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

by Asimov, Isaac, 1920-1992

  My gratitude to Marty meant that I remained friends with him despite his laggardness in payment and bookkeeping and that I did not unreasonably dun him for money or grow unreasonably annoyed when he came up with one more ingeniously innocent reason for not being able to pay till month after next. My gratitude was not sufficient, however, to induce me to give him any more books. Second Foundation was the fourth and last book of mine to appear under the Gnome Press imprint.

  Marty was annoyed at this at lunch, once, when it became clear he wasn't getting any more books from me, he said, rather violently, that it was a clear understanding between us that I was to alternate books between himself and Doubleday.

  There was no such understanding at all, of course, though that was the way it had happened for four years, but I didn't argue the point. I simply said, "Where are the statements for the four books you now have?" and Marty changed the subject and never brought it up again.

  4

  On May 25, 1953, I fell prey to the social conformity of the 1950s and got myself a short haircut. It was not a crew cut, such as Lemon wore, but it was short enough (like Walker's) not to require combing.

  The not-combing bit was a great relief, for even today I am no better at combing than I had been at Seth Low. I did not, however, like my short-hair appearance. I let my hair grow back to its usual length and never cut it short again.

  On May 30, Edmund Hillary of New Zealand and Tenzing Norkay of Nepal climbed Mount Everest and stood on its topmost point, without reporting either Abominable Snowmen or Martians. This, as I noted in my diary, completely ruined my short story "Everest," which I had written for Bea Mahaffey two months before.

  5

  Paperback interest was finally coming into existence in connection with my books.

  There had been a bid on Pebble in the Sky a couple of years before and, for a time, I thought there was a paperback sale. Then, however, Pebble in the Sky appeared in second-serial form in the Winter 1950 issue of Two Complete Science-Adventure Books, a magazine published by the Planet people, which featured two long stories in every issue and which lasted eleven issues. (The one in which Pebble in the Sky appeared was the first issue.)

  The magazine was not a very successful one and it didn't reach a huge audience, but it cost twenty-five cents, and there was no question but that it tapped the very audience that could be expected to buy a twenty-five-cent paperback. The paperback people who were going to do Pebble in the Sky therefore withdrew, and rightly so.

  Bradbury told me about it, quite frankly, and said it was a miscalculation on Doubleday's part, and I said, "Oh well, we'll do better next time."

  I suppose Brad was pleased that I took it philosophically, for when he had a chance to return tit for tat, he did.

  Fred Pohl had introduced me to Truman (Mac) Talley in the spring of 1953. Mac was then an editor at New American Library (commonly known as NAL), and he was interested in science fiction.

  Fred told me, in fact, that he would like to take an advance look at The Caves of Steel. I was only too eager to show it to him and to try to increase his interest in my novels. I thought I might be able to go to Brad and tell him, proudly, how cleverly I had arranged for paperback rights to my novels.

  To be sure, Doubleday controlled the paperback rights and only Doubleday could sign a contract with a paperback house, but that seemed to me to be only a detail.

  Gertrude, David, and I went to New York on June 6, 1953, so that I could take in the various copies of The Caves of Steel. On June 8, I delivered a carbon to Mac, who promised me faithfully to give it back the next day at lunch.

  I had lunch with Mac on the ninth and he did give it back. He was a pleasant person, good-humored and quick of understanding, with prominent eyes and the gift of gab, of moderate height and well dressed.

  At this lunch, he looked even pleasanter than he ordinarily did, for he praised The Caves of Steel to the skies. He said that they couldn't use it for at least a year and a half, of course, since NAL would have to wait for publication first and then for an additional year. In the meantime, though, he wanted to do The Currents of Space, and he would be glad to let me have a $2,000 advance for its use.

  I did my best to play it cool and not let him see how exciting that

  was—$2,000 for doing nothing. To be sure, Doubleday would take $1,000 and Fred $100, but that would still leave me $900.

