Imperial Earth – Arthur C. Clarke

Cover of Imperial Earth


Imperial Earth
Arthur C. Clarke
305 pages
published in 1976

The last Arthur C. Clarke book I’ve read was Rendezvous with Rama back in 2002; unfortunately it was the news of his death that brought me to read another, as a private homage. I had read Imperial Earth before, in Dutch, as Machtige Aarde and liked it, though it never became a favourite. It seemed a good idea to reread this rather than one of the more obvious classic Clarke novels, to get a good idea of the strengths of Clarke’s later works. Imperial Earth was written and published in 1976 and set three hundred years later, at the United States’ quincentennial, which to be honest immediately dates it for me. On the other hand it is refreshing to read a sf novel that has the US still existing three hundred years in the future, rather than as subsumed into a world government or fallen apart into a Balkanised mess. At the very least setting the book at the quincentennial signals how much of a seventies book this is.

Imperial Earth starts on Titan where despite the harsh circumstances a flourishing colony has been established, which makes its living supplying hydrogen for interplanetary fusion rockets as the only place in the Solar System where hydrogen was abundant enough to be worthwhile to harvest and gravity light enough to be able to do it cheaply. It was through the drive and will of one man, Malcolm Makenzie, that the Titan colony became a reality and he and his family have ruled it since. That same drive meant that when it became clear he suffered from too much gene damage due to space travel to produce children the normal way, he instead let himself be cloned on Earth. His son did the same and Duncan Makenzie is the second generation of Makenzies to be born this way, now old enough to do the same himself and fortuitiously invited to the quincentennial celebrations of the birth of America.

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Arthur C. Clarke: 1917 – 2008

Yesterday, at the age of ninety, Arthur C. Clarke died. He was the last of the Big Three of Golden Age science fiction –Asimov, Clarke and Heinlein– to pass away and as such his death is the end of an era. He was there when science fiction as a genre first crystallised out of Hugo Gernsback’s earnest attempts to predict the future, he answered John W. Campbell’s challenge to pull science fiction up by its bootstraps and raise it out of its pulp origins and he remained a constant presence in science fiction for over six decades, as fan, writer and science booster. He was there to see it develop from an almost cultish obsession practised by handful of enthusiasts to become so mainstream that most of the record grossing movies of the last couple of decades are science fiction. Of course, he himself was in large part responsible for making science fiction so
popular and even respectable.

Some of the things he should be remembered for:

  • The idea of stopping time and what opportunities and difficulties that brings with it
  • That he felt the need in childhood’s End to explicitely distance himself from the ideas in the novel
  • That actually, you can survive vacuum for a couple of minutes without a spacesuit
  • “Overhead, without any fuss”…
  • Inspiring Stanley Kubrick to film 2001 and especially its Pan-Am vision of the future
  • “the Star”
  • Geosynchronous orbits.

Clarke was one of the writers who got me into science fiction. I devoured his books when I was twelve and when I started rereading some of them a few years back, I was pleased to discover they still held up. Never known as a great stylist, Clarke nevertheless had a quiet charm all his own. I think Patrick Nielsen Hayden said it best, in his remembrance of Clarke:

in Clarke a practical science-and-engineering outlook coexisted with a mystical streak a mile wide. Indeed, much of his work establishes the basic template for one of modern science fiction’s most evergreen effects: the numinous explosion of mystical awe that’s carefully built up to, step by rational step. So much of Clarke’s best work is about that moment when the universe reveals its true vastness to human observers. And unlike many other writers who’ve wrestled with that wrenching frame shift, for Clarke it was rarely terrifying, rarely an engine of alienation and despair. He was all about the transformational reframe, the cosmic perspective, that step off into the great shining dark. He believed it would improve us. He rejoiced to live in a gigantic universe of unencompassable scale, and he thought the rest of us should rejoice, too.