They agreed to call it “Nightfall,” and it came quickly. Asimov wrote in his diary, “I never had anything write itself so easily.” When he submitted it, Campbell asked for a few revisions, taking the opportunity to snap some pictures of Asimov, who had “a lean and hungry, somewhat pimply, mustached look.” A new draft came in shortly afterward. Willy Ley was staying overnight in Scotch Plains, and after reading it, he said, “From what you told me about the story, I knew it would be good, but I didn’t know it would be this good.”
When Asimov got the check, he called Campbell to say that he had been overpaid—which was how he found out that he had been awarded a bonus. “Nightfall” would later be voted the greatest science fiction story of all time, although its themes—the cyclical fall of civilizations, the warnings of disaster that go unheeded, the foundation of scientists who preserve knowledge for the coming dark age—would be more fully developed elsewhere. And in stating that humanity would be unprepared to confront its insignificance in the universe, it looked faintly ahead to the possibility of a solution, despite the bleakness of its last line: “The long night had come again.”
On August 1, Asimov was riding the train to his monthly visit when he decided to try coming up with another story idea. Opening the book that he was carrying—a collection of Gilbert and Sullivan lyrics—to a random page, he saw an illustration of a scene from the comic opera Iolanthe. His eyes skipped past the Fairy Queen, who may have seemed too feminine, to the unassuming figure of Private Willis. It made him think of soldiers and empires, and when he got to the office, he told Campbell that he wanted to write a future history, like Heinlein’s, that chronicled the collapse of the Galactic Empire, inspired by Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.
Campbell grew excited. Working together, they came up with the premise of a foundation of psychohistorians who had turned the study of human behavior into a science that could accurately forecast the fate of a civilization far into the future. It also drew on another of Campbell’s interests: “He felt in our discussion that symbolic logic, further developed, would so clear up the mysteries of the human mind as to leave human actions predictable.”
The editor had already been thinking along these lines. He had published an article by de Camp on theories of history from Spengler to Toynbee, which had gained a new resonance in light of the crisis in Europe, and, even more significantly, on April 16, 1941—more than three months before his meeting with Asimov—Jack Williamson had written to him, “I’m interested in theories of the growth and decay of cultures. . . . It would be interesting, I think, to show the logical culmination of that process in an interstellar civilization.”
When Asimov made his pitch, Williamson’s “Backlash” had been on newsstands for nearly two weeks. It featured “a scientific Shangri-La, to be a lamp of culture through the dark ages ahead,” while a later story, “Breakdown,” spoke of “politicotechnic theories” that could “reduce the laws of the rise and fall of human cultures to [an] exact science.” If Campbell decided to pursue the same concept more aggressively with another writer, it was largely because Asimov was younger, compliant, and closer at hand. He made his choice. “That’s too large a theme for a short story.”
For once in his life, Asimov was ready with a reply. “I was thinking of a novelette.”
“Or a novelette,” Campbell said. “It will have to be an open-ended series of stories.”
Asimov hadn’t been expecting this. He found himself at a loss for words. “What?”
“Short stories, novelettes, serials, all fitting into a particular future history, involving the fall of the First Galactic Empire, the period of feudalism that follows, and the rise of the Second Galactic Empire.” The editor advised him to establish another, secret foundation on the other side of the galaxy—“You may need the second one later on”—and ended with an order: “I want you to write an outline of the future history. Go home and write the outline.”
Asimov tried to do as he had been told. When he started the timeline, however, he felt stuck. Tearing it up, he got to work on the first story, “Foundation,” which would take place in a galaxy inhabited entirely by humans, avoiding the issue of aliens altogether. Campbell took it, but without a bonus—it was less striking as a story than for the concept of psychohistory, which it treated only in passing. It ended with the words “The solution to this first crisis was obvious. Obvious as all hell!” But Asimov didn’t know the answer himself, and he had to deliver a sequel soon.
At their meeting on October 27, Campbell’s first words were “I want that Foundation story.” It was enough to bring Asimov’s work, which had been going well, to a halt. Feeling desperate, Asimov went for a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge with Pohl, who made a few suggestions that allowed the series to continue. He was deeply grateful, although he later learned that they had gone for a walk mostly because Pohl’s girlfriend, Leslie Perri, disliked him intensely.
Asimov was drifting away from the Futurians. He had tired of all the drama, and he didn’t fit in with the others—he didn’t drink, smoke, or have sex. Instead, he grew closer to his fellow writers, and he even attended one of Pratt’s war games, where his three destroyers were sunk by a cruiser. Asimov sat out the rest, eating peanuts and drinking two beers. Hubbard was there as well, but he never made any effort to befriend Asimov, who clearly wasn’t worth his time.
The younger author’s mind was on other matters. Earlier that year, Campbell had told him that there was a cubic foot of uranium in Pupin Hall at Columbia. It was the first time that Asimov had ever heard of nuclear fission, and when he expressed concern, