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

by Asimov, Isaac, 1920-1992

  10 See Nightfall and Other Stories (Doubleday, 1969).

  explained there was no way of knowing if I could dictate a story without trying to do so first.)

  On November 9, I got my Audograph, dictated a letter, and Gertrude transcribed it. It went very well. On the eleventh, I got to work in earnest and began dictating the first scene of a new story called "Hostess" into the Audograph. In 2V2 weeks, I had it finished and transcribed—12,000 words. What's more, it read just as though I had written it in the usual manner. We were a good team and we were both delighted.

  24

  While the story was being written, however, something very frightening took place.

  On November 21, 1950, right after the morning rituals of elimination, bathing, and shaving, I was struck with acute abdominal cramps that I recognized at once as being similar to that which hit me in Stuyvesant Town two years before. The difference was that then it lasted for twenty minutes and now it went on and on—and on—

  I endured the agony for two hours before breaking down sufficiently to send a frightened Gertrude across the street to fetch a Dr. Adler, whose nameplate we saw in his window. Fortunately he was in and fortunately he ran over.

  I thought it was appendicitis, of course, but he asked questions about the location and made the correct diagnosis. I had a kidney stone and what I was suffering from was "renal colic." No doubt I'd had one two years before and passed it. 11

  Dr. Adler said that the pain would pass but that I would need X rays to locate the stone. He offered me morphine to ease the pain, but I refused, having an antipathy to addictive drugs. He left and after fifteen minutes more I could not bear the martyrdom and, in an agony of shame, sent Gertrude across the street to ask for the morphine.

  Back came the doctor. He had called an ambulance and off I went to a small local hospital. It was the first time in my life (and the only time so far) that I was in an ambulance, and the first time I was in a hospital as a patient.

  There they gave me a hefty shot of morphine, and in a little while the pain left. More than the pain left. All my. troubles, all my concerns,

  11 Had I reported the pain to a competent doctor two years before, and had it been diagnosed, I could have taken appropriate preventive measures—making certain I drank two quarts of water a day—and would then probably have prevented the much greater agony now.

  all my worries left. I lay there, I remember, facing the wall, in complete peace. It wasn't euphoria; it was better than euphoria; it was quiet, calm nirvana. I didn't feel bored. I didn't have to think. I just lay there at rest. Neither before nor since have I ever felt so free of all the endless indignities of life.

  Gertrude sat at the bedside and I, with my back to her, felt her holding my hand. I don't know how much time passed, but a nurse came in and asked Gertrude if she would care to eat and assured her I would be all right. Gertrude left. I did not know this at the time; Gertrude told me of it afterward. All I know was that after a while, I was conscious that Gertrude was not holding my hand. I wondered if she were still there, but it seemed too much trouble to turn around. I felt only the smallest, most distant pang of regret at the thought that she might not be there, and then I let that go, too.

  The memory of that one time under morphine convinces me that I will have to be under equivalent pain before I ever accept another shot. That feeling of ultimate peace, if experienced just a few times, would have an attraction I couldn't resist and I would be an addict. Fortunately, I have never had to accept another shot.

  By dinnertime I was myself, sufficiently myself to be apprehensive that the pain would return, but it did not. While I was sedated, the kidney stone stopped doing whatever it had been doing to cause the pain.

  They fed me, to my great satisfaction. I am very fortunate that I like food, for though people complain bitterly about banquet food and hospital food, for instance, I find them good. (There's always the memory of the Navy Yard cafeteria, of course, but that was exceptional.)

  Then, just before I was expected to fall asleep, they brought me another glass of orange juice. It looked a little oily but I just said, "More orange juice! Good!" and took a swig.

  Now, there are some tastes you never forget. What there was in that orange juice I had taken only once before, when I was a boy of no more than eight—but I remembered it at once.

  "Castor oil!" I said, aghast.

  "Finish it," said the nurse, austerely.

