The new Michael Bay film, The Island is a tale in the tradition of Frankenstein, giving us a dehumanized dystopia in which science makes its own rules, beholden to no higher values outside itself. Dramatic stuff.

A similar subject, far less theatrically told, is the subject of Kazuo Ishiguro's recent novel, Never Let Me Go. No explosions or vivid escapes here, but the result is no less frightening and probably, not surprisingly, far more thought-provoking.

Ishiguro sets his novel in England in the late 90's. Parts of the landscape are recognizable, but hints abound—in unfamiliar terminology, in odd social norms—that the children in whose lives we are immersed are living in a world not quite like ours.

The narrator, Kathy, introduces herself as a 31-year-old "carer," and from that point plunges into reminiscence and an obsessive, but oddly casual self-scrutiny. One memory leads to another as she takes us back into her childhood at an isolated, elite boarding school named Halisham.

Kathy and her friends, Tommy and Ruth, live with other children and, not teachers, but "guardians." They are constantly told how special they are and how important it is for them to take excellent care of themselves. Their classes seem to focus primarily on the arts, the fruits of which are occasionally collected by a mysterious woman from the outside known to them only as Madame.

Kathy's recollections of rivalries, bullying and peer pressure are the stuff of many school memoirs, but here they are suffused with mystery. Why, indeed, are these children so special? For what are they being prepared?

As the story proceeds, we begin to understand, slowly, and with a growing sense of horror. (SPOILER: Stop reading here if you do not want to know why. I really don't think your appreciation of the book will be diminished by knowing, however.)

The children are, to put it, bluntly, clones, created for the express purpose of providing organ donations. They will grow into young adulthood, and most will spend some time, as Kathy is doing, as a carer—a support person for donors—her fellow students who have been called, to donate, one by one, vital organs. Usually, after the fourth donation, a student will complete—that is, die.

And eventually, the carer will become a donor, as well.

Despite what the bare bones of the plot might lead you to believe, Never Let Me Go is not a science-fiction tale. The process that defines these young people's lives is never directly described or shown, and aspects of it remain shrouded in mystery throughout the book. The reason for that, of course, is that Ishiguro's real subject is not the process, but the people—the victims, you might say, of the most utilitarian evil, made all the more horrific because it is presented from the unquestioning point of view of a rather ordinary young woman.