The Early Asimov. Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  His purpose was plain. Irene and Henry grasped a hand apiece. There was silence a moment or two and the Phib’s great eyes glinted solemnly in the light of the Atomo lamps. Then there was a sudden squeal of embarrassment from Irene and shy laugh from Henry. Contact was broken.

  “Did you get the same thing I did?” asked Henry.

  Irene was red, “Yes, a long row of little baby Phibs, maybe fifteen-”

  “Or twenty,” said Henry.

  “- with long white hear! ”

  ***

  The story, not surprisingly, reflects my personal situation at the time. I had gone to a boys’ high school and to a boys’ college. Now that I was in graduate school, however, the surroundings were, for the first time, coeducational.

  In the fall of 1939, I discovered that a beautiful blond girl had the desk next to mine in the laboratory of my course in synthetic organic chemistry. Naturally I was attracted.

  I persuaded her to go out with me on simple dates, the very first being on my twentieth birthday, when I took her to Radio City Music Hall. For five months, I mooned after her with feckless, romanticism.

  At the end of the school year, though, she had earned her master of arts degree and, having decided not to go on for her doctorate, left school and took a job in Wilmington, Delaware, leaving me behind, woebegone and stricken.

  I got over it, of course, but while she was still at school I wrote “Half-Breeds on Venus.” Of all the stories I had yet written, it was the most heavily boy-and-girl. The heroine’s name was Irene, which was the name of my pretty blond lab neighbor.

  Merely having a few dates on the hand-holding level did not, however, perform the magic required to make me capable of handling passion in literature, and I continued to use girls sparingly in later stories-and a good thing, too, I think.

  The success of “Half-Breeds on Venus” made the notion of writing sequels generally seem a good idea. A sequel to a successful story must, after all, be a reasonably sure sale. So even while I was working on “Half-Breeds on Venus,” I suggested to Campbell that I write a sequel to “Homo Sol.”

  Campbell’s enthusiasm was moderate, but he was willing to look at such a sequel if I were to write it. I did write it as soon as “Half-Breeds on Venus” was done and called it “The Imaginary.” Although it used one of the chief characters of “Homo Sol,” the human-nonhuman confrontation was absent, which probably didn’t help it as far as Campbell was concerned. I submitted it to him on June 11, and received it back-a rejection, sequel or no sequel-on June 19.

  Pohl rejected it, too. Tremaine read it with more sympathy and was thinking of taking it for Comet , I heard, but that magazine ceased publication and the story was back on the market. Actually, I retired it, but two years later I sold it to Pohl’s magazine after all-but at a time when Pohl was no longer editor.

  But though I had my troubles and didn’t click every time, or even right away, I did manage to make $272 during my first year as a graduate student, and that was an enormous help.

  The Imaginary

  The telecaster flashed its fitful signal, while Tan Porus sat by complacently. His sharp, green eyes glittered their triumph, and his tiny body was vibrant with excitement. Nothing could have better indicated the greatness of the occasion than his extraordinary position-Tan Porus had his feet on the desk!

  The ‘caster glowed into life and a broad Arcturian countenance frowned fretfully out at the Rigellian psychologist.

  “Do you have to drag me here straight from bed, Porus? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “It’s broad daylight in this part of the world. Final. But I’ve got something to tell you that’ll make you forget all about sleep.”

  Gar Final, editor of the J.G.P.- Journal of Galactic Psychology -allowed a look of alertness to cross his face. Whatever Tan Porus’s faults-and Arcturus knew they were many -he had never issued a false alarm. If he said something great was in the air, it was not merely great-it was colossal!

  It was quite evident that Porus was enjoying himself. “Final,” he said, “the next article I send to your rag is going to be the greatest thing you’ve ever printed.”

  Final was impressed. “Do you really mean what you say?” he asked idiotically.

  “What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course I do. Listen-” There followed a dramatic silence, while the tenseness on Final’s face reached painful proportions. Then came Porus’s husky whisper-”I’ve solved the problem of the squid!”

  Of course the reaction was exactly what Porus had expected. There was a blow-up at the other end, and for thirty interesting seconds the Rigellian was surprised to learn that the staid and respectable Final had a blistering vocabulary.

  Porus’s squid was a by-word throughout the galaxy. For two years now, he had been fussing over an obscure Draconian animal that persisted in going to sleep when it wasn’t supposed to. He had set up equations and torn them down with a regularity that had become a standing joke with every psychologist in the Federation-and none had explained the unusual reaction. Now Final had been dragged from bed to be told that the solution had been reached-and that was all.

  Final ripped out a concluding phrase that all but put the ‘caster out of commission.

  Porus waited for the storm to pass and then said calmly, “But do you know how I solved it?”

  The other’s answer was an indistinct mumble.

  The Rigellian began speaking rapidly. All traces of amusement had left his face and, after a few sentences, all traces of anger left Final’s.

  The Arcturian’s expression became one of wide-eyed interest. “No?” he gasped.

  “Yes!”

  When Porus had finished. Final raced madly to put in rush calls to the printers to delay publication of the coming issue of the J.G.P. for two weeks.

  Furo Santins, head of the math department of the University of Arcturus, gazed long and steady at his Sirian colleague.

  “No, no, you’re wrong! His equations were legitimate. I checked them myself.”

  “Mathematically, yes,” retorted the round-faced Sirian. “But psychologically they had no meaning.”

  Santins slapped his high forehead. “Meaning! Listen to the mathematician talk. Great space, man, what have mathematics to do with meaning? Mathematics is a tool and as long as it can be manipulated to give proper answers and to make correct predictions, actual meaning has no significance. I’ll say this for Tan Porus-most psychologists don’t know enough mathematics to handle a slide-rule efficiently, but he knows his stuff.”

  The other nodded doubtfully, “I guess so. I guess so. But using imaginary quantities in psychological equations stretches my faith in science just a little bit. Square root of minus one!”

  He shuddered…

  The seniors’ lounge in Psychology Hall was crowded and a-buzz with activity. The rumor of Porus’s solution to the now-classic problem of the squid had spread fast, and conversation touched on nothing else.

  At the center of the thickest group was Lor Haridin. He was young, with but newly acquired Senior status. But as Porus’s assistant he was, under present conditions, master of the situation.

  “Look, fellows-just exactly what it’s all about I don’t know. That’s the old man’s secret. All I can tell you is that I’ve got the general idea as to how he solved it.”

  The others squeezed closer. “I hear he had to make up a new mathematical notation for the squid,” said one, “like that time we had trouble with the humanoids of Sol.”

  Lor Haridin shook his head. “Worse! What made him think of it, I can’t imagine. It was either a brainstorm or a nightmare, but anyway he introduced imaginary quantities-the square root of minus one.”

  There was an awful silence and then someone said, “I don’t believe it!”

  “Fact!” was the complacent reply.

  “But it doesn’t make sense. What can the square root of minus one represent, psychologically speaking? Why, that would mean-” he was doing rapid calculatio
n in his head, as were most of the others-”that the neural synapses were hooked up in neither more nor less than four dimensions!”

  “Sure,” broke in another. “I suppose that if you stimulate the squid today, it will react yesterday. That’s what an imaginary would mean. Comet gas! That’s what I say.”

  “That’s why you’re not the man Tan Porus is,” said Haridin. “Do you suppose he cares how many imaginaries there are in the intermediate steps if they all square out into minus one in the final solution. All he’s interested in is that they give him the proper sign in the answer-an answer which will explain that sleep business. As for its physical significance, what matter? Mathematics is only a tool, anyway.”

  The others considered silently and marveled.

  Tan Porus sat in his stateroom aboard the newest and most luxurious interstellar liner and gazed at the young man before him happily. He was in amazing good humor and, for perhaps the first time in his life, did not mind being interviewed by the keen, efficient employees of the Ether Press.

  The Ethereporter on his side wondered in silence at the affability of the scientist. From bitter experience, he had found out that scientists, as a whole, detested reporters-and that psychologists, in particular, thought it fun to practice a bit of applied psych on them and to induce killingly amusing -to others-reactions.

  He remembered the time that the old fellow from Canopus had convinced him that arboreal life was the greatest good. It had taken twenty men to drag him down from the tree-tops and an expert psychologist to bring him back to normal.

  But here was the greatest of them all. Tan Porus, actually answering questions like a normal human being.

  “What I would like to know now, Professor,” said the reporter, “is just what this imaginary quantity is all about. That is,” he interposed hastily, “not the mathematics of it-we’ll take your word on that-but just a general idea that the ordinary humanoid can picture. For instance, I’ve heard that the squid has a four-dimensional mind.”

  Porus groaned, “Oh, Rigel! Four-dimensional poppycock! To tell the honest truth, that imaginary I used-which seems to have caught the popular fancy-probably indicates nothing more than some abnormality in the squid’s nervous system, but just what, I don’t know. Certainly, to the gross methods of ecology and micro-physiology, nothing unusual has been found. No doubt, the answer would lie in the atomic physics of the creature’s brain, but there I have no hope.” There was a trace of disdain in his voice. “The atomic physicists are too far behind the psychologists to expect them to catch up at this late date.”

  The reporter bore down furiously on his stylus. The next day’s headline was clear in his mind: Noted Psychologist Blasts Atomic Physicists!

  Also, the headline of the day after: Indignant Physicists Denounce Noted Psychologist!

  Scientific feuds were great stuff for the Ether Press, particularly that between psychologists and physicists, who, it was well known, hated each other’s guts.

  The reporter glanced up brightly. “Say, Professor, the humanoids of the galaxy are very interested, you know, in the private lives of you scientists. I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions about your trip home to Rigel IV.”

  “Go ahead,” said Porus, genially. “Tell them it’s the first time I’m getting home in two years. I’m sort of looking forward to it. Arcturus is just a bit too yellow for my eyes and the furniture you have here is too big.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it, that you have a wife at home?”

  Porus coughed. “Hmm, yes. Sweetest little woman in the galaxy. I’m looking forward to seeing her, too. Put that down.”

  The reporter put it down. “How is it you didn’t bring her to Arcturus with you?”

  Some of the geniality left the Rigellian’s face. “I like to be alone when I work. Women are all right-in their place. Besides, my idea of a vacation is one by myself. Don’t put that down.”

  The reporter didn’t put it down. He gazed at the other’s little form with open admiration. “Say, Prof, how did you ever get her to stay home, though? I wish you’d tell me the secret” Then, with a wealth of feeling he added, “I could use it!”

  Porus laughed. “I tell you, son. When you’re an ace psychologist, you’re master in your own home!”

  He motioned the interview to an end and then suddenly grasped the other by the arm. His green eyes were piercingly sharp. “And listen, son, that last remark doesn’t go into the story, you know.”

  The reporter paled and backed away. “No, sir; no sir! We’ve got a little saying in our profession that goes: ‘Never monkey around with a psychologist, or he’ll make a monkey of you .’“

  “Good! I can do it literally, you know, if I have to.”

  The young press employee ducked out hastily after that, wiped the cold perspiration from his brow and left with his story. For a moment, towards the last, he had felt himself hanging on the ragged edge. He made a mental note to refuse all future interviews with psychologists-unless they raised his pay.

  Tens of billions of miles out, the pure white orb of Rigel had reached Porus’s eyes, and something in his heart uplifted him.

  Type B reaction-nostalgia; conditioned reflex through association of Rigel with happy scenes of youth-

  Words, phrases, equations spun through his keen brain, but he was happy in spite of them. And in a little while, the human triumphed over the psychologist and Porus abandoned analysis for the superior joy of uncritical happiness.

