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In memory yet green : the autobiography of Isaac Asimov, 1920-1954

Page 74

by Asimov, Isaac, 1920-1992


  5 By then the Americans were on the offensive in Korea and it was clear we were not going to suffer the humiliation of being pushed into the sea.

  Horace Gold had seen what there was of The Stars, like Dust— and wanted to serialize it in his magazine, which he was calling Galaxy Science Fiction. He assured me that Brad would approve (but I worried about Campbell—and then decided not to, since Astounding was filled with dianetics for issue after issue at this time).

  The only catch was that Horace wanted me to introduce a new element of suspense. Everyone would have to be looking for a mysterious document, which would turn out at the very end to be a copy of the United States Constitution.

  I objected very strongly to that, saying it was corny and downright unbelievable. No one could suppose that an instrument of government suitable for a primitive nation forming a small part of a single world would be suitable for a stellar federation. Fred soothed me and said that I could explain that the document was merely an inspiration. It would satisfy Horace and I could take it out for book publication.

  So I agreed, but when I told Brad, apologetically, that I would have to add this for Horace's sake, he said, "That sounds great. We'll keep it in the book version, too." And he did, which is the chief reason why The Stars, like Dust— is my least favorite novel.

  The faculty at Breadloaf recognized my established-writer status and didn't lump me together with the other students. Bill Sloane, without warning, called me to speak on the nonhuman heroes of science fiction and I gave a one-minute impromptu speech that went over well.

  Then, on August 26, I helped out in the session that was designed to teach interviewing by allowing myself to serve as the subject of an interview. I was told by the faculty to answer briefly, and to interpret questions narrowly and literally, so that the students would learn how to ask questions properly.

  One student, a dentist in real life (as I recall), after it had been established that I did quite a bit of writing, asked how much money I made in this way.

  I hesitated, and then said, "About as much as I make at my job as an instructor."

  He laughed and said, with what I took as a sneer, "That's all?"

  I would have answered angrily, but Pratt intervened, and scolded him for his impoliteness to someone who was trying to be of service to them.

  There were still three days to go, but one of the students was driving back to Boston that day and invited me to come with him, and on impulse, I went. The dentist's remark was the deciding factor, I think.

  *5

  At about this time, Heinlein forged another advance, for both himself and for the science-fiction world in general. He was science adviser to Destination: Moon, the first intelligent science-fiction movie made.

  I went to see it, with considerable excitement, after I got back from Breadloaf. I was willing to overlook the Cold War jingoism at the start, and some minor unlikelinesses such as a lunar surface that seemed to be composed of dried-out sediment.

  What bothered me and, indeed, ruined the picture for me, was that an amateur actor, whom I had never seen before and have never seen since, was hired to portray a comic stowaway from Brooklyn. Aside from the fact that the comic Brooklynite was a weary cliche" and that Heinlein, remembering me, might have avoided it, there might at least have been some attempt to get a Brooklynite to do it. There must, after all, be thousands of transplanted Brooklynites in Los Angeles. Instead, the character chosen to play the part could not duplicate the Brooklyn accent. It was painful to listen to what he thought was a Brooklyn accent.

  16

  On August 28, I got my car back and had a sudden inspiration. Why not take advantage of my mobility to have a pleasant lunch?

  I was accustomed to eating lunch at the local Howard Johnson's, which was good enough for the peasantry, but surely now that I had a car, I could drive downtown and have a leisurely lunch at some fine restaurant.

  Into town I drove and learned the hard way about parking spots and their nonexistence, about downtown lunch-hour traffic and their nonmobility, about one-way streets and their nonpredictability. It took me nearly an hour to get back and then I parked the car at Howard Johnson's, trembling so hard I could hardly hold the wheel—and when I calmed down, I ate there. It was a valuable lesson.

  *7

  On August 29, 1950,1 drove to New York for the first time. It took me seven hours, counting time for getting gasoline and having my oil changed, but I did it without getting lost and without accident.

