If one abandons the odd notion that the passage of time must make things worse or better, the spectrum of possibility expands dramatically. Science fiction writers have spent much effort conceiving societies that are neither perfect nor horrific but excitingly different, alien to human experience. Robert Heinlein’s greatest popular success, the novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961), paints the fate of a prophet and social reformer who was raised by Martians. A Martian human has no earthly shibboleths, so the story’s weird hero cuts briskly through almost every pious human custom relating to sex, death, religion, and money. For obvious reasons, Heinlein’s work was a countercultural icon in the 1960s.

Many SF writers, like Heinlein, took particular pleasure in upsetting the most basic tenets of the human condition. John Varley’s The Ophiuchi Hotline (1977) is an archive of methods to shatter old human verities: characters die and are reborn as clones, change sex with ease and alacrity, make backup tapes of their personalities, and undergo drastic acts of surgery—all in a space-dwelling society that accepts such things as normal.

William Gibson’s Neuromancer, mentioned above, was widely noted for its intense depiction of a postnational world order ruled by feudal global corporations. Artificial intelligences, owned by the wealthy few, are hugely powerful entities, yet they pass almost unheeded over a seething, fractured society of outlaw geneticists, information criminals, colourful street gangs, and orbiting Rastafarians.

In Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash (1992), a future globalized society has abandoned conventional land-based government and reformed itself along the lines of electronic cults and mobile interest groups. The Mafia delivers pizza, the CIA is a for-profit organization, Hong Kong is a global franchise of capitalist Chinatowns, and life online is often of more consequence than real life.

Sex and gender

Because it is difficult to legislate relations between the sexes by conventional political reform, and because works of fiction can present a multiplicity of new arrangements, science fiction has had a particular affinity for feminism, and the attraction was mutual. In Mizora (1890), Mary Bradley Lane presented an early feminist utopia, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman in Herland (1915) imagined a society of women who reproduce by parthenogenesis.

The subject also interested some male authors. Theodore Sturgeon’s Venus Plus X (1960) examined the limits of gender in a world where sexuality and reproduction are surgical add-ons. One of the more thoughtful explorations of the theme was Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness (1969), which posited a human society on a distant planet where humans have no sexual identity but become sexual beings for a brief period once a month; each can become either male or female during this time. Le Guin works out the consequences of this sort of arrangement in meticulous anthropological detail and creates a revelatory tour de force.

Because science fiction was by nature receptive to technical solutions to all sorts of issues, including gender, readers embraced Shulamith Firestone’s feminist tract The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for a Feminist Revolution (1970); though the book was not written with a science fiction audience in mind, it nevertheless declared that women could never be free of oppression until the physical acts of childbearing and child rearing were industrialized. The influence of Firestone’s book could be seen in works such as Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time (1976) and Suzy McKee Charnas’s Motherlines (1978).

Although feminist SF tended to hope for gender justice and to declare “if only” rather than to ask “what if,” a powerful dystopian school of feminist science fiction suggested that relationships between men and women might slide from poor to downright catastrophic. Nazi cults of crazed masculinity haunt Katharine Burdekin’s Swastika Night (1937). Joanna Russ’s much-praised The Female Man (1975) suggests through its title that “femininity” is a weird condition forced on one by oppressors. Even Russ’s feminist classic paled by comparison to Margaret Atwood’s evocative dystopian misogyny in The Handmaid’s Tale (1985; film 1990). Drawn from dark contemporary trends, the bitter world of The Handmaid’s Tale is ruled by a repressive American religious regime. This dystopia finally collapses from its own hostility to women—to be succeeded by yet another historical epoch. In this sense, The Handmaid’s Tale makes an intellectual peace with historical process and transcends the customary limits of utopias and dystopias.