Book review: ‘Project Hail Mary’ is one-of-a-kind

I’ve read all the best. Science fiction authors that is: Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, Bradbury, Wells, Dick, Herbert, Le Guin, Card and many more.

But Andy Weir’s “Project Hail Mary” is unique. It delves deeply into math, biology, imperial to metric conversion, physics and even quantum physics. It’s problem-solving protagonist Dr. Ryland Grace is detailed in his analysis and complex in his character. Dismissed as misguided by academics for an essay suggesting life can exist without water, Grace turns to teaching middle school science.

When the sun inexplicably begins to lose energy, Grace is one of the many scientists recruited to discover why. He finds in a sample of space debris a microorganism that he dubs Astrophage that “eats” Sol’s energy and then migrates to Venus to breed in its carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere.

Researchers also find the solar system’s sun is not the only one dimming in the region, but is one of many, with a single exception — Tau Ceti, a system light years away.

Thus begins the Hail Mary project — a mission to find out why Tau Ceti is the exception. Ironically, the energy digestion system of Astrophage makes it the best possible propulsion system for the starship mission to Tau Ceti. This introduces new problems later for Dr. Grace to solve if he is to survive.

The book’s narrative switches seemingly randomly between Grace preparing for the outer space mission to actually being aboard, but the plot is built piece by piece. Problem discovered, problem painstakingly solved.

Weir can also be a bit of a tease. At one point, Grace encounters an alien also in search of a solution to the star-ingesting epidemic. Due to the alien’s appearance, Grace calls him Rocky. Meanwhile, Rocky has given a name to one of Tau Ceti’s planets, calling it the same name as his reproductive partner back home. Grace calls the planet Adrian, without bothering to explain to the reader that Adrian was the name of the wife of the fictional movie character Rocky.

Will earth survive? Will Grace survive? Let’s just say the ending comes full circle and is fully worth the 476-page trek.

Lest we forget during this holiday season what the stakes were one Christmas that changed history

“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right (not only to TAX) but “to BIND us in ALL CASES WHATSOEVER” and if being bound in that manner, is not slavery, then is there not such a thing as slavery upon earth. Even the expression is impious; for so unlimited a power can belong only to God.”

— The Crisis by Thomas Paine, Dec. 23, 1776

George Washington and his tiny band of remaining soldiers did not shrink nor shirk. On Christmas, it was Victory or Death. (OK, it is a Newt Gingrich turn out the vote commercial from 2011, but the message still.)

How many today are giving up on the concept of liberty and letting the forces of overweening socialism change this nation forever into something the Founders did not intend, but rather feared and warned repeatedly against.

The stakes were life or death in 1776.

Today it is taxation without representation, again, as Congress critters head home after voting for spending that will add still more red to the deficit that our grandchildren will inherit.

Paine concluded:

“Once more we are again collected and collecting; our new army at both ends of the continent is recruiting fast, and we shall be able to open the next campaign with sixty thousand men, well armed and clothed. This is our situation, and who will may know it. By perseverance and fortitude we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission, the sad choice of a variety of evils — a ravaged country — a depopulated city — habitations without safety, and slavery without hope — our homes turned into barracks and bawdy-houses for Hessians, and a future race to provide for, whose fathers we shall doubt of. Look on this picture and weep over it! and if there yet remains one thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.”

Lest we forget.

A version was first posted in 2012.

Washington crossing the Delaware.

Christmas traditions: Santa, gifts, newspapers

their bearded Sancte Claus or Sinterclaas to New Amersterdam, where the children would find candies and nuts and trifling trinkets in their shoes or stockings. The Germans brought a similar tradition with their Pelze-Nicol.

As the Colonies gained their independence and the people adopted a new Constitution and formed their own customs apart from those of Europe, few newspapers of the day took any notice of the holiday, which was more a churchly matter than one of public interest.

Occasionally, a merchant would advertise in the local newspaper, offering items for the season.

