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Matthew Dilke #2
Killer Pine
High in the Rockies a mysterious disease breaks out threatening the world's forests.
Matthew Dilke and his miniaturized agents - including the delectable Hyacinth - are sent to investigate. And in the branches of a soaring pine they find their enemy - and face the awesome power of the warrior ants he controls.
Matthew Dilke and his miniaturized agents - including the delectable Hyacinth - are sent to investigate. And in the branches of a soaring pine they find their enemy - and face the awesome power of the warrior ants he controls.
- GenresScience FictionFiction
160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1973
33 people want to read
About the author
Lindsay Gutteridge
6 books4 followersThomas Gordon Lindsay Gutteridge. Born in 1923 in Easington, County Durham, he also
worked as a commercial artist and was an art teacher. Died in 2007.
worked as a commercial artist and was an art teacher. Died in 2007.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
May 6, 2018
An excellent followup to the first book in the series, which sees Mathew Dilke continuing his training of a cadre of micro-men (his secretary and love interest, Hyacinthe seems to be the only micro-woman), though this detail seems principally to facilitate the debriefing of readers who may not be familiar with the first volume, as Dilke and Hyacinthe are soon off on their main mission, to save the forestry industry of North America.
Cut to British Columbia in the Canadian Rockies, where some mysterious blight is causing the forests to die off. A new member of the micro-team is the rather dour Scottish botanist, Jon Butt, who obviously hasn't been briefed on the poor survival rate of Dilke's companions! He's less interested in the commercial ruin being caused, the main concern of the high-ranking official who's sanctioned the mission, and more on the ecological impact of the environmental disaster.
It's not giving too much away to say that, .
A fun quick read for a summer's afternoon.
Cut to British Columbia in the Canadian Rockies, where some mysterious blight is causing the forests to die off. A new member of the micro-team is the rather dour Scottish botanist, Jon Butt, who obviously hasn't been briefed on the poor survival rate of Dilke's companions! He's less interested in the commercial ruin being caused, the main concern of the high-ranking official who's sanctioned the mission, and more on the ecological impact of the environmental disaster.
It's not giving too much away to say that, .
A fun quick read for a summer's afternoon.
March 5, 2022
Surprisingly good.
I picked it up with some old SFBC editions without knowing what it was about, and it's frankly ludicrous: miniaturised people are delivered to a tree in an area experiencing some kind of pine-tree devastation to try to find what's causing it.
They fight insects. They scale sheer woodfaces. They live in a matchbox for heaven's sake.
But there's something about the writing style that's great. Dated, yes. Oddly-specific, yes. Engaging? Yes.
I picked it up with some old SFBC editions without knowing what it was about, and it's frankly ludicrous: miniaturised people are delivered to a tree in an area experiencing some kind of pine-tree devastation to try to find what's causing it.
They fight insects. They scale sheer woodfaces. They live in a matchbox for heaven's sake.
But there's something about the writing style that's great. Dated, yes. Oddly-specific, yes. Engaging? Yes.
March 11, 2018
Killer Pine is the tale of Mathew Dilke, a miniaturized James-Bond-esque hero sent to the West Coast of Canada to investigate an arboreal disease decimating the old pine forests. For company he has Hyacinthe—his secretary/lover—and Jonathan Butt, an ecologist and researcher.
I enjoyed Killer Pine from start to finish, but the most impressing thing about it, in my opinion, is the impeccable way Gutteridge paints the world around our micro-heroes—and I’m not normally a reader who invests in settings. Dilke, Hyacinthe, and Butt are pretty used to their micro-sized lives. They have living quarters in a retro-fitted matchbox, and within that matchbox is all the comforts of the full-sized world: a refrigerator, spiral-bound notebooks, cameras, a dining table. Everything feels normal, until something reminds them that it isn’t.
