Iceworld

© 1953 by Hal Clement

[opening page spoilers ...]

Yeahhhhhh. (That was said in a quiet sigh meant to evoke equal parts disappointment and embarrassment, with just a tinge of sarcasm.) I read Iceworld, by Hal Clement, last week.

First off, let me say that I am ashamed to admit that the cover did not clue me in on the big reveal concerning the title. Well, by “big reveal” I mean more the word irony. See, Iceworld is – Earth. Instead of a highly technical journey into the systematic exploration of a frozen world, say, like Pluto (still and always a planet - editor), we’re treated to fiery aliens encountering Earth. That cover of a massive, flaming devil-looking critter eyeballing our globe flew right by clever me.

Anyhoo, even this wouldn’t be that bad a novel. Aliens used to breathing gaseous sulfur and drinking liquid copper, aliens used to a balmy 500 degrees Celsius, aliens who set up a base on a mirror on the sunward side of Mercury – those creatures attempting to make contact and/or explore Earth (or an Earth-like world) would make an interesting story. And in fact, when Clement focuses solely on such aspects, I like it. It was intriguing. Enlightening, even, the way being forced to look at a common picture or a commonplace notion from a different angle will do for you.

Unfortunately, the story Clement chooses to tell is just batty, bizarre, and – forgive me – amateurish.

Why?

Well, the aliens communicate with earthlings through “torpedoes”, robotic probes I guess, filled with their superheated technology. They even design a sort of deep-sea-diver-ish suit to survive our chilling temperatures to interact with us. Okay, that’s all well and good, but the earthlings they happen to encounter are the family from Leave It to Beaver, if all the members of that family were eggheads. Eggheads out in the isolated mountains of some unnamed northwestern state.

Still, that may make for an interesting tale if told with skill and verve and vivacity.

Truth be told, it was the major subplot that killed it for me.

The aliens are actually … drug runners. And the drug they thirst for is … wait for it … not something esoteric … not something ironic, like “steam” or something … no, the drug is … nicotine.

They crave a good smoke.

And one of the aliens is actually a narc. One of those, they-forced-me-to-be-a-narc narcs.

And none of these revelations really matter to the novel, though fifty percent of it directly hones in on the drug runner-nicotine-narc angle.

Why spoil a good technical exercise with this bad noir melodrama? And I mean bad in a bad way.

I didn’t like it. My relationship with Hal Clement is not a complicated one; I either love his work (Cycle of Fire) or I despise it (Half Life, and now Iceworld). Doesn’t make me want to read his acknowledged masterpiece, Mission of Gravity, but read it I must if I am to ever claim the mantle of Science Fiction Aficionado.

But I’ll wait another year or so, I think.

Grade: C-plus.