Vernor Vinge has died, but even in his absence, the rest of us are living in his world.  In particular, we’re living in a world that looks increasingly like the 2025 of his 2007 novel Rainbows End.  For better or for worse.

I know quite a few science fiction writers, some better than others.  Arthur C. Clarke and I corresponded for decades, though the only time we talked on the phone – his prediction that “long distance” would cease to exist hadn’t instantiated yet – was when he called me from Johns Hopkins to tell me that he wouldn’t, as it turned out, be able to write an introduction to the space law book I was coauthoring with Rob Merges because he appeared to be dying from Lou Gehrig’s disease.  (Fortunately, that turned out to be a misdiagnosis; I believe he was actually suffering from a severe case of post-polio syndrome).  I’ve known John Scalzi since Old Man’s War, was close to Jerry Pournelle and am still friends with his son Alex, and get together with John Ringo for lunch sometimes when we go to Chattanooga or he comes up to Knoxville.  Charlie Stross and I exchange emails, and he was kind enough to offer to help my daughter find an apartment when we thought she might attend the University of Edinburgh.  There are others, including of course Sarah Hoyt, who is a coblogger at InstaPundit.

I emailed Vinge periodically, and Helen and I interviewed him for the late, lamented podcast, The Glenn and Helen Show, where we talked at considerable length about the Singularity and the power of simulations.  (Though Helen expressed considerable doubt about whether digitally simulated sex would be as satisfying as the real thing).