[Aside: this perfectly replicated tiny world is the one thing that pulled me from the story. In this reality, they shrink people via medicine, not some sort of shrink-ray. So how did these micro-things get manufactured? If Mathew Dilke is 1/4 inch tall, that camera is like a pin-point. We can't make a functional, mechanical camera now at that scale, so there's absolutely no way it was possible in 1972. Everything else about the novel was so good, though, that I forced myself to suspend my disbelief so I could revel in the world and story. Fair warning, though.]
I don’t think I’ve read a book that can even come close to how masterfully Killer Pine instills in the reader a sense of wonder at the fantastical. This wonder ran the gamut of feelings: the breath-taking awe of summiting what, to us, would be a small boulder, the pure terror of the landing of a crow that might as well have been a dragon for all the more they could take it on, and the heart wrenching ache of watching caterpillars, starving due to the dying forest, trudging past like a desperate herd of elephants.
This latter example is a problem for me. It’s a good, evocative scene, but making the insects of this world incredibly sympathetic only makes my life harder. I mean, when I’m turning over the garden, I already take way too long to try not to kill any worms or spiders along the way. Now as I accidentally bust open ant hills and such, scenes from this book are going to come to mind.
Killer Pine can, at times, be rather gross. Insects die, insects are … born? and while the detail is well-written and conveys Dilke’s revulsion and surprise, it’s not always pleasant reading. Nor are the more depressing bits, like the aforementioned starving caterpillars. I knew Gutteridge was a great writer when I felt a pang of heartache for a mutant termite. A termite. And they didn’t even name it!
Damn you, Gutteridge!
(I was going to include a picture of a termite here to prove how gross they are to double-prove how good Gutteridge is, but I'll spare both of us.)
This book, published in 1972, contained a few things that seemed surprisingly forward-thinking for the time, and one thing that felt archaic.
Dilke is white. Hyacinthe is Black. They are in a relationship. These facts are not big deals or plot-points.
Hyacinthe, while still the socially-acceptable assistant or receptionist-figure expected of a 1972 woman, regularly adventures with Dilke and Butt, and is never a damsel in distress.
Butt, an ecologist and researcher, mentions both evolution and God in the same sentence—no theological debate, no angst. He believes in both.
Butt shakes his fist at corporate greed and the degradation of the earth.
Russians—the perennial enemy of the 1970s agent—show up, and though they’re clearly the enemy, they’re human: they have back stories, passions, friendships. Some are kind, some aren’t. At a time when Russians were regularly portrayed as punch lines or heartless villains, I can totally respect the respect with which Gutteridge portrayed these characters.
All that said, randomly, 3/4 through the book, the word ‘negro’ makes an appearance, and I don’t know what to think about it. It never feels derogatory, and is used in less than five times, always in regard to hypothetical people. Hyacinthe, conversely, is always referred to as Black. I don’t want to over-think the inclusion of this word used during a time when it wasn't so obviously and outright not-okay like it is today, but I also don’t want to pretend that it’s not there, in case it makes anyone uncomfortable.
I bought this book because it looked absurd—I expected camp, camp, and more camp, a few laughs, and to move on, and instead I ended up with a novel I’m pressing my husband to read. It’s good. Apparently Lindsay Gutteridge only wrote four novels—all of them following the saga of Mathew Dilke—and I’m going to have to track them down. I’m damn impressed.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. Apparently Lindsay Gutteridge—the author—is in reality Thomas Gordon Lindsay Gutteridge. He was a UK author, an art teacher, and most decidedly, a man. Eh, I knew this would happen when I started assuming gender based on name. Anyway, see more reviews at forfemfan.com]
I enjoyed Killer Pine from start to finish, but the most impressing thing about it, in my opinion, is the impeccable way Gutteridge paints the world around our micro-heroes—and I’m not normally a reader who invests in settings. Dilke, Hyacinthe, and Butt are pretty used to their micro-sized lives. They have living quarters in a retro-fitted matchbox, and within that matchbox is all the comforts of the full-sized world: a refrigerator, spiral-bound notebooks, cameras, a dining table. Everything feels normal, until something reminds them that it isn’t.