  I said, "You understand, Mac, that Doubleday controls the rights and that you'll have to talk to them." Then I added, fatuously, "But I'll explain that I want you to have it and I'm sure that will settle that."

  That afternoon, I called Walter Bradbury and could scarcely contain my excitement. "Brad," I said, "Mac Talley of NAL has offered me a $2,000 advance for paperback rights to The Currents of Space, so grab it fast."

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, and just as I was beginning to wonder if Brad had fainted with joy, he said, "Isaac, Bantam Books has just offered a $3,000 advance for The Currents of Spacer

  Now it was my turn to be silent. Finally I said, "What do we do?"

  Brad said, "Did you commit yourself to Mac Talley, Isaac?"

  "Yes, Brad, I'm afraid I did."

  "In that case, we'll just have to give it to NAL."

  I said urgently, "Listen, Brad. Doubleday would have gotten $1,500 of the $3,000; so take that much out of the $2,000 and let me have $500 for my share."

  "No," he said, "we'll split the loss equally. That will make up for our mistake regarding the paperback rights on Pebble in the Sky. But one thing, Isaac."

  "Yes, Brad?"

  "Leave the business deals to us, will you?"

  "Yes, Brad," I said, humbly—and I always have since then.

  The incident meant a great deal to me. Doubleday had accepted a loss of $500 rather than cause me to seem to break my word.

  My word means a great deal to me and I was in a sweat of gladness that I hadn't allowed myself to be lured away from Double-day, for I didn't know if I could possibly get this kind of treatment elsewhere; and I was incredibly relieved that I had never let myself tell a man capable of such consideration that I was leaving him because I might get more money elsewhere.

  I was also glad I had never told him that I had been tempted and had refused, because now I didn't have to feel that Brad's action was a reward. He did it simply because he was a decent person.

  At a Hydra Club meeting on June 10, I met Arthur C. Clarke and Groff Conklin for the first time.

  Now that The Caves of Steel was finished, I could consider Henry Schuman's proposition seriously. On June 12, I had dinner with him and he introduced me to a Dr. Washton, who was his science adviser.

  We decided that I was to do a book on enzymes, hormones, and vitamins, the crucial chemicals of life. This meant the book would have less scope than the popular biochemistry books I had been trying to write for two years, but that was probably a good thing. I had been biting off too much. What's more, the book Schuman was proposing was to be only thirty thousand words long, less than half the length of a novel and even less than the length of a Lucky Starr juvenile.

  Dr. Washton also gave me a short lecture on how to write for the early teen-age audience. He told me, for instance, that no sentence must be longer than twenty-five words. 1

  Meanwhile, there was another sort of nonfiction book in the air. Walker was pleased with the way we had worked together on the biochemistry text, and since he had hooked me into doing a course for student nurses, he suggested that we do a chemistry text for student nurses together.

  I was not anxious to do this, for I was not pleased with the way we had worked together on the text, and I had many other books to do, which Walker had not. Nevertheless, I did not like to turn him down flatly.

  I compromised by agreeing, without undue enthusiasm, and then leaving it entirely up to Walker to find a publisher. If he failed as I thought he might, I would be off the hook.

  As I suspected, Williams & Wilkins turned down the propo
sal, but Walker then got in touch with McGraw-Hill. On June 25, McGraw-Hill wrote to ask for an outline, and I noted in my diary, rather callously, "Well, that's Walker's worry." I did not intend to move a finger to get the project off the ground.

  8

  My science fiction continued to go well. I had a contract for a third Lucky Starr book, and something new had come up.

  1 1 followed instructions very carefully in this book, with the result I didn't like it very well when it was completed. It was the only book in which I accepted supervision of this kind. Afterward, I put the lecture out of my mind and just let the words flow naturally. Things went much better that way.

  Twayne Press had the idea of producing what they called "Twayne Triplets." The plan was to have someone knowledgeable in science invent a planet with a particular astronomical or chemical situation, after which three different authors would write three different stories all based on that planet as background.