  I finished it. That night, I did not sleep.

  I have never had any need for laxatives. I am always perfectly regular. Therefore, to dope me with a good, strong one created havoc. I was up all night emptying. I think my alimentary canal must have sent out for extras.

  The next day they injected into one of my veins an iodine-containing compound that was opaque to X rays, waited till it was being

  eliminated through the urinary tract, took the necessary X rays, and located the kidney stone. It was partway down the left ureter.

  They told me that I might pass it if I drank a lot of water constantly and never let myself get dehydrated. Not only would that help pass the stone but also it would keep me from forming others.

  (When I was told all this, I suddenly remembered that once my father had told me that a doctor had said he had "sand in the urine." These were probably crystals, tiny stones. The tendency to stone formation was undoubtedly inherited.)

  They sent me home and told me that if I didn't pass the stone in two weeks to come back and they would probe for it.

  Weill I didn't intend to do that unless forced into it, so I spent the next few weeks drinking water. As I said bitterly on numerous occasions afterward: Other people drink when they're thirsty; I drink when I pass the sink.

  It meant frequent visits to the bathroom, all the more so since the urinary tract was irritated, especially when the stone worked itself lower and began to push the button that signaled "You've got to go." (It also meant that, to this day, if I ever sleep through the night without having to get up at least once to visit the bathroom, it means I haven't been drinking enough water and am in danger.)

  Since I was told to catch the stone for analysis if I could, I had to urinate into a jar (when this was possible) and inspect it to see if I had caught anything. In this fashion, weeks went by. Sometimes I was in dull low-back pain, sometimes I was uncomfortable, but there was no agony such as that on the first day. 12

  12 While I was in the hospital, American troops had reached the Chinese border, and virtually all of North Korea was under American control. The war looked over to me and it did to MacArthur, too, for he promised the soldiers they'd be home by Christmas. Unfortunately, on November 28, Chinese troops poured across the border and caught the overconfident Americans by surprise and sent them into headlong retreat.

  Pregnancy

  On November 29, 1950, I received a letter from Sprague de Camp. Catherine was pregnant again. She was forty-three years old at the time.

  I sighed. In my more despondent moments over the problem of children, it seemed to me that everyone could have them, and did have them, except us.

  Concerning my literary children, however, there was no problem. We drove to New York on December 1, and the next day I went to Greenberg's office and found him and his partner, David Kyle, placing covers on a number of copies of I, Robot

  My second book!

  I autographed a number of the books for Greenberg's use and then went to a bookshop where an "autographing party" was held. It was my first such affair and it was not exactly an exuberant success. About ten people bought books and I autographed them.

  On December 3, Gertrude and I went to Newark to attend Mosko-witz's group, the Eastern Science Fiction Association. Ted Sturgeon was the speaker and talked about his story in the next issue of Galaxy. I was transfixed with horror. One of the gimmicks in his story was precisely mine in "Hostess." What's more, he had Derek and Verna as male and female characters, and I had Drake and Vera.

  I felt this was goin
g to make it impossible for Horace Gold to use "Hostess." It nearly did. After he read it, he told me I would have to make changes to reduce the similarity, and he said it regretfully for he thought mine was the better story. I objected that the changes he asked for would kill the point of the story, but he insisted.

  On the way back to Somerville on December 4, Gertrude, who had become so involved in my stories that she wanted to know as much as she could, asked me where I got my ideas.

  "Anywhere," I said. "I could write a story about a trip from Boston to New York, for instance."

  I thought about it for a while, told her the plot that occurred to

  me, and the next evening began to write a story I called "What if—?" It was actually an Unknown story, a tale of alternate time-paths revealed by a supernatural figure, but I did my best to make it sound science-fictiony. I completed it in two weeks. 1

  3

  On December 12, I ate my first pizza and found it delightful.

