Now all of the Great Three — Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein — are dead. They aren’t gone, however, not as long as they’re remembered, and just a few centuries won’t be enough for that.
They wouldn’t be great unless they’d left something great behind, and speaking of which: I’m currently reading Asimov’s Caves of Steel on my mobile, I’ve given my copy of Heinlein’s Moon is a Harsh Mistress away to spread the good words (I should buy a new one for myself), and the university library probably wants its copy of Clarke’s A Fall of Moondust back already, given that reading a book in a blaze of satisfaction and then forgetting it next to your bed, fondly looking at it now and then, is a bit of bad form.
I must return it, and to keep the master’s flame burning, maybe I’ll loan another of his books… or two… hm, they have just twenty books —
If there are few postings in the coming days, you know the reason.
