Tuesday, 4 October 2005

The Algebraist

by Charles Pooter

Bindiche, the cousin, bore a long-standing familial grudge against Y'sul and so naturally had been only too happy to accept a great deal of kudos from an inwardly mortified, outwardly brave-facing, hail-cuz-bygones-now Y'sul by doing him the enormous, surely never-to-be-forgotten favour of vouching for him and his alien companions to his captain and so securing passage into the war zone, though even that only happened after a quick suborb flight in a nominally freight-only moonshell pulsed from High Tolimundarni to Lopscotte (again covered by cousin Bindiche and his endlessly handy military connections, said vile spawn of a hated uncle amassing anguished Y'sul-donated kudos like the Stormshear's mighty capacitors accumulated charge), scudding over the cloud tops, briefly in space (but no windows, not even any screen to see it), listening to Y'sul complain about the uncannily hang-over-resembling after-effects of the fierce acceleration in the magnetic-pulse tube and the fact that he'd had to leave behind most of his baggage, including all the war-zone presents his friends had given him and the bulk of the new combat attire he'd ordered.
The above is a single sentence from The Algebraist by Iain M. Banks, which is a good example of why I am struggling to complete this latest novel by the Scottish science fiction author, having previously greatly enjoyed this,this,thisand this.

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