By now, SF writers have pretty much learned not to get too technical about "hyperspace". Use it if you want it, but don't try to explain it. This lesson has not yet been generalized to "quantum mechanics". Where Simmons would have been wiser to wave his hands, he launches into full tooth-grinding toe-curling expository detail, strewn with the carcasses of differential equations flattened under the wheels of Bantam Books' typesetters.

But enough of my peevish ranting. I only knew about Simmons through his "-ion" books, which I thought were pretty good. (Yes, "pretty" good. Stop looking at me like that.) This one is less ambitious, smaller and more personal, maybe more successful.

It consists of interleaved present and past narratives, leading up to and away from the death of the protagonist's wife. The telepathic sense that they shared now drives him across the country, stumbling from squalor to horror, Simmons' evocative writing apparently making a fine case for alienation in our public places. I was disappointed by the ending; I'd axe the last two pages.