The Early Asimov. Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  What I remember most clearly about the story, though, is Fred Pohl’s remark concerning it. The story ends with Earth and Venus at peace, with Earth promising to respect Venus’ independence and Venus destroying its weapon. Fred said, upon reading the published story, “And after the weapon was destroyed, Earth wiped the Venusians off the face of their planet.”

  He was quite right. I was naive enough then to suppose that words and good intentions are sufficient. (Fred also remarked that the weapon that was too dreadful to be used was , in fact, used. He was right in that case, too, and that helped sour me on titles that were too long and elaborate. I have tended toward shorter titles since, even one-word titles, something Campbell consistently encouraged, perhaps because short titles fit better on the cover and on the title page of a magazine.)

  If I thought that my sale to Campbell had made me an expert in knowing what he wanted and in being able to supply that want, I was quite wrong. In February 1939 I wrote a story called “The Decline and Fall.” I submitted it to Campbell on February 21 and it was back in my lap, quite promptly, on the twenty-fifth. It made the rounds thereafter without results and was never published. It no longer exists and I remember nothing at all about it.

  On March 4, 1939, I began my most ambitious writing project to that date. It was a novelette (in which I named an important character after Russell Winterbotham) that was intended to be at least twice as long as any of my previous stories. I called the story “Pilgrimage.” It was my first attempt to write “future history”; that is, a tale about a far future time written as though it were a historical novel. I was also my first attempt to write a story on a galactic scale.

  I was very excited while working at it and felt somehow that it was an “epic.” (I remember, though, that Winterbotham was rather dubious about it when I described the plot to him in a letter.) I brought it in to Campbell on March 21, 1939, with high hopes, but it was back on the twenty-fourth with a letter that said, “You have a basic idea which might be made into an interesting yarn, but as it is, it is not strong enough.”

  This time I would not let go. I was in to see Campbell again on the twenty-seventh and talked him into letting me revise it in order to strengthen the weaknesses he found in it. I brought in the second version on April 25, and it, too, was found wanting, but this time it was Campbell who asked for a revision. I tried again and the third version was submitted on May 9 and rejected on the seventeenth. Campbell admitted there was still the possibility of saving it, but, after three tries, he said, I should put it to one side for some months and then look at it from a fresh viewpoint.

  I did as he said and waited two months (the minimum time I could interpret as “some months”) and brought in the fourth version on August 8.

  This time, Campbell hesitated over it till September 6, and then rejected it permanently on the ground that Robert A. Heinlein had just submitted an important short novel (later published as “If This Goes On-”) that had a religious theme. Since “Pilgrimage” also had a religious theme, John couldn’t use it. Two stories on so sensitive a subject in rapid succession were one too many.

  I had written the story four times, but I saw Campbell’s point. Campbell said Heinlein’s story was the better of the two and I could see that an editor could scarcely be expected to take the worse and reject the better simply because writing the worse had been such hard work.

  There was nothing, however, to prevent me from trying to sell it elsewhere. I kept trying for two years, during which time I rewrote it twice more and retitled it “Galactic Crusade.”

  Eventually I sold it to another of the magazines that were springing up in the wake of Campbell’s success with Astounding . This was Planet Stories , which during the 1940s was to make its mark as a home for the “space opera,” the blood-and-thunder tale of interplanetary war. My story was of this type, and the editor of Planet , Malcolm Reiss, was attracted.

  The religious angle worried him, too, however. Would I go through the story, he asked during luncheon on August 18, 1941, and remove any direct reference to religion. Would I, in particular, refrain from referring to any of my characters as “priests.” Sighing, I agreed, and the story was revised for a sixth time. On October 7, 1941, he accepted it and, after two and a half years that included ten rejections, the story was finally placed.

  But, having put me to the trouble of that particular remove-the-religion revision, what did Reiss do? Why, he retitled it (without consulting me, of course) and called the story “Black Friar of the Flame.”

