Chris tried to be a hero and it kind of blew up in his face. Then the city left that storm-planet behind, flew back into space, and things got philosophical real fast.
We’re back with John Isidore, and this chapter is one of those scenes where you don’t know if you should laugh or feel terrible. So you do both.
Part One of Babel-17 is called “Rydra Wong.” And it opens with a poem. Delany puts an epigraph at the start, a piece from Rydra’s own poetry collection “Prism and Lens.” It describes a port city at night. Hustlers, sailors, shadows, ambiguity. It’s beautiful and gritty at the same time. And it sets the mood perfectly for what comes next.
Chris deFord just arrived aboard New York City. The real one. Flying through space. And now the city wants to know: what is he good for?
John Isidore hears a TV playing somewhere below him in the building. That’s it. That’s all it takes. He grabs a cube of margarine and goes downstairs to meet whoever is there.
We’re now in the second novel of Cities in Flight, and the story jumps forward by centuries. The spindizzies exist. The anti-aging drugs exist. And whole cities are ripping themselves off the ground and flying into space to find work among the stars. They call these migrant cities “Okies,” and the Earth they leave behind is broke, used up, and slowly emptying out.
Chapter 5 is where Rick Deckard sits across from Rachael Rosen, shines a light into her eye, and starts asking questions designed to make her feel things. And the whole chapter reads like a poker game where both sides are cheating.
Some of the men came out of the woods covered head to toe in blood and bone fragments. Their uniforms were soaked. Their hands were shaking. And the day was not even close to being over.
What if a language could change the way you think? Not like learning French makes you say “ooh la la” more often. I mean actually rewire your brain. Make you see reality differently. Make you smarter. Or more dangerous.
So what do you do when you walk out of prison and find $104 million waiting in your bank account? If you’re Birkenfeld, you stand on a cold New Hampshire beach watching a sailboat fight the waves and think: yeah, that’s me.