Anne McCaffrey is best known for the Dragonriders of Pern, but her loose "Talents" SF series about superpsychics has been running almost as long. This began with the near-future (1973), To Ride Pegasus continuing a couple of generations later in Pegasus in Flight (1990). Book two introduced a crowd of new characters, notably the paralysed boy Peter whose telekinetic talent can not only move his body without help from his ruined nervous system, but—with practice—even lift payloads into orbit.

Pegasus in Space follows directly on, with mayhem and mutiny at the opening of a manned space station which Peter and talented friends helped build. Further hassles follow during his training for space haulage work: obstructive bureaucrats, crooked suppliers, murder attempts and skilful sabotage. McCaffrey specialises in feelgood adventure SF, full of romance, warm friendships and hearty meals. Somehow her villains never quite convince, and their villainies are so rapidly dealt with that the story rarely builds up much suspense. Meanwhile, the orphan girl Amiriyah who's adopted into Peter's family has a mysterious, subtle talent of her own, one which we soon guess will change his life ...

Our young hero's ambitions foreshadow this series' later, far-future books (beginning with the 1990 The Rowan ), whose "kinetics" hurl cargo across huge interstellar gulfs. While most people think his talent needs careful conservation, Peter has already teleported supplies to the Moon and has secret plans for Mars, the asteroids, and the moons of Jupiter. It all makes for an agreeable, lightweight read. —David Langford

The premise of Pete McCarthy's first book, McCarthy's Bar, is that you should never pass up the opportunity of having a drink in a bar that shares your name. There is clearly more to this plan than the obvious publicity stunt, since it could work with books as well—try reading Cormac McCarthy after reading this hilarious, informed and intelligent book, and you may well be tempted to buy books by every other McCarthy around.

Born in Warrington, Pete McCarthy decides to go back to rural Ireland, to rediscover his Irishness. The feeling that you have heard this sort of thing all before doesn't last for long. There is a serious writer struggling to make himself heard above the many excellent jokes and this is what makes McCarthy's book so distinctive. Although he can crack Brysonesque quips with the best of them ("I've often wondered how businessmen used to cope before [mobile phones] were invented. How did they tell their wives they were on the train?"), and take us through hilarious and largely drunken set-pieces, McCarthy is equally at home discussing Celtic standing stones and the potato famine.

The resulting book is a wonderful debut. By the end, we, too, would like to move to Ireland. You sense that McCarthy has such a genuine feeling for Ireland, Irishness and Irish history that he can only temper his writing with side-splitting humour. In this way, his first book successfully embodies much of what it is to be Irish. —Toby Green

One day, late in the 2090s, a new form of life—a galloping fungal growth—blooms in New Guinea and, within days, devours Earth and most of its inhabitants. Within years, it has permeated the inner solar system and gobbled four planets—the few survivors of the Evacuation sit in bases in the asteroids and the moons of Jupiter waiting for the Bloom to mutate again, to cope with the cold of the outer system, or for the enthusiasts who worship it to let it loose among them. And reporter John Strasheim is asked to go with an expedition back to Earth, supposedly to plant monitors, and to test new defences. Much of the power and suspense of this high-grade SF thriller comes from claustrophobia—a crew of six in a cramped space and one of them at least a traitor. Strasheim is an engaging narrator, a cynic with a heart of gold, who cares more passionately than he thinks for the future of humanity. Two colonies—uptight Ganymede and relaxed cyber-hedonist Port Helier—are nicely contrasted. And, because this is the sort of book it excellently is, we know that, in all sorts of ways, things are not what they seem. —Roz Kaveney

As all good card-carrying comic-book fans know, their sheer passion will never overcome narrow-minded critics and their baying cries of derision. There is far more to this perpetually underrated medium than a mix of art and prose. With this indispensable, spellbinding tome, writer/artist Scott McCloud rises to the challenge of dissecting what remains the most enigmatic of art forms. After all, says McCloud, "No other art form gives so much to its audience while asking so much from them as well". Over the course of 215 impeccably formed pages, McCloud joyously exposes and deconstructs a hidden world of icons in a most literate and valid manner. His charming guidance finds a place where Time and Space is effortlessly malleable and the reader is both a willing accomplice and necessary vessel for comics' singular magic. Cunningly presented in comic form, McCloud (or his comic equivalent) conducts a journey that spans thousands of years, taking in art from Prehistoric Man to the Egyptians to Van Gogh to Jack Kirby. Never has psychological and cultural analysis been so understandably clear, beautifully aided by clever visuals and his truly infectious love for the medium. By the end of this funny, charming, rare and exciting book, you'll not doubt the notion that a comic book "...is a vacuum into which our identity and awareness are pulled ... an empty shell that we inhabit which enables us to travel to another realm". A fine exchange for a little faith and a world of imagination. —Danny Graydon