Then clergyman Clement Clarke Moore penned some whimsical doggerel for his children. A family member copied it and gave it to the Troy Sentinel newspaper, which published it on Dec. 23, 1823, under the title “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” ‘Twas the start of the plump, elfish gentleman clamoring on rooftops with his sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, slipping down chimneys with a sack full of toys, dressed in fur, the stump of a pipe protruding from a beard white as snow as he wordlessly filled stockings.

Nast’s Santa

The printing of the poem became an annual tradition in a number of newspapers — under the title “The Night Before Christmas” — continuing to this very day. It popularized the exchange of gifts on Christmas Day and retailers latched onto the idea and soon filled the newspapers with advertising for their holiday goods and gifts.

The man who put rouge on Santa’s cheeks and turned his furry suit to crimson was newspaper editorial cartoonist and illustrator Thomas Nast, who first drafted Moore’s character into the Union Army in his Harper’s Weekly drawing that depicted Santa in stars and stripes, handing out gifts to soldiers.

He continued to draw Santa for various newspapers and books for years to come.

As the holiday customs took shape it did not take long for some to bemoan how the religious nature of the day was being nudged out by the commercialism.

‘Twas Harriet Beecher Stowe among the first, writing in “The First Christmas in New England”: “And this holy time, so hallowed and so gracious, was settling down over the great roaring, rattling, seething life-world of New York in the good year 1875. Who does not feel its on-coming in the shops and streets, in the festive air of trade and business, in the thousand garnitures by which every store hangs out triumphal banners and solicits you to buy something for a Christmas gift? For it is the peculiarity of all this array of prints, confectionery, dry goods, and manufactures of all kinds, that their bravery and splendor at Christmas tide is all to seduce you into generosity.”

Review-Journal cartoonist and amateur historian of all things illustrated Jim Day reminds that the iconic image of Santa Claus that we see everywhere today was created in 1931 by Haddon Sundblom for Coca-Cola’s holiday print ads. The images of the jolly gentleman with Coke bottle in hand appeared through 1964.

And no nostalgic musing on this holiday season and the role of newspapers could omit the editorial response to an 8-year-old’s query that appeared in New York’s The Sun in 1897.

‘Twas Virginia O’Hanlon who asked: “Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?”

To which editorial writer Francis Church replied: “Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS.”

This Christmas morn ’twill be a good time to curl up in a cozy chair, watch the children play with their new toys, sip your coffee and read the newspaper … which, unabashedly, made it all happen.

Whatever happened to Virginia?

This first appeared in 2008.

Christmas in Las Vegas or Henderson or wherever, what a kick

ason:

From Christmas past … not much has changed

Since Congress just passed another deficit-laden budget in time for Christmas:

Book review: David Baldacci weaves complex loose ends into tight conclusion in ‘The Edge’

Mystery writer David Baldacci is notorious for pushing the envelope and keeping readers on the edge of their seats until the very end, and he does so again with this latest novel, his second book featuring the 6:20 Man, Travis Devine.

“The Edge” sends federal investigator Devine to a small town in Maine where everybody knows everybody else and many of their darkest secrets. He is there to solve the murder of CIA operative Jenny Silkwell. It is feared her death was somehow related to her undercover work and that her missing computer and cellphone could jeopardize national security.

As Devine delves into the knowledge and backgrounds of Silkwell’s family members and assorted townspeople the bodies stack up like cord wood. Devine himself is a narrowly missed target along the way. Who is doing what to whom and why? Is it Silkwell’s government secrets or long buried secrets above past criminal wrongdoing by one of the locals and involving Silkwell’s sister?

Clue after clue is knocked down or fit into the scheme of things. Along the way Baldacci uses extensive and often subtle dialogue to develop his many faceted characters and reveal their secrets little by little.

I’ve read two dozen of Baldacci’s books and I highly recommend all of them.