  At about that time, too, The Stars, like Dust— began running as a three-part serial in Galaxy, under the absolutely silly title of "Tyrann." (Gold was a good editor, but his taste in titles was execrable.) The first part made the cover in the January 1951 Galaxy.

  I completed my education in driving now by finding ample opportunity to make my way through ice and snow. On December 15, when I was approaching a friend's home far out in the suburbs, I found myself caught on icy roads. I made it, but it was a frightening experience.

  Then, on December 26, I found that I had to get back from school in falling snow and a thick layer on the ground. I was very uneasy about it. Mrs. Walker, who worked at the school, teaching chemistry to student nurses, volunteered to come with me. This was courage above and beyond the call of duty on her part. I got home safely, but the added security of having her in the car to advise and help if that were necessary was, I'm sure, what made it possible.

  And meanwhile, I had begun a new novel, The Currents of Space.

  5

  Gertrude was having trouble with her period. She was usually irregular and one couldn't predict when it would come. Once she was within a week of one, however, she could tell unfailingly that one was on the way.

  In the beginning of December, one was on the way, and we both waited patiently, and it didn't come. She remained premenstrual for weeks and both of us grew impatient and concerned.

  On December 28, we drove to New York, and the next day I saw

  1 By now the Americans had evacuated North Korea. We had not suffered such a defeat by a foreign enemy since the British took Washington in 1814—and it was MacArthur who suffered it.

  Brad and told him about The Currents of Space. It was to be a complicated story of interstellar intrigue and racism. He approved.

  Then to Gold's, where I rewrote "Hostess" on the spot, and he took it at $.03 a word. After that, I sat back and unloaded some of my troubles, not the least of which was my concern over Gertrude's condition. "Her period won't come," I said. "She's been on the verge all month and nothing happens."

  And Evelyn Gold, who had a son, said, "For goodness' sake, Isaac, she's pregnant."

  I laughed and said, "Don't be silly."

  I stopped off to see Campbell the next day, and he agreed to match Galaxy's $.03 a word. He also told me that I "was one of the greatest science-fiction writers in the world." That meant much to me coming from Campbell. He didn't flatter.

  And if so, he had made me that. He had brought me a long way in 13V2 years.

  And so 1950 came to an end. It was the first year since 1944 * n which we did not move once in the entire year.

  In it, I had published two books. Because the question often arises these days as to the number of books I have published and because I am frequently asked to list them all (which I cannot do very easily), I will list them in this book year by year. To list them in this fashion will mean, furthermore, that I won't have to deal with each of them separately as they came up, if there is no real significance in doing so. For 1950, then, we have:

  1. Pebble in the Sky (Doubleday)

  2. I, Robot (Gnome)

  Financially, 1950 was an utter surprise. There was no way I would have predicted it, but everything seemed to move in my favor. The stories I wrote were longer and were sold for higher rates. When Horace took The Stars, like Dust— for serialization, that alone brought in nearly as much money as I had made in all of 1949. Add to that the advance from Doubleday on that same book, and the royalties they paid me on Pebble in the Sky. There were other sales at rates of up to $.03 a word, and apparently an ever-increasing market in anthologizations. By mid-July of 1950, I had matched my 1949 record, and by the end of the year, my earnings had just topped the $4,700 mark.

  It was nearly three times the previous record of 1949, over half of what I made in all the years of writing before 1950, more than I made as an annual income from Elderfield, and almost as much as the $5,000 stipend I earned at Boston University. And all this from a spare-time activity.

  For the first time, the thought flickered across my mind that I might conceivably make a living as a writer if I chose to.

  In a way it was exceedingly fortunate that this had happened when it did and not two years sooner. Had I reason to think the thought at the end of 1948, rather than at the end of 1950, I would never have been persuaded to move to Boston in search of a livelihood. I would have been content to remain in New York and take a job there, if anywhere.

