I can't believe this book was written in the year 2000, because it resembles a bad science fiction book from 50 years ago. Braindead, zero-dimensional characters combined with a truly corny plot result in a book that I read to the end only because I have strong moral difficulties leaving books unfinished.

At least one mystery is solved, though. I wondered at the beginning of the book how in the hell could Bova have written over 90 books as was loudly advertised, but after reading this, it's very clear. _I_ could write a book like this, and someone with a little more talent than me could churn out three or four of these each year. But I've often thought that "quality x quantity = constant" is a pretty accurate summary of authors' literary efforts, and obviously it's much nicer to read one great book than 10 mediocre ones, so I prefer authors who live by the "less is more" idea.