Published in 1928, this is a chatty Wells novel, coddiwompling between social satire, Moreauvian adventure yarn, psychological fantasy, and intellectual prattle. A cursory peek at Wells’ literary output shows an unstoppably prodigious bench and, post-1912, a canon of increasingly unknown and unreprinted works, punctuated by a late-career masterpiece with The Shape of Things to Come in 1933. It is interesting to burrow into these buried novels to unearth the neglected pearls, a task I intend to perform across the rest of my sedentary, unsexy existence, expecting to find many middling and didactic tracts along the way, and the occasional rambling, improvisatory slice of piffle such as this. The reason for this wanton burrowing? I am a ravenous canon-eater. I munch on canons like rabid pandas gorging on bamboo to fatten themselves into unextinction. I usually end up puffy-eyed and bloated and slashing my literary lovers with scythes of snark around the 23rd novel mark. Furor scribendi.