  Once in New York, I gave more of The Stars, like Dust— to Brad and promised him the last three chapters within two weeks.

  On the thirty-first, I celebrated my new mobility by driving Gertrude to Campbell's in Elizabeth and having lunch with him there. Hubert Rogers, the illustrator, was with us and he amused me enormously by telling Campbell calmly that he thought Hubbard was a faker and that dianetics was nonsense. I kept my mouth shut, since Rogers clearly needed no help.

  Then I drove Gertrude to Windsor Place, parked the car there, went into Manhattan, came back, got the car, and drove to the Bluger-mans Who would have thought, a quarter year before, that I would be driving everywhere like this?

  One of the things we did in Manhattan was to visit Gold. He gave us a copy of the October 1950 Galaxy, the first issue, which contained "Darwinian Poolroom." 6 When I read the issue I had to agree, with some awe, that Horace had put together just about the best issue of any science-fiction magazine I had ever seen. My own story was the weakest thing in it.

  Horace kept it up, too. From the first issue, Galaxy was in a tie with Astounding for the title of best magazine, in the eyes of most fans. Many of them (even I, myself) felt that Galaxy had a bit the better of it.

  Much less important was the fact that the November 1950 Future Fiction contained "Day of the Hunters." 7

  Henry Blugerman had a job again, as superintendent at a paper-box firm, and we visited him at his place of business on September 1. That was the sort of job he had before his ill-starred venture into entre-preneurship, and words cannot describe how relieved I was that he was back where he belonged.

  I got a new typewriter at last while in New York. It was another Smith-Corona portable and replaced the old one that my father had gotten for me twelve years before. I carefully kept the old one as a fallback, however, following my usual procedure of keeping all my options open.

  On September 3, I drove to Newark, where I gave a talk at Sam Moskowitz's science-fiction group there. After dinner, I drove back to Brooklyn at night. It was the first night driving I had done and, as I said in my diary, "Snow and ice are all I have not yet experienced." But then, I was in no hurry for those.

  On September 5, 1950 (my mother's fifty-fifth birthday), I drove

  6 See Buy Jupiter and Other Stories (Doubleday, 1973).

  7 See Buy Jupiter and Other Stories.

  Gertrude and myself back to Boston. It took me only six hours that time, and at one point I actually hit a speed of eighty miles an hour.

  By September 8, I had a note from Brad to the effect that the new chapters were very good, that I was constantly improving, and that Doubleday wanted to stick with me.

  Good! For I wanted to stick with them!

  I finally finished the last word of The Stars like Dust— on September 17 and mailed it off on the eighteenth. It had been much harder to write than Pebble in the Sky but it was done and "in press," as I now learned to say.

  18

  Meanwhile, a new and completely different project had been begun, quite unexpectedly.

  Ever since Bill had come back from Egypt he had been aching for some project he could throw himself into that would wipe out, in his own mind, the fiasco of the Egyptian venture. He had done a very highy regarded text in immunochemistry and had revised it into an equally good new edition. Now it occurred to him to do a general text of biochemistry for medical students. On September 12, 1950, he suggested this to me, and asked if I would be willing to help and make it "Boyd and Asim
ov."

  The suggestion intrigued and delighted me. I had an instant vision of having a complex, authoritative, and large textbook lined up on the shelf along with my science-fiction novels, thus lending myself new prestige as a double-threat man, both fiction and nonfiction.

  Besides, it was something new and therefore something interesting. There was only one catch: Bill was a full professor and his time was his own. I, however, had Dr. Walker as my academic employer and Dr. Lemon as my research employer, and they might not be willing to have me spend my time on a textbook. Boyd suggested we ask Walker directly, and the next day we did.

  His reaction took us by surprise. He did more than give me permission. He joined the project and it became "Walker, Boyd, and Asimov." I don't know that Boyd was very pleased to have his seniority bumped like that, but Dr. Walker was a very good biochemist and his collaboration was bound to help the book. Besides, if Dr. Walker was part of the project I didn't see that Dr. Lemon could object.