  I might mention two points about this story before presenting it.

  First, it was the only story I ever sold to Planet .

  Second, it was illustrated by Frank R. Paul. Paul was the most prominent of all the science fiction illustrators of the pre-Campbell era, and, to the best of my knowledge, this is the only time our paths crossed professionally.

  I did see him once from a distance, though. On July 2, 1939, I attended the First World Science Fiction Convention, which was held in Manhattan. Frank Paul was guest of honor. It was the first occasion on which I was publicly recognized as a professional, rather than as merely a fan. With three published stories under my belt (“Trends” had just appeared) I was pushed up to the platform to take a bow. Campbell was sitting in an aisle seat and he waved me toward the platform delightedly, I remember.

  I said a few words, referring to myself as the “worst science fiction writer unlynched.” I didn’t mean it, of course, and I doubt that anyone thought for a moment that I did.

  Black Friar of the Flame

  Russell Tymball’s eyes were filled with gloomy satisfaction as they gazed at the blackened ruins of what had been a cruiser of the Lhasinuic Fleet a few hours before. The twisted girders, scattered in all directions, were ample witness of the terrific force of the crash.

  The pudgy Earthman re-entered his own sleek Strato-rocket and waited. Fingers twisted a long cigar aimlessly for minutes before lighting it. Through the up-drifting smoke, his eyes narrowed and he remained lost in thought

  He came to his feet at the sound of a cautious hail. Two men darted in with one last fugitive glance behind them. The door closed softly, and one stepped immediately to the controls. The desolate desert landscape was far beneath them almost at once, and the silver prow of the Strato-rocket pointed for the ancient metropolis of New York.

  Minutes passed before Tymball spoke, “All clear?”

  The man at the controls nodded. “Not a tyrant ship about. It’s quite evident the ‘Grahul’ had not been able to radio for help.”

  “You have the dispatch?” the other asked eagerly.

  “We found it easily enough. It is unharmed.”

  “We also found,” said the second man bitterly, “one other thing-the last report of Sidi Peller.”

  For a moment, Tymball’s round face softened and something almost like pain entered his expression. And then it hardened again, “He died! But it was for Earth, and so it was not death. It was martyrdom!”

  Silence, and then sadly, “Let me see the report, Petri.”

  He took the single, folded sheet handed him and held it before him. Slowly, he read aloud:

  “On September 4, made successful entry into ‘Grahul’ cruiser of the tyrant fleet. Maintained self in hiding during passage from Pluto to Earth. On September 5, located dispatch in question and assumed possession. Have just shorted rocket jets. Am sealing this report in with dispatch. Long live Earth!”

  Tymball’s voice was strangely moved as he read the last word. “The Lhasinuic tyrants have never martyrized a greater man than Sidi Peller. But we’ll be repaid, and with interest The Human Race is not quite decadent yet.”

  Petri stared out the window. “How did Peller do it all? One man-to stow away successfully upon a cruiser of the fleet and in the face of the entire crew to steal the dispatch and wreck the fleet. How was it done? And we’ll never know; except for the bare facts in his report.”

  “He had his orders,’�
� said Willums, as he locked controls and turned about. “I carried them to him on Pluto myself. Get the dispatch! Wreck the ‘Grahul’ in the Gobi! He did it! That’s all!” He shrugged his shoulders wearily.

  The atmosphere of depression deepened until Tymball himself broke it was a growl. “Forget it. Did you take care of everything at the wreck?”

  The other two nodded in unison. Petri’s voice was businesslike, “All traces of Peller were removed and de-atomized. They will never detect the presence of a Human among the wreckage. The document itself was replaced by the prepared copy, and carefully burnt beyond recognition. It was even impregnated with silver salts to the exact amount contained in the official seal of the Tyrant Emperor. I’ll stake my head that no Lhasinu will suspect that the crash was no accident or that the dispatch was not destroyed by it.”

  “Good! They won’t locate the wreck for twenty-four hours at least. It’s an airtight job. Let me have the dispatch now.”

