A few nights ago I started reading John Wyndham's The Chrysalids. Wyndham is more well known for his The Day of the Triffids. It was like a crisp spring breeze blowing through an open window clearing away the clutter and must of the winter entrapment indoors. It is free of technobabble and glittering devices of near magical capacity. There are no giant ships folding space around themselves in all the myriad ways that sci-fi authors have concocted to get from point A to point B in less time than it takes to commute to work. None of these things are in evidence, and yet the story is undeniably science fiction. It is, for me, the very best kind of science fiction and a worthy example of why this period (this book was published in 1955) is referred to as The Golden Age. It does not get lost in the self indulgence of technologically masturbatory gadgetry. It focuses instead on how changes in our manner of living (in this case, catastrophic changes) change the paradigm of the human condition.