Read an extract from the science fiction novel by Alex Foster Circular Motion, the latest reading of the New Scientist Book Club

The journey was silent. I put the electronic music that I liked but, feeling anxious, I quickly put it out. I went to the morning, along the endless fences of the chain, escaping the Arctic circle to find the sun. His ascent on the tundra of the highway was freer than anything I have ever seen. Route 2 has weighed catanika and traffic at peak hours has started to collect. I had never been so far from my house before. I pressed my phone against the microphone windows, taking photos of the large animated display panels. At the end of a mountain tunnel, in low light, Fairbanks appeared. The river was incredibly brilliant, as filled with fire, attached by bridges, wearing between the blue roofs. The city seemed so warned for the inhabitants that Keber Creek, so much larger not only in space but in the mind. However, even as capacial as the city, I quickly struck Gridlock. And construction: even as large as it was, it was in larger construction. The cranes fed on Fairbanks from above. Saw horses have blocked all other roads, and men with torn hammers have torn the detours. There was no snow. The directions of my phone continued to rebroadcast. My truck seemed to be the only one that did not behave, and approaching the Pod station, I was taken by lights and arrows, loudspeakers and the mineral breeze of the industry. It took efforts to obtain myself on the road in front of me. I parked in the field in the long -term outdoor and I barely had my truck bed bag when a passing car hits me to move. I turned to see that the car was empty. He moved to the passenger collection line while a circuit ship broke out above the head, and I crossed the street towards a visa aid, donuts and dunkin pods – all the destinations.

In the dome hall of the pod station, a few dozen travelers rested on wooden benches, drinking coffee and looking at their phone. I was standing near the door of my platform, impatiently raising myself that I had mapped the good route. There were a dozen circuit ships crossing the Fairbanks every hour, and you had to be sure to get on the pod that would close to the ship you wanted. The pods rose and descended, but the ships never landed – they orbed the earth, again and again and again. The clear mornings at Keber Creek, I looked up and saw their Sillcross trails. Their paths bowed north or south to various degrees, but as a general rule, all circuit ships were roughly to west to west. It was the model written by the oldest and the largest carrier of world circuit ships, the group of circonglobal circuits to the west, or CWC, on the dreams of commercial empire from the circuit to the west, it had first taken its way. It was for CWC flights that Victor Bickle had bought me a day’s pass, good for the arrival and departure to one of the tens of thousands of pod destinations in fifty-eight countries (even more for American citizens who added special visas to their passports). I knew there were people who considered circuit trips as a basic necessity (and a pass in one day did not cost so much compared to the standards of most people: about fifty new dollars for regular users and even less for new users out of well), but I could not imagine losing the feeling of wonder that I was currently feeling.

The door of my pod’s platform opened to reveal a rotating door through which several passengers emerged. Some people broke out. After the release of the last woman, I tried to enter, swinging my bag next to me. I hit the rotating door like a wall.

The woman who had just exceeded called me Honey and said to me: “You have to scan your ticket to unlock the turnstile.”

She pressed my phone against a small blue panel, the two screens kissing her teeth to the teeth.

Once, I found myself alone in a round cabin about three meters in diameter, surrounded by a low bench. He was not heated and I saw no place for luggage. The only compartment I could find was filled with barf bags.

The wall in front of me, which was a screen – all the pod walls were screens – played a promotional editing. He showed that people were coming out of the pods in various city centers and festivals. I recognized Paris and Hong Kong. A blond kid and his mother were shown out of a pod in the center of Times Square, and the camera turned to a brilliant sky with an approaching circuit container – all the fuselage, no wings – getting closer and closer until it reaches the depth of the screen and bursts immediately. He was targeting my head directly. I dodged while the hologram entered the screen behind me with a digital thrill.

Everything was more blue than blue, and the voice said: “Welcome to the world.”

The locked turnstile.

“Excuse me,” I said to anyone. “Are there any security belts or …”.

While the floor and the ceiling began to vibrate, I felt lighter, up the bench. I groped for a handful. Then I noticed that my bag of shift on the edge of the bench. I contacted it and I was overthrown by an invisible force. I shouted. But my hands did not hit the ground. I was in weightlessness. The pod had taken off.

This is an extract from the Alex Foster Circular movement (Grove Press),, The latest choice for the New Scientist Book Club. Register and read with us here.