  And that would have been bad, I think. My academic position at Boston University School of Medicine was valuable to me; the prestige it brought was useful; the background it supplied for writing other than science fiction was indispensable. No, my literary poverty lasted just exactly long enough. It served to deposit me in the Medical School, and then it rose sharply so that I would not be stranded there for life.

  7

  With all that, I was ready for a hilarious New Year's Eve party and, as the year before, we celebrated at Roz Wylie's house.

  It differed from the previous year's celebration in two ways. First, I didn't drink. This year J was driving, and that meant no funny stuff. Second, there was kissing going on. (There may have been more than that, for all I know, but I was aware only of kissing.)

  I took part in the kissing, too, for the one thing I particularly remember about that evening was kissing Evelyn Harrison, the pretty wife of Harry Harrison (who was then just beginning what was to become a career as a science-fiction writer of the first rank). Rather without my intending it, it became a passionate kiss—something I didn't indulge in outside the marital bond. It lasted quite a while by the time we pulled apart.

  It was a little frightening to find myself reacting so, but rather pleasing to find I was inducing a woman to react so.

  It was a pleasant thought for the next morning. That, and the fact that my writing earnings were very nearly equal to my instructor's salary so that I hadn't really lied to the dentist at Breadloaf four months before. That, and the subsidiary thought that my total income for 1950

  was very nearly $10,000, a figure I had always thought of as the dream income representing the absolute limit of which I was capable.

  8

  But I couldn't linger over the past, for we were, as always, moving into the future at the same relentless, unvarying pace as always.

  Though I had laughed heartily at Evelyn Gold's suggestion that Gertrude was pregnant, I didn't forget it. I put it to Gertrude on January 2, 1951, while we were driving to Boston. (That was one way of celebrating my thirty-first birthday.)

  She admitted she thought she might be, but had been reluctant to speak of it for fear of seeming foolish. Figuring backward, she thought she might have become pregnant on December 1 or slightly before— shortly after the kidney-stone incident.

  The next day we consulted Adler, and he told us how one went about arranging for a pregnancy test. On the fourth I rushed a urine sample downtown and on the fifth the results came in. Gertrude was indeed pregnant! When I ha
d received news of Catherine's second pregnancy and had sighed over our own inability to do the same, Gertrude was about to be under way.

  The fact of the pregnancy did not stop our scheme of dictate-and-transcribe. I had been asked by Raymond J. Healy (one of the co-editors of Adventures in Time and Space) to collaborate on a new idea of his, an anthology of original science-fiction stories, for which he would pay competitive rates. It seemed interesting and on January 6, while I still had stars in my eyes over the pregnancy, I began "In a Good Cause—," an ironic story in which the carefully developed villain turns out to be the hero in the end. It was very Campbellesque and rather against my own philosophy, but a story sometimes takes the bit in its own teeth.

  There were, then, three stories dictated by me and transcribed by Gertrude: "Hostess," "What if—?," and "In a Good Cause—." I considered all of them good stories, quite comparable with those I typed, and all three were successful. Healy took "In a Good Cause—," and "What if—?" was sold later on. 2

  One thing the pregnancy initiated was a rise in the intensity of our search for a new apartment. We already knew that we didn't want to stay another summer in the attic, but with the baby scheduled for Au-

  2 And meanwhile, American troops were retreating in South Korea again, and Seoul and Inchon were lost for a second time.

  gust, the matter became something of utter urgency. There was no way I could allow Gertrude to go through an attic summer while in the last stages of pregnancy.

  By January 9, we were looking at new places and undergoing the usual uncertainties and heartaches of trying to make some decision.

  9

  No doubt the trotting around after apartments and the anxieties arising therefore made things very difficult for Gertrude. On January 28, she began staining, and, in an agony of apprehension over a possible miscarriage, I rushed her to the Massachusetts Memorial Hospital (the one associated with the Medical School), where Anthony Elia, her obstetrician (and head of the Obstetrics Department at the Medical School), seemed unworried.