfully amidst a sea of Luddite liberal ignorami.

Yet, in a triumph of the human spirit that makes one glow, Bear has shattered the limits of formula and is delivering truly superior fiction. BLOOD MUSIC in its award-winning short form was a fine, visionary piece; as a novel, it's staggering.

From the first chapter, one senses Bear's transition from journeyman to master. The coda elements are gone, replaced by a cool-eyed analysis of motive and character that builds with the graceful solidity of a Gothic arch. Bear's characters talk, act, and look like actual human beings. Especially praiseworthy is the deft way he captures their occasional realistic bursts of pettiness, craziness and stupidity. The book abounds with daring touches gracefully achieved, with nuts and bolts research brilliantly integrated into the narrative flow.

From this solid beginning, BLOOD MUSIC slowly accelerates into a pyrotechnic climax of pure visionary transcendance. New extrapolations emerge one after another, with steadily increasing speed and impact, until at last they are bursting into the narrative like runaway Mack trucks. The effect is explosively mind-boggling. There are loose ends, but it would be more accurate to describe them as whizzing chunks of shrapnel. The prose ranges from the workmanlike to the numinous. There are occasional lapses into stream-of-consciousness, free verse, and obscurantist "alienspeak," a Bear mannerism that one regrets. But the lyrical description of a jet flight over the transformed remnants of Chicago is a classic evocation of mystery and wonder; its intensity renders it unforgettable. It is hard to imagine any writer doing it better.

Bear's career illustrates one of the central struggles of the genre: visionary anarchy versus literary discipline. As is common with writers of great imaginative gifts, Bear's early works are sometimes byzantine, piling ideas, plot twists, and erratic bursts of inspired prose into vast untidy heaps. Bear's success and his growing importance as a writer are due to his increasing integration of vision and literary skill. This has been achieved by sheer hard work, by a painstaking, serious-minded, long-term effort, the mark of a committed craftsman.

Bear's daring has paid off. He has transcended the limits of the hard SF tradition and written an exciting, accessible, modern novel. It's a fine book for SF neophytes, free of clannish inbred mustiness or gratuitous playing to the faan gallery. It is elegant in the best sense, without excess moving parts, expositive lumps, and preachy apologias. BLOOD MUSIC is one of the first definitive novels of the 1980's.