[Aside: this perfectly replicated tiny world is the one thing that pulled me from the story. In this reality, they shrink people via medicine, not some sort of shrink-ray. So how did these micro-things get manufactured? If Mathew Dilke is 1/4 inch tall, that camera is like a pin-point. We can't make a functional, mechanical camera now at that scale, so there's absolutely no way it was possible in 1972. Everything else about the novel was so good, though, that I forced myself to suspend my disbelief so I could revel in the world and story. Fair warning, though.]
I don’t think I’ve read a book that can even come close to how masterfully Killer Pine instills in the reader a sense of wonder at the fantastical. This wonder ran the gamut of feelings: the breath-taking awe of summiting what, to us, would be a small boulder, the pure terror of the landing of a crow that might as well have been a dragon for all the more they could take it on, and the heart wrenching ache of watching caterpillars, starving due to the dying forest, trudging past like a desperate herd of elephants.
This latter example is a problem for me. It’s a good, evocative scene, but making the insects of this world incredibly sympathetic only makes my life harder. I mean, when I’m turning over the garden, I already take way too long to try not to kill any worms or spiders along the way. Now as I accidentally bust open ant hills and such, scenes from this book are going to come to mind.
Killer Pine can, at times, be rather gross. Insects die, insects are … born? and while the detail is well-written and conveys Dilke’s revulsion and surprise, it’s not always pleasant reading. Nor are the more depressing bits, like the aforementioned starving caterpillars. I knew Gutteridge was a great writer when I felt a pang of heartache for a mutant termite. A termite. And they didn’t even name it!
Damn you, Gutteridge!
(I was going to include a picture of a termite here to prove how gross they are to double-prove how good Gutteridge is, but I'll spare both of us.)
This book, published in 1972, contained a few things that seemed surprisingly forward-thinking for the time, and one thing that felt archaic.
Dilke is white. Hyacinthe is Black. They are in a relationship. These facts are not big deals or plot-points.
Hyacinthe, while still the socially-acceptable assistant or receptionist-figure expected of a 1972 woman, regularly adventures with Dilke and Butt, and is never a damsel in distress.
Butt, an ecologist and researcher, mentions both evolution and God in the same sentence—no theological debate, no angst. He believes in both.
Butt shakes his fist at corporate greed and the degradation of the earth.
Russians—the perennial enemy of the 1970s agent—show up, and though they’re clearly the enemy, they’re human: they have back stories, passions, friendships. Some are kind, some aren’t. At a time when Russians were regularly portrayed as punch lines or heartless villains, I can totally respect the respect with which Gutteridge portrayed these characters.
All that said, randomly, 3/4 through the book, the word ‘negro’ makes an appearance, and I don’t know what to think about it. It never feels derogatory, and is used in less than five times, always in regard to hypothetical people. Hyacinthe, conversely, is always referred to as Black. I don’t want to over-think the inclusion of this word used during a time when it wasn't so obviously and outright not-okay like it is today, but I also don’t want to pretend that it’s not there, in case it makes anyone uncomfortable.
I bought this book because it looked absurd—I expected camp, camp, and more camp, a few laughs, and to move on, and instead I ended up with a novel I’m pressing my husband to read. It’s good. Apparently Lindsay Gutteridge only wrote four novels—all of them following the saga of Mathew Dilke—and I’m going to have to track them down. I’m damn impressed.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. Apparently Lindsay Gutteridge—the author—is in reality Thomas Gordon Lindsay Gutteridge. He was a UK author, an art teacher, and most decidedly, a man. Eh, I knew this would happen when I started assuming gender based on name. Anyway, see more reviews at forfemfan.com]
September 9, 2024
I learned a lot about termites, and how they can be very scary when you’re only .25 inches tall.
July 14, 2009
I've always enjoyed books about micro people. This one is pretty good, though not as good as the Micronauts series.
August 22, 2009
This gets a star for the tile alone!
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews