“I’m not daft – I’m going home.”
Had the heir to the Austrian throne, Franz Ferdinand, spoken these words on June 28, 1914 in Sarajevo, after the first failed attempt on his life, before the second attempt proved to be successful, the world would have looked different – maybe like in this novel:
World War I never happened, without the First World War there is no Second – nor the Cold War, decolonisation or the clash with Islam. Instead America is a backward continent teeming with cowboys, gold-diggers and backwoodsmen and Europe maintains its position as the – predominantly monarchically ruled – measure of all things. Germany is mainly known for its engineers and Vienna is still the centre of the world.
This capital of the multi-national empire, this city abounding with Jews, psychoanalysts and Wiener Schmäh (the distinctive Viennese sense of humour) is where the young and somewhat simple protagonist gets involved in an affair with a socialite whose husband resides on the moon – a German colony – where he works in his capacity as Imperial and Royal Court Astronomer. Yet the news that he conveys from there is dramatic: a hurtling comet, on a direct collision course with Earth, is expected to strike in just a few months’ time.