  One of the backgrounds involved two stars and a planet at the apices of an equilateral triangle—which would be a stable 'Trojan situation." There would then be a planet with two suns, each a different color, plus a few other items of interest. I could carry it from there, and two other authors, Poul Anderson and, I believe, Virginia Blish, were to do the other two stories of the Triplet. When all three were done we would have a book out of it.

  I thought about it and found a flaw. I knew that I could write to order, but what about Poul and Virginia? What if they couldn't get around to it? What if they got stuck in the middle and never finished? The book would, in that case, never be done.

  I said, "Is it all right if I sell first serial rights and have it appear in a magazine first?"

  "Yes," I was told.

  So I did just that. I talked it over with Campbell on my mid-June visit to New York and then spent the rest of the month working on the story (which Campbell suggested I call "Sucker Bait").

  My caution paid off. Poul Anderson wrote his story (and eventually also sold it to Campbell), but I don't think Virginia got around to writing hers—and Twayne Press folded anyway. By then it didn't matter. I sold it to Campbell, who paid me $1,000 for its 25,000 words.

  9

  With July 1, my school salary went to $6,000 per year, but $1,000 was still slated to come from the student-nurse course. That was not good, since if the nurse-teaching turned sour, I might find myself back at $5,000, where I had started over four years before.

  The money was not vital, but the insult involved in a salary cutback was. I made up my mind that if that was threatened, I would resign.

  10

  But why worry? It was time for vacation. This year, Gertrude determined that it would be Henry and she and I who would take a week off, while Mary would stay with David.

  I was not sure this would work. David was now two months short of being two years old—very active and very strong-willed—and Mary might not be able to handle him.

  Mary expressed her willingness, however, and Gertrude hadn't been away from David for nearly two years, so we chanced it.

  We went to a resort named "Merriewoode" this time. It was on an island and there was a pleasant sense of isolation in knowing that people could only arrive, or leave, on a boat.

  It was extremely quiet and we called back home frequently to make sure that David and Mary were all right. (They were.) About the only thing I can remember about the vacation otherwise is that we learned to play Scrabble in the course of it, and were hooked. Once we got back we bought a set and played endlessly.

  11

  When we got back on July 13, I invented my first limerick. A friend suggested a first line, which went "A priest with a prick of obsidian," and dared me to complete it.

  After considerable thought, I said:

  "A priest with a prick of obsidian Was a foe to the hosts of all Midian. Instead of immersion Within a young virgin 'Twas used as a bookmark in Gideon."

  I explained that the "hosts of Midian" was a biblical synonym for evil and that "Gideon" was a reference to the Gideon Bible, but no one thought much of it. However, when I challenged anyone present to do better, no one could.

  On that same day, I began work on the book for Henry Schuman. I called it The Chemicals of Life, and even though it was a book intended for teen-agers, I felt it to be a scholarly book, and I did some of the work at school.

  12

  On July 18, I received a letter from Fred Pohl. He had given up the fight to keep going and was ending his agency. Suddenly I was without an agent again after he had represented me for 4^4 years.

  My feelings were mixed. I was sorry that he had failed, but I was eager to represent myself. As he had for most of the time he repre-

  sented me, Fred had some money of mine he had held back. Eventually he paid me, but for the final $1,000, I traded him my contracts. He controlled the contracts for my first seven science-fiction books and I would have had to pay him 10 per cent of any further earnings I made on those sales that had taken place while he was my agent. I didn't expect that Fred's cut on what was still to come would amount to $1,000, but it was worth it to me never to have to go through the bookkeeping.

  I have never had a literary agent since, and to be honest I have never wanted one.

  13

  July 26, 1953, was not only our eleventh wedding anniversary, it was also the eleventh wedding anniversary of Bemie and Ruth Pitt, who were now as well ensconced in the department as we were. We joined forces and celebrated the combined anniversary at a steak house in Framingham.