  Walker got to work at once. That very night we were invited to his house to help compose a letter to Williams & Wilkins, the textbook publisher whom Walker thought would be best for the purpose. It was

  on that occasion that I met Mrs. Walker, whom I describe in my diary as "a tough and talkative woman/' which is exactly right. I then added a calm, "We drove, of course."

  We made up a list of chapters, assigned one third to each of us and, by September 20, a Williams & Wilkins representative, Dick Hoover, was over to see us. We were in business. 8

  l 9

  Henry Lemon, intent on improving my technical background, signed me up for a week's course in New York on electrophoresis, a technique for separating complex protein molecules in blood and elsewhere—and for purifying proteins such as enzymes.

  I was not at all enthusiastic about this because I had long come to the conclusion that nothing was ever going to make a good lab technician out of me, but there was no way I could tell him that.

  On Sunday, September 24, 1950, I drove to New York, and the next day I began the course. There were two lectures each day, one from ten in the morning to noon, and the other seven to ten in the evening. The afternoons were our own. That first day of the course, for instance, I filled in with lunch with Brad, and then with visits to Fred and to Horace.

  The next day I saw Stanley and visited him the day after at the Compass, where he was doing some work to gain experience in the reporting profession.

  On the twenty-seventh, I met Sidney Cohen for the first time in eight years, the first time since my day on the roller coaster with Gertrude. He himself was still a bachelor, though his younger brother and sister were each married. He was practicing neurology and psychotherapy and had not changed in appearance at all. It was a great pleasure to see him.

  I was at a Hydra Club party the next day and Fletcher Pratt was insistent that I return to Breadloaf the next year and bring Gertrude with me so that I would not be tempted to return prematurely. He hinted at semistaff status, which would mean I would not have to pay full tuition. I was tempted.

  On October 1, we drove back to Boston after a sleepless night, so that I discovered how difficult and dangerous it becomes to drive when your eyes keep wanting to close.

  I didn't get much out of the electrophoresis course, by the way.

  8 It was at about this time, after over a month of stalemate in Korea, that the Americans finally broke through by a brilliant landing at Inchon, Seoul's port. With the Americans in their rear, the North Koreans had to retreat pell-mell and their gamble was lost.

  20

  On returning, I found a letter from one Gotthard Guenther, who was lecturing on science fiction at the Cambridge Center of Arts. The first lecture was on October 3, and I decided to attend.

  I took a seat well in the back without making myself known, and I had not yet reached the stage where I could be recognized offhand. I could therefore listen in welcome anonymity.

  Guenther, it turned out, was a German—a Prussian, in fact—and spoke with a thick German accent. He was, however, by no stretch of the imagination a Nazi, but was indeed a kindly and sweet gentleman, and utterly other-worldly.

  Yet he still had a peculiarly Teutonic notion of the mystical value of soil. He felt that civilization was a product of the Old World and could not flourish indigenously in the New. (When someone raised the question of the Incas and the Mayas, he dismissed them with a wave of the hand.)

  Therefore, he maintained, when Old World civilization was transplanted to the New World, a distortion was introduced and one of the ways in which this distortion was evidenced was by the peculiar American invention of science fiction, which was not to be confused with earlier European ventures in the field (Jules Verne, for instance). American science fiction turned Old World values upside down.

  Take, for instance, he said, the story "Nightfall" by Isaac Asimov. (At this point, I shrank lower in my seat.) It dealt with stars as instruments of madness, whereas in all Old World views of the universe, the stars were seen as gentle, benign, and friendly.

  He continued to describe the manner in which "Nightfall" reversed or distorted common views and, in general, built up an interpretation of the story that had me gasping.

  When the lecture was over, members of the audience flocked around him, and I waited patiently. When I was the only one left, I said, "Dr. Guenther, your analysis of 'Nightfall' is all wrong."

  "Well, that is a matter of opinion," said Dr. Guenther, smiling gently.

