All of which illustrates a peculiar thing about science fiction: people expect it to predict the future. All H. G. Wells had to say was “shit’s going to blow up in 1940”, and everyone thought he was fucking Nostradamus. The label stuck – science fiction was about predicting the future.

Only it’s not. It can’t be. The future is a moving target. It’s not predictable like the weather – and even weather forecasting misses the odd devastating hurricane. Science fiction’s never going to tell you what you’ll be doing next year. What it really does is use speculation to examine the present-day condition – but it can, however, warn you about possible futures.