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384 pages, Paperback
First published April 16, 2000
The underlying premise is that wormholes can be stabilized sufficiently that enough information can be transmitted through them to convey pictures of distant events. Society is revolutionized as, thanks to invisible, omnipresent Wormcams, privacy becomes a thing of the past -- and even more so when the next logical step is taken: the opening up of the entirety of earth's past to the Wormcam, which enables a sort of VR time travel. History is rewritten, crime plummets as clearup rates approach 100%, politicians resign or suicide in droves, millions become hi-tech peeping toms . . . There is a sort of soap-opera plot involving the communications entrepreneur behind these technological breakthroughs, his sons and other family members. All this is played out against a backdrop of humankind's fatalistic knowledge that in just a few hundred years a cometary object called the Wormwood (confusingly, bearing in mind the novel's about Wormcams) will smite our planet, sterilizing it to a depth of many miles. As you might expect given the authorship, there's a long visionary chapter at the end during which our evolutionary ancestry is traced back by Wormcam "travelers" all the way back to the first algal cell -- and even beyond.
But this indicates what for me is a problem with the book. Yes, I can buy it that for a lot of people the big initial appeal of the Wormcam might be that you could watch the neighbours screwing, just as the novel indicates; but one of the uses to which you can put the technology is to "visit" distant parts of the universe, including the planets of other stars, and then of course the time-travel aspect of the device allows you to explore anywhere in history that interests you. Surely, after the novelty of Reality Porn had worn off, at least a sizable chunk of the population would be visiting the original Jurassic park or the rings of Saturn, or discovering what it was like to be bathed in the light of Andromedan suns? By the time our heroes are undertaking their journey back to the origin of life on earth, wouldn't millions of other people have already had the idea to take this same excursion? Likewise, there's a public project described earlier in the book to follow the life of Christ; but wouldn't all kinds of people, atheist and Xtian alike even if with differing motives, have thought of this almost immediately after the introduction of the technology? Why would there be the need for a project? (The chapter on this is called "Behold the Man", a perhaps unwise reminder of Mike Moorcock's significantly more ambitious time-travel treatment of the Passion.)
I raced through the first eighty or so pages of The Light of Other Days, finding in it a refreshing energy of ideas -- the kind of lure that used to make pulp sf so entrancing. Then, though, the other aspects of pulp sf began to get to me, in particular the pulpish plot and characterization (the tyrannical entrepreneur is like something out of a Batman comic), and thereafter I found myself labouring, rather. I still did like the gee-whiz ideas, and new ones kept appearing, so it wasn't an unrewarded slog; and I found the novel's resolution satisfying, however predictable it had by then become. Especially good was the introduction of the paranoia-inducing concept that, if anyone in our future ever invents the Wormcam or its equivalent, there's a reasonable chance that one of them is watching you right now -- or even lots of them.
All in all, then, the book's a curate's egg.