But the book got worse. Much worse. Not long ago the main character knelt in his living room and tried to have a salvation experience, for no better reason that he was convinced that the universe was started off by the alien equivalent of a technologically-ascended mortal from a previous universe. As if that has anything whatsoever to do with the supernatural, or with a God that is related in any way to prayer or an afterlife.

Then it kept getting worse; more about that in a moment.

This journal entry brings me no joy. I am experiencing no cruel sense of satisfaction. I like Mr. Sawyer on a personal level. I've spoken with him very enjoyably at two ConFusions in a row; he's a regular there. That's why I bought several of his books, all in one purchase. I am extremely reluctant to criticize authors for their books, even when I'm as deeply upset as this; normally, it doesn't feel constructive to do so. Instead I sometimes just sit down and rewrite large sections of the book to fix it. But that's only when I have a problem with flaws from a merely literary perspective.

I don't care, for instance, that the dialog of the abortion clinic bombers in Calculating God is unconvincing. I used to be a fundamentalist and I would know. To cite just one example, I know they would rarely use the phrase "abortion clinic," because anyone dangerous enough to employ violence does not believe that's what it is. They'd say "abortuary" or "abortion chamber" at least once. They would not call their victims "doctors" because they don't believe that's what they are. They'd call them "abortionists." Even those who are not at all violent or dangerous use these terms.

But that's merely a complaint about storytelling realism. There have been cases in the past where I felt my time and money had been wasted, and my trust let down by a failure of talent; that is not necessarily the case this time, because I suppose the plot of Calculating God is fine, there's humor, there's the literature of ideas, there are clever explanations for the Fermi paradox, and the aliens are fun; but I'm too distracted to pay attention to that. At the end of the day it doesn't really hurt me if a book is merely written less well than I had hoped. I don't care how bombers are portrayed, I care how the scientific community and the entire concept of science is portrayed. I can't just be quiet when an author-- a science fiction author, no less-- accuses the entire global brotherhood of science of perpetrating a conspiracy of fraud for no better reason than to prop up their own "arrogance" and "smugness." Such an accusation crosses a line, morally. I'm phrasing it much more severely than he would, but also more accurately. No backpedaling please, and no candy coating; if the Intelligent Design movement is correct, then by corollary we would have been betrayed by the institutions we trusted, and evolutionary scientists are then villains, in my opinion, and Robert Sawyer would then be much more forgiving of them than I would. For all the smiling friendliness towards the trappings of science in this novel, there is still this accusation. It's the same friendly smile of the door-to-door evangelist who "loves" you so much he is about to tell you that you are really deluded and you deserve an eternity in hell. When I tell somebody they're deluded, I don't manufacture a smile. I'm not all that cheerful right now, in fact. There is a reason that when I want science fiction, I don't go into a Christian bookstore, home of sloppy research, thought-killing sentiments, and a needless, too-easily surrendered despair about ever reconciling morality with reason. Reading Calculating God is like going back there.

I know that a character or civilization depicted in a book does not necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author. I want very badly to believe that's the case right now. I've been holding out hope that at the end of the book it would be revealed that it was all a big misunderstanding. Robert Sawyer couldn't possibly be so hostile to science (despite the superficial friendliness to it, that is exactly what this is) and still claim any friendship with it, or knowledge of it. A knowledge of what the word "science" does and does not involve. A knowledge that crying "goddidit" is not the simplest explanation, it's copping out from finding any explanation at all. Any of the millions of people sophisticated enough to have a web feed reader pointed at the del.icio.us Most Popular list has seen umpteen thorough explanations why Intelligent Design is not just bad science, it's not science at all. I won't belabor it here. I never demand that from my grandmother, my barber, or people I'm chatting with at parties. But I expect more from science fiction authors.

I am accustomed to disagreeing with conclusions reached by science fiction authors in their novels. In fact, I enjoy it, and I often feel challenged by their views. It's not the case today, and let me tell you why. I have reached the point of the book where the main character, a scientist, repents of being so "smug" and "arrogant" in his confidence in evolution, the fundamental underpinning of all modern biology. Mr. Sawyer depicts a credible scientist who secretly, in his heart of hearts, is discomfited by Michael Behe. That's the Intelligent Design advocate who recently testified in the Dover Panda Trial that his definition of a scientific theory is so broad that astrology is a scientific theory. In the last few pages of Calculating God which I've read before sitting down to write this review, the words "smug" and "arrogant" are used, a number of times that I can't bear to count, to describe the reason scientists do not believe in a creator. Will the book end with an altar call, to lay aside our scientific endeavors whenever their solutions seem "irreducably complex"... in other words, too difficult? A creationist's call for scientists to become supposedly more objective is always a disingenuous one, because at the final outcome, there is always the request that they relinquish the scientific process itself.

Go ahead, mooch this book from me out of spite.