Pop science goes flying off in all kinds of fashionable directions, and it often drags a lot of SF writers with it. I've been led astray like that myself at times.

I was six years old when my parents told me that there was a small, dark jewel inside my skull, learning to be me.

It was almost noon when the plane touched down at the Triad airport on the outskirts of Greensboro. There was a hire car waiting for me; I waved my notepad at the dashboard to transmit my profile, then waited as the seating and controls rearranged themselves slightly, piezoelectric actuators humming. As I started to reverse out of the parking bay, the stereo began a soothing improvisation, flashing up a deadpan title: Music for Leaving Airports 11 June 2008.

On his eighteenth day in the tiger cage, Robert Stoney began to lose hope of emerging unscathed.

I don't have any structured grand plan; I just intend to keep writing about the things that interest me-some of which change, some of which don't.

I hadn't given much thought to the prospect of a Hugo nomination at the time it happened, but obviously once you're nominated, winning one seems a bit less far-fetched than before.

For there is a truth which cannot be bought or sold, imposed by force, resisted or escaped.