  What we did not know was that on that very day someone named Fidel Castro attempted a coup in Cuba and failed to overthrow the dictator, Batista. Castro began a guerrilla movement, however, which he called "the Twenty-sixth of July Movement" and he kept it going in eastern mountains until it was successful.

  Also on that day, a truce was finally signed in Korea, ending the Korean War, in stalemate, after three years and a month.

  Scott Meredith wrote me a letter as soon as he heard of Fred's failure and offered to take me on, but for the second time I refused politely. Forry Ackerman also wrote to make a similar offer, and I refused thai too.

  I think everyone waited for me to get either tired or disillusioned with representing myself, but they had a long wait. I never got either tired or disillusioned.

  Fortunately, the passing of Fred's agency in no way affected the even tenor of my writing, and we celebrated David's second birthday on August 20 pleasantly and calmly.

  *5

  The eleventh World Science Fiction Convention was being held in Philadelphia over the Labor Day weekend, and on Thursday, Sep-

  tember 3, 1953, we went to New York, where we left David, then on to-Philadelphia on the fourth. The convention was beginning and I met Randall Garrett, James Gunn, and Philip Farmer, three new authors I had not met before.

  Garrett was an incredibly intelligent fellow who bubbled over constantly. It was as though his tap had been turned full-on and nailed there. Mine seemed to be turned on also, I admit, but I could always shut down if I had to. He, apparently, could not. When I turned it on, too, though, the pair of us were incredibly loud.

  Gunn was a quiet, youthful, and handsome fellow, while Farmer was equally quiet, not quite so youthful, and not quite so handsome.

  At that same convention I met another personage, not a professional author yet, but destined to become one, and a more colorful one, perhaps, than anyone else in science fiction, even myself. He was just a boy then, perhaps no more than eighteen.

  He was a little fellow. He insists he is five feet, five inches tall, but that is, I think, by a specially designed ruler. He is five feet, two inches tall by the internationally accepted yardstick. Either way he had sharp features and the livest eyes I ever saw, filled with an explosive concentration of intelligence.

  Those live eyes were now focused on me with something that I can only describe as worship.

  He said, "Are you Isaac Asimov?" And in his voice was awe an
d wonder and amazement.

  I was rather pleased, but I struggled hard to retain a modest demeanor. "Yes, I am," I said.

  "You're not kidding? You're really Isaac Asimov?" The words have not yet been invented that would describe the ardor and reverence with which his tongue caressed the syllables of my name.

  I felt as though the least I could do would be to rest my hand upon his head and bless him, but I controlled myself. "Yes, I am," I said, and by now my smile was a fatuous thing, nauseating to behold. "Really, I am."

  "Well, I think you're . . ." he began, still in the same tone of voice, and for a split second he paused, while I listened and everyone within earshot held his breath. The youngster's face shifted in that split second into an expression of utter contempt and he finished the sentence with supreme indifference "—a nothing"

  The effect, for me, was that of tumbling over a cliff I had not known was there, and landing flat on my back. I could only blink foolishly while everyone present roared with laughter.

  The youngster was Harlan Ellison, 2 you see, and I had never met him before and didn't know his utter irreverence. But everyone else there knew him and they had waited for innocent me to be neatly poniarded—and I had been. Someone might have warned me, but no one did.

  It was all good clean fun, and ever since then Harlan and I have loved each other deeply and truly, but he can't ever come near me without my breaking out into a rash of small-jokes, and he is equally prone to fat-jokes.

  The fan world tends to think there's a deadly feud between us, but they're quite wrong. It's just our way of honing our wise-guyishness against each other's sensibilities. 3

  On the evening of the fifth, Sprague, John Clark, and I went out to a local radio station where a local talk-show host interviewed us. We were made to order for him, for he thought it the funniest thing in the world that science-fiction people were having a convention. ("What do you do, wear beanies?")