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I don't think there's a better book by Arthur C. Clarke than this. These stories are taut, memorable, moving, full of the pain of one form or another of exile. Sure, there are one or two amusing throwaways, but has there ever been a more poignant story of homesickness than "If I Forget Thee, Oh Earth", or a more bleakly ironic memorial to human folly than the closing paragraphs of the title story? If you, like I, have found much of Arthur C. Clarke's late work less than inspiring, read these early stories to discover what a tremendous writer he was at his peak.