  He fondled the metalloid container almost with reverence. It was blackened and twisted, still faintly warm. And then with a savage twist of the wrist, he tore off the lid.

  The document that he lifted out unrolled with a rustling sound. At the lower left hand corner was the huge silver seal of the Lhasinuic Emperor himself-the tyrant, who from Vega, ruled one third of the Galaxy. It was addressed to the Viceroy of Sol.

  The three Earthmen regarded the fine print solemnly. The harshly angular Lhasinuic script glinted redly in the rays of the setting sun.

  “Was I right?” whispered Tymball.

  “As always,” assented Petri.

  Night did not really fall. The sky’s black-purple deepened ever so slightly and the stars brightened imperceptibly, but aside from that the stratosphere did not differentiate between the absence and the presence of the sun.

  “Have you decided upon the next step?” asked Willums, hesitantly.

  “Yes-long ago. I’m going to visit Paul Kane tomorrow, with this,” and he indicated the dispatch.

  “ Loara Paul Kane!” cried Petri.

  “That-that Loarist !” came simultaneously from Willums. “The Loarist,” agreed Tymball. “He is our man!”

  “Say rather that he is the lackey of the Lhasinu,” ground out Willums. “Kane-the head of Loarism-consequently the head of the traitor Humans who preach submission to the Lhasinu.”

  “That’s right,” Petri was pale but more calm. “The Lhasinu are our known enemies and are to be met in fair fight-but the Loarists are vermin. Great Space! I would rather throw myself on the mercy of the tyrant Viceroy himself than have anything to do with those snuffling students of ancient history, who praise the ancient glory of Earth and encompass its present degradation.”

  “You judge too harshly.” There was the trace of a smile about Tymball’s lips. “I have had dealings with this leader of Loarism before. Oh-” he checked the cries of startled dismay that rose, “I was quite discreet about it. Even you two didn’t know, and, as you see, Kane has not yet betrayed me. I failed in those dealings, but I learned a little bit. Listen to me!”

  Petri and Willums edged nearer, and Tymball continued in crisp, matter-of-fact tones, “The first Galactic Drive of the Lhasinu ended two thousand years ago just after the capture of Earth. Since then, the aggression has not been resumed, and the independent Human Planets of the Galaxy are quite satisfied at the maintenance of the status quo. They are too divided among themselves to welcome a return of the struggle. Loarism itself is only interested in its own survival against the encroachments of newer ways of thought, and it is no great moment to them whether Lhasinu or Human rules Earth as long as Loarism itself prospers. As a matter of fact, we-the Nationalists-are perhaps a greater danger to them in that respect than the Lhasinu.”

  Willums smiled grimly, “I’ll say we are.”

  “Then, granting that, it is natural that Loarism assume the role of appeasement. Yet, if it were to their interests, they would join us at a second’s notice. And this,” he slapped the document before him, “is what will convince them where their interests lie.”

  The other two were silent.

  Tymball continued, “Our time is short. Not more than three years, perhaps not more than two. And yet you know what the chances of success for a rebellion today are.”

  “We’d do it,” snarled Petri, and then in a muffled tone, “if the only Lhasinu we had to deal with were those of Earth.”

  “Exactly. But they can call upon Vega for help, and we can call upon no one. No one of the Human Planets would stir in our defense, any more than they did five hundred years ago. And that’s why we must have Loarism on our side.”

  “And what did Loarism do five hundred years ago during the Bloody Rebellion?” asked Willums, bitter hatred in his voice. “They abandoned us to save their own precious hides.”

  “We are in no position to remember that,” said Tymball. “We will have their help now-and then, when all is over, our reckoning with them-”

  Willums returned to the controls, “New York in fifteen minutes!” And then, “But I still don’t like it. What can those filthy Loarists do ? Dried out husks fit for nothing but treason and platitudes!”

