Interestingly, this collection manages the multiverse by evading it. Moorcock, in the process of being acknowledged a genius, was consigned to the "too hard" basket. Even the proto-steampunk The Warlord of the Air (1971) turned up characters I had never heard of, but with whom I was meant to be familiar. All his work was tangled together, one giant multiverse of interlinked Eternal Champions with not a single loose thread (in print) to start tugging at.
As I began to recognise author names, and took my first glancing looks at SF fandom and criticism, I discovered that Michael Moorcock was difficult and began to grow afraid. In my early, voracious SF reading, Moorcock went down with the rest-Wolfe, Silverberg, Doctor Who novelisations, Patrick Tilley, Asimov and anything with a Gollancz yellow cover.
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