  "No, it is not," I said, forcefully. "I am certain you are wrong. Nothing of what you said was in the author's mind."

  "And how can you know that?"

  That was when I let the guillotine blade fall. "Because, Dr. Guenther, I am the author."

  His face lit up, "You are Isaac Asimov?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How pleased I am to meet you." Then he said, "But tell me, what makes you think, just because you are the author of 'Nightfall,' that you have the slightest inkling of what is in it?"

  And of course I couldn't answer that question because it suddenly became clear to me that there might well be more in a story than an author was aware of.

  Dr. Guenther and I became good friends after that, and on October 17 I gave a guest lecture to his class. 9

  21

  I was already working on my share of the textbook, which we finally decided to call Biochemistry and Human Metabolism. My first job was Chapter 2, which was "Protein Structure." I worked away busily and discovered I enjoyed writing nonfiction but, alas, I had the same trouble I had with my dissertation. Writing became a committee affair.

  After each chapter was done (and that meant endless looking up of references in the library, listing the important ones, constructing formulas, and so on), Walker, Boyd and I would go over the thing, word by word. It was even worse than my experience with Dawson.

  For one thing, Walker and I were antithetical in style. I wanted to be chatty, colloquial, and dramatic; Walker wanted to be terse, formal, and cold. More often than not, Boyd sided with Walker, and it was not long before it seemed to me the textbook was more trouble than it was worth.

  Having entered into it, however, I could not drop it, and I spent many months in the library, at the typewriter, and in conference. As much as possible, however, I did the work in school and left evenings and weekends free for my science fiction.

  22

  I couldn't very well forget my science fiction, for it was doing well. On October 17, I got my copy of the November 1950 Galaxy, the second issue, and it had "Potent Stuff" in it. Horace had changed the title to the totally unimpressive "Misbegotten Missionary." It kept that title through various anthologizations, but when the time came for it to be

  9 By then, American troops had reoccupied all of South Korea and had begun an invasion of North Korea under the gung-ho leadership of General Douglas MacArthur.

  included in one of my collections, I changed the title to "Green Patches." 10

  On the nineteenth
, I received the galley proofs of I, Robot, and on the twenty-fourth, the galley proofs of The Stars, like Dust—. This time there was no week spent on the loving caressing of the words. I adopted the principle I have used ever since. I got to it at once, went through it at a gallop that evening, and mailed it back the next day.

  Then, too, I was writing a new short story. I had to. I felt guilty about having given The Stars, like Dust— and two short stories to Horace Gold. I had to balance it with something for Campbell.

  On the weekend of October 14-15, 1950, I began a story called "Breeds There a Man?" and worked on it madly. It took me just two weeks to finish it, though it was 12,000 words long. I sent it to Campbell and he bought it without trouble. My conscience was at rest, especially since I thought it was a particularly good story. It was set in the near future and dealt with current problems—the need to work up a defense against the atom bomb—which is something I don't usually do. To be sure, I had an offbeat angle to it, with humanity representing an experimental culture being developed by intelligences (unspecified) somewhere off in space—a little like my thesis in "Death Sentence."

  2 3

  Toward the end of October, Gertrude had an idea. She enjoyed typing up I, Robot for me and it had made her feel more part of my work.

  Since we couldn't have children (and by now, all efforts failing, we had both resigned ourselves to our status as a childless couple), why not arrange a life based on that?

  Why shouldn't I get a dictating machine and dictate my stories? That might prove easier and faster than typing them. Then Gertrude would type them up. We would be a team.

  I was fascinated by that. I looked into the matter and found that for $400 I could get an Audograph machine on which I could dictate stories onto small, thin, plastic records, which could then be replayed with a foot-pedal device for starting and stopping, so that, through an earphone, a typist could hear a phrase at a time.

  I discussed the matter with an Audograph representative and found I could get such a machine within six weeks. What's more, he agreed to let me have a thirty-day trial before requesting me to pay. (I

 

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