Happy birthday, Bill of Rights

Several years ago I penned this for the Review-Journal.

On this day in 1791 the Bill of Rights were ratified by three-fourths of the states. At the insistence of the Anti-Federalists led by Thomas Jefferson the first 10 amendments were added to the new Constitution.

They might more properly be called the Bill of Prohibitions, since they are not so much a delineation of rights as a list of things the federal government may not take away from individuals and the states and local governments.

Bill of Rights

This is our day to celebrate the First Amendment prohibition against establishing a state religion, despite odd rulings about nativity scenes and posting the Ten Commandments, and the right of free speech and press, despite McCain-Feingold limits on campaign spending and advertising. (Since somewhat overturned by Citizens United.)

This is our day to celebrate the Second Amendment, despite requirements to register handguns and other laws.

We celebrate the Fourth Amendment prohibition against unlawful search and seizure, despite the Hiibel case in which Larry Hiibel was arrested for not giving his name to a Humbolt County deputy. (Not to mention civil asset forfeitures.) Then there is FISA and its countless abuses, which Congress just extended.

There’s the Fifth’s protection against taking of property except for public purposes that was bounced by the Kelo decision that let government take property for private development.

As for the Sixth’s right to speedy and public trial? Forget it. No explanation needed.

The right to trial by jury according to the Seventh? Try that in traffic court, buddy.

No cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth’s prohibition. Lifetime sentences for possession of pot belie that one.

The Ninth’s and 10th’s guarantees that rights not delineated are prohibited to feds? Let’s see the states try to set the drinking age or voting age or speed limits.

There’s still the Third’s prohibition against housing troops in private homes. (Right?)

Happy birthday, Bill of Rights, long may you be respected.

A couple of years ago I ran across the Cato video below. As my ol’ Pappy used to say: Great minds travel in the same plane, while fools just think alike.

Actually, the Third is also suspect as I reported here. The courts have since ruled that cops are not soldiers. They sure look alike and are armed alike.

Book review: Michael Connelly’s ‘Resurrection Walk’

California-based former newspaper reporter Michael Connelly has unleashed another page turner featuring Lincoln lawyer Mickey Haller and his half brother Hieronymus “Harry” Bosch, a former LAPD detective.

“Resurrection Walk” is a reference to what happens when someone who has been wrongly convicted is freed to walk out of prison.

Though Connelly weaves several cases into his narrative the focus is on a young mother who pleaded nolo contendere to shooting to death five years earlier her ex-husband, a former cop, on her front lawn following an argument. Her initial lawyer Frank Silver, pejoratively referred to by Haller and Bosch as Second-Place Silver, had helped persuade Lucinda Sanz to cop a plea rather than stand trial and likely face a longer prison term. After all, though no gun was ever found, a swab of her hands and arms had turned up traces of gun shot residue.

Haller applies his legal skills and Bosh his detective skills over 400 pages in their search for justice that would allow Sanz to rejoin her young son and other family members. While the title of the book may give away its outcome, the fascination is in the intricate uncovering of deeply buried facts and motives.

As in his three dozen other books, Connelly skillfully breaths life into his characters and weaves an intricate plot. I highly recommend “Resurrection Walk.”

The real meaning of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is rich in traditions. The turkey. The dressing. The pumpkin pie. The family assembled in prayerful reverence in remembrance of the plight of the early settlers of this country — much of which is complete fiction.

The Plymouth colonists set out to live in an idealistic communal fashion. Everyone would share equally in the products of the colony. But after nearly starving to death in 1621 and 1622, Gov. William Bradford abandoned the social experiment and gave each family its own plot of land, and whatever was produced on it was the rightful property of the owner to consume or trade.

The result was a prosperous harvest in 1623 followed by a feast of Thanksgiving.

Capitalism saved the colony.

The American Institute of Economic Research has posted online its own retelling of the Thanksgiving story, along with passages from Bradford’s recollections from “Of Plymouth Plantation,” translated into more modern spelling.

The AIER notes that the colony was attempting to live in the manner described in Plato’s Republic in which all would work and share goods in common, ridding themselves of selfishness and achieving higher social state. The problem was that hard work was not rewarded and laggardness and sloth went unpunished.

William Bradford

Bradford wrote:

“For the young men that were able and fit for labor and service did repine that they should spend their time and strength to work for other men’s wives and children, without recompense. The strong, or men of parts, had no more division of food, clothes, etc. then he that was weak and not able to do a quarter the other could; this was thought injustice. The aged and graver men to be ranked and equalized in labor, and food, clothes, etc. with the meaner and younger sort, thought it some indignant and disrespect unto them. And for men’s wives to be commanded to do service for other men, as dressing their meat, washing their clothes, etc. they deemed it a kind of slavery, neither could man husbands brook it.”

Before the colony could die off from starvation, Bradford divvied up the land and introduced private property.

The governor wrote:

“And so assigned to every family a parcel of land, according to the proportion of their number for that end. … This had a very good success; for it made all hands very industrious, so as much more corn was planted then otherwise would have been by any means the Governor or any other could use, and saved him a great deal of trouble, and gave far better content. The women now went willingly into the field, and took their little-ones with them to set corn, which before would a ledge weakness, and inability; whom to have compelled would have been thought great tyranny and oppression.”

And the result was, again in Bradford’s words:

“By this time harvest was come, and instead of famine, now God gave them plenty, and the face of things was changed, to the rejoicing of the hearts of many, for which they blessed God. And the effect of their planting was well seen, for all had, one way or other, pretty well to bring the year about, and some of the abler sort and more industrious had to spare, and sell to others, so as any general want or famine hath not been amongst them since to this day.”

This is the real lesson of the first Thanksgiving: Capitalism always triumphs over communist utopian fantasies. Humans will work for their own self interest and, instead of it being greedy and rapacious, all benefit and prosper.

But Americans elected Joe Biden and Kamala Harris anyway.

A version of this blog was first posted in 2011

A Veterans Day recollection

“At a time in their lives when their days and nights should have been filled with innocent adventure, love, and the lessons of the workaday world, they were fighting in the most primitive conditions possible across the bloodied landscape of France, Belgium, Italy, Austria, and the coral islands of the Pacific. They answered the call to save the world from the two most powerful and ruthless military machines ever assembled, instruments of conquest in the hands of fascist maniacs. They faced great odds and a late start, but they did not protest. They succeeded on every front. They won the war; they saved the world.”    — Tom Brokaw in “The Greatest Generation“

H.A. Mitchell, decorated hero of the Pacific campaign in World War II

My father joined the Army when he was 16. He lied about his age.

He knew what was coming and was there when it came. He was in Pearl City that Sunday morning in 1941 when World War II began.

He spent the rest of the war hopping from island to island with his artillery unit. He said he chose artillery because he wanted to make a lot of noise.

I know he was in the Philippines about the time the survivors of the Death March of Bataan were rescued. The rest is a blur in my memory, though I recall him telling about how they censored letters home lest they fall into enemy hands and give away troop locations — you couldn’t write that the food was “good enough,” because the ship was at Goodenough Island.

He was a decorated hero, but said he refused to wear the Purple Heart so he wouldn’t have to explain exactly where the wound was located.

When he and his war buddies got together they seldom talked about the fighting, only the antics, like climbing on the hood of a truck and stealing eggs out of the back of another truck as it slowly climbed a steep hill.

But one of his friends once let slip that Dad, a bulldozer operator, actually used a bulldozer blade to deflect bullets while rescuing pinned down soldiers.

To hear him and his friends talk, it seemed like they spilled more beer than blood, but somehow still managed to win the war and save the world.

They are the ones Veterans Day is for.

A version of this was first posted in 2012.