A good friend of mine recommended that I read Wool by Hugh Howey. I was impressed immediately by the reviews I saw online. I was giddy with anticipation that this might be the next Asimov or Vinge. These are my two favorite Sci-Fi authors (see here) and since I've read so many of their books, and I don't want to go back and reread them yet, I'm lost. I have nothing truly stellar to read. So although I was a tad disheartened with this first passage, I am still driving on with anticipation and verve.
The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing as only happy children do. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads.
Howey, Hugh - Wool Omnibus Edition
Again, I'm still working my way through and have been happy to see flashes of the spectacular that are so commonplace in Vinge's work. But so far, this just isn't as good as A Fire Upon the Deep or A Deepness in the Sky. It might be a bit too high a mark to reach I fear. It's not a bad first line. Maybe I should give him more slack.