Reviews of three new books. Calculating God by Robert J. Sawyer (Tor, 334 pages, $23.95) TAKE ME TO YOUR PALEONTOLOGIST Robert J. Sawyer burst onto the science-fiction scene with all the force of a supernova, winning the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 1995 before most SF fans even knew his name. Since then, the prolific Canadian novelist has churned out books at a rate of about two a year, and operates the largest Web site devoted to a single SF author in the world (www.sfwriter.com). Sawyer writes in the stripped-down, straight-ahead style of a Heinlein or Asimov, but in Calculating God, he floats a premise neither dean of SF would have touched: What if the Man Upstairs really exists? An alien spaceship lands Klaatu-like outside the Royal Ontario Museum in present-day Toronto, and the ET inside asks not to meet with Earth's leaders but to view the museum's fossil collection. It seems that the five major extinction events in Earth's past (including the comet impact that iced the dinosaurs 65 million years ago) coincide exactly with similar cataclysms on at least two other worlds, a fact that the alien accepts as scientific proof of a divine Creator. The alien befriends the museum's head paleobiologist, an affirmed atheist, and the pair debate the evidence for a designed universe in a series of thought-provoking dialogues that cover the science but never snow the reader with SF doubletalk. And just when things seem to be winding down, a supernova threatens to extinguish life on all three worlds. Will God intervene? Matt Buckingham Autobiography of a Spiritually Incorrect Mystic by Osho (St. Martin's Press, 288 pages, $25.95)   OSHO HOLY Consistency and clarity were never the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh's strong points. On his central Oregon commune in the '80s the controversial Indian guru preached a message of individual freedom while mandating a dress code, which included a large, pendant photo of himself; he also mocked American materialism while wearing almost a million dollars in jewelry and being chauffeured in one of his 99 custom-painted Rolls Royces. The Bhagwan's ideal, which he claimed to exemplify, was Zorba the Buddha--mixing Buddha's meditative nature with Zorba the Greek's innate sensuality. Facts, definitions, and linear thinking were antithetical to his pursuit of the ethereal and timeless "Truth." Fine. Whatever. So I knew not to expect a traditional narrative from the Bhagwan's newly published book, Autobiography of a Spiritually Incorrect Mystic. What I didn't anticipate was that it would be so mind-numbingly dull. The Bhagwan, who changed his name to Osho shortly before his death in 1990, was an insufferably precocious child who didn't get any better with age. Raised by his grandparents in rural India, he fought with his teachers. Studying philosophy at university, he fought with professors and administrators. Establishing communes in Pune, India, and Rajneeshpuram (née Antelope), Ore., he took on all the small-minded powers that be. As presented in "Autobiography," however, none of this information offers even the remotest insight into Osho or his philosophy. Each chapter tells a different version of the same story--Osho tears down a false idol and opens the eyes of those around him--and each tells it in formulaic, stilted language. Osho, it seems, was ready to burst everyone's bubble but his own. (Rachel Graham)   The Sleep-Over Artist by Thomas Beller (W.W. Norton & Co., 296 pages, $23.95)   THE MORNING AFTER PILL Thomas Beller writes like a girl. Or anyway, Alex, the protagonist of Beller's novel The Sleep-Over Artist, thinks like a girl, if you buy the stereotype that chicks tend to base their lives around men. He defines himself exclusively in relation to the women in his life: his mother, his aunt, assorted girlfriends. Women shape his universe. Without them he is nothing--mainly because he is never without them. Alex may have left the womb, but he's stayed pretty close to it ever since. He spends every waking minute thinking about women, or a particular woman--devising ways to please her, wondering whether she'll leave him, plotting tiny vengeances. Beller's story unfolds in brief, unconnected flashes. Girlfriends appear out of nowhere, acting as if they've always been there; Alex lives with them and for them, eloquently obsessing over every word they say, every expression that crinkles their brow; and in a blink, they've vanished, replaced without explanation. With the skill of a super-articulate 16-year-old girl poet, Beller dissects each doomed relationship. He gives Alex a sharp, funny tone of voice that makes him likable despite his alternately prickish and pathetic behavior. "Her hostility was promising," Alex muses at one point. "If someone takes you home and is rude to you...that means they're already hating you for what they are about to let you do." It's fun watching Alex try to figure out the opposite sex, but you get the sense he's just crutching from one relationship to the next because he can't be alone. Just as you're about to lose patience, his mother gives him a badly needed maternal nudge, and in the end it seems Alex might finally find out what it's like to sleep alone. (Becky Ohlsen)