  “They are the last unifying force of Humanity,” answered Tymball. “Weak enough now and helpless enough, but Earth’s only chance.”

  They were slanting downwards now into the thicker, lower atmosphere, and the whistling of the air as it streamed past them became shriller in pitch. Willums fired the braking rockets as they pierced a gray layer of clouds. There upon the horizon was the great diffuse glow of New York City.

  “See that our passes are in perfect order for the Lhasinuic inspection and hide the document. They won’t search us, anyway.”

  Loara Paul Kane leaned back in his ornate chair. The slender fingers of one hand played with the ivory paperweight upon his desk. His eyes avoided those of the smaller, rounder man before him, and his voice, as he spoke, took on solemn inflections.

  “I cannot risk shielding you longer, Tymball. I have done so until now because of the bond of common Humanity between us, but-” his voice trailed away.

  “But?” prompted Tymball.

  Kane’s fingers turned his paperweight over and over. “The Lhasinu are growing harsher this past year. They are almost arrogant.” He looked up suddenly. “I am not quite a free agent, you know, and haven’t the influence and power you seem to think I have.”

  His eyes dropped again, and a troubled note entered his voice, “The Lhasinu suspect. They are beginning to detect the workings of a tightly-knit conspiracy underground, and we cannot afford to become entangled in it.”

  “I know. If necessary, you are quite willing to sacrifice us as your predecessor sacrificed the patriots five centuries ago. Once again, Loarism shall play its noble part.”

  “What good are your rebellions?” came the weary reply. “Are the Lhasinu so much more terrible than the oligarchy of Humans that rules Santanni or the dictator that rules Trantor? If the Lhasinu are not Human, they are at least intelligent Loarism must live at peace with the rulers.”

  And now Tymball smiled. There was no humor in it- rather mocking irony, and from his sleeve, he drew forth a small card.

  “You think so, do you? Here, read this. It is a reduced photostat of-no, don’t touch it-read it as / hold it, and-”

  His further remarks were drowned in the sudden hoarse cry from the other. Kane’s face twisted alarmingly into a mask of horror, as he snatched-desperately at the reproduction held out to him.

  “Where did you get this?” He scarcely recognized his own voice.

  “What odds? I have it, haven’t I? And yet it cost the life of a brave man, and a ship of His Reptilian Eminence’s navy. I believe you can see that there is no doubt as to the genuineness of this.”

  “No-no!” Kane put a shaking hand to his forehead. “That is the Emperor’s signature and seal. It is impossible to forge them.”

  “You see. Excellency,” there was sarcasm in the titl
e, “the renewal of the Galactic Drive is a matter of two years-or three-in the future. The first step in the drive comes within the year-and it is concerning that first step,” his voice took on a poisonous sweetness, “that this order has been issued to the Viceroy.”

  “Let me think a second. Let me think.” Kane dropped into his chair.

  “Is there the necessity?” cried Tymball, remorselessly. “This is nothing but the fulfillment of my prediction of six months ago, to which you would not listen. Earth, as a Human world, is to be destroyed; its population scattered in groups throughout the Lhasinuic portions of the Galaxy; every trace of Human occupancy destroyed.”

  “But Earth, Earth, the home of the Human Race; the beginning of our civilization.”

  “Exactly! Loarism is dying and the destruction of Earth will kill it And with Loarism gone, the last unifying force is destroyed, and the human planets, invincible when united, shall be wiped out, one by one, in the Second Galactic Drive. Unless-”

  The other’s voice was toneless.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “No more than I said before. Humanity must unite, and can do so only about Loarism. It must have a Cause for which to fight, and that Cause must be the liberation of Earth. I shall fire the spark here on Earth and you must convert the Human portion of the Galaxy into a powder-keg.”

  “You wish a Total War-a Galactic Crusade,” Kane spoke in a whisper, “yet who should know better than I that a Total War has been impossible for these thousand years.” He laughed suddenly, harshly, “Do you know how weak Loarism is today?”