  He sat up past the middle of the sleep period two nights before the landing to catch first glimpse of Hanlon, fourth planet of Rigel, his home world. Some place on that world, on the shores of a quiet sea, was a little two-story house. A little house-not those giant structures fit only for Arcturians and other hulking humanoids.

  It was the summer season now and the houses would be bathed in the pearly light of Rigel, and after the harsh yellow-red of Arcturus, how restful that would be.

  And-he almost shouted in his joy-the very first night he was going to insist on gorging himself with broiled tryptex . He hadn’t tasted it for two years, and his wife was the best hand at tryptex in the system.

  He winced a little at the thought of his wife. It had been a dirty trick, getting her to stay home the last two years, but it had had to be done. He glanced over the papers before him once more. There was just a little nervousness in his fingers as they shuffled the sheets. He had spent a full day in calculating her reactions at first seeing him after two years’ absence and they were not pleasant

  Nina Porus was a woman of untamed emotions, and he would have to work quickly and efficiently.

  He spotted her quickly in the crowd. He smiled. It was nice to see her, even if his equations did predict long and serious storms. He ran over his initial speech once more and made a last-minute change.

  And then she saw him. She waved frantically and broke from the forefront of the crowd. She was on Tan Porus before he was aware of it and, in the grip of her affectionate embrace, he went limp with surprise.

  That wasn’t the reaction to be expected at all! Something was wrong!

  She was leading him dexterously through the crowd of reporters to the waiting stratocar, talking rapidly along the way.

  “Tan Porus, I thought I’d never live to see you again. It’s so good to have you with me again; you have absolutely no idea. Everything here at home is just fine, of course, but it isn’t quite the same without you.”

  Porus’s green eyes were glazed. This speech was entirely uncharacteristic of Nina. To the sensitive ears of a psychologist, it sounded little short of the ravings of a maniac. He had not even the presence of mind to grunt at proper intervals. Frozen mutely in his seat, he watched the ground rush downwards and heard the air shriek backwards as they headed for their little house by the sea.

  Nina Porus prattled on gaily-the one normal aspect of her conversation being her ability to uphold both ends of a dialogue with smooth efficiency.

  “And, of course, dea
r, I’ve fixed up an entire tryptex , broiled to a turn, garnished with sarnees . And, oh yes, about that affair last year with that new planet-Earth, do you call it? I was so proud of you when I heard about it. I said-”

  And so on and on, until her voice degenerated into a meaningless conglomeration of sounds.

  Where were her tears? Where were the reproaches, the threats, the impassioned self-pity?

  Tan Porus roused himself to one great effort at dinner. He stared at the steaming dish of tryptex before him with an odd lack of appetite and said, “This reminds me of the time at Arcturus when I dined with the President Delegate-”

  He went into details, dilating on the gayety and abandon of the affair, waxing lyrical over his own enjoyment of it, stressing, almost unsubtly, the fact that he had not missed his wife, and finally, in one last wild burst of desperation, mentioning casually the presence of a surprising number of Rigellian females in the Arcturian system.

  And through it all, his wife sat smiling. “Wonderful, darling,” she’d say. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself. Eat your tryptex .”

  But Porus did not eat his tryptex . The mere thought of food nauseated him. With one lingering stare of dismay at his wife, he arose with what dignity he could muster and left for the privacy of his room.

  He tore up the equations furiously and hurled himself into a chair. He seethed with anger, for evidently something had gone wrong with Nina. Terribly wrong! Even interest in another man-and for just a moment that had occurred to him as a possible explanation-would not cause such a revolution in character.

  He tore at his hair. There was some hidden factor more startling than that-but what it was he had no idea. At that moment Tan Porus would have given the sum total of his worldly possessions to have his wife enter and make one-just one-attempt to snatch his scalp off, as of old.

  And below, in the dining room, Nina Porus allowed a crafty gleam to enter her eye.

  Lor Haridin put down his pen and said, “Come in!”