Michael Crichton was in the middle of a novel when he died. Robert Preston finished it; the result is Micro. Normally, no good can come of this scenario. It is the recipe for a bastard mutant child as the replacement author seeks to assert his own voice. (Exhibit A: Any of the books with Tom Clancy and another author.) But Micro is refreshingly, not only a genuine Crichton novel, it is better than the last Crichton novel I read, State of Fear, which was a disastrous polemic against environmentalism. (A novel with footnotes? Please.)

No point in giving away the premise of this book, but it is exciting and the flaws are minor. The action keeps a steady pace and the descriptions are vivid, and (you'll see) nauseating. If you like Crichton (and some of you don't), you should find this worthy of his name.

Crichton's last five or six books were unreadable drivel. Having a second author complete one could only improve it. (Airframe might be in that count; I'd except it as a book obviously written earlier and delayed in publishing.)

MC had an entire closet full of artfully styled tinfoil hats. Complete loon. At least PKD managed to make raging paranoia intriguing.