Aldiss is, of course, better known for science fiction - in fact, I'll wager that, for most people, he's only known as the author of the Helliconia trilogy, or that story (Supertoys Last All Summer Long) which inspired Kubrick / Spielberg's A.I. But he's what many people would consider a 'serious' author, too. In fact, it wouldn't be unfair to say that, at times, he's a bit too serious. This is a novel of ideas. More than that, it's a novel of ideas written in, and set in, the late 1970s, when men were Male Chauvinist Pigs (complete with capitals), and Marxist academics seemed to be on the point of overthrowing the established order. It's also in parts an English Country House novel; a spy thriller; a satire on the workings of what we were only beginning to call the Media; a spirited defence of science fiction; a David Lodge-style academic conference novel; a tale of thwarted and misdirected passion; and a semi-autobiographical family history.

Which is, to be frank, over-egging the pudding somewhat. Aldiss has some interesting ideas, and several which have not stood the test of time at all - in the end, it is these which make the book such tough going at times; there is no conscious irony in the earnest way in which Marxism is put forward as a real alternative, particularly in academic circles. None of the characters forsee that the marketplace might be the future for academia, and as a result, it seems somewhat stilted and one-sided. In addition, Aldiss seems determined to present all his characters as unappealing - more than simply flawed, Tom Squire is unpleasant and plain stupid at times; his wife Tess is by turns hopelessly wet and teeth-grindingly obtuse; and all of Tom's friends fall out with him at some point, despite the fact that they must all have come across his obnoxious - in truth, merely irritating, but it's presented as obnoxious - behaviour many times before. Tom has, of course - this is 1979 - a younger mistress who worships the ground he walks on, oblivious to any of his flaws. It just doesn't quite hang together.

And yet, I read it to the end. Aldiss is a stylist, and the story has a clever, elegant structure. And I also desparately wanted Tom Squire to meet his sticky end. In a way, he does, of course, but I think we're meant to see it as a triumphant climax. Anthony Burgess chose this as one of his 99 best novels in English since 1939; I'm afraid I struggled to see why. Perhaps if I had read it in pre-Thatcherite times; perhaps if I had mixed in Marxist academia it would all seem more real. Not yet a period piece, in the end it's a curiosity. File under 'read again in 30 years' - it will surely be a historical novel by then. ( )