The whole way through, the nagging thought that spoiled the whole story for me was:
It didn't happen that way. He's wrong.
Culture wasn't destroyed, it was transformed. Instead of Californians and New Yorkers and Londoners and French and Liberians, you have Republicans and Veterans and Furries and Soccer Moms and Unitarians and Fetishists and Podcasters.
The fact that the world's many varied cultures can't be pointed to on maps anymore doesn't mean they don't exist, and it doesn't mean they don't exist in as much variety as they used to. You just can't go looking for them by flying around.
Hmmm, yes, there is that. The variety of adopted life-styles and belief systems you come across on the intarweb is sometimes more strange and wonderful than, say, Victorian-era non-Western cultures.
But then all of the "ethnic" restaurants will be serving macaroni casseroles. Meatloaf for the adventurous.
Quel dommage.
The Mars Rovers are cool and having scientific robots cruising Mars is quite an accomplishment but I was expecting bigger things by now.
How about this: A modem used in one of the first Mars Rovers was an off-the-shelf commercially-available item, not a prototype from some Skunkworks lab.
"The Future ain't what it used to be." Or, today's speculation on future technology will be tomorrow's steampunk.
Was I the only one who read this story as "Schwartz is on an interstellar ship with a wild array of aliens, and is dreaming the whole 'archaeologist on a homogenous' planet while tripping on orange fungus"? Sure, the narrator tells you where Schwartz's physical body is located and all... but you don't have to accept that, you know.
It had worried me for a while, but I'm pretty sure that's covered in lists like
Stories We've Seen Too Often, in section 9:f.
Oh, wait, the trope goes back much further than 1974:
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.
- Zhuangzi (c. 369 BC - c. 286 BC)
It did remind me a little bit of Billy Pilgrim in Vonnegut's
Slaughterhouse-Five, "coming unstuck in time", in that I wasn't absolutely positive that one setting was any more
real than the others. A bit of fallout leftover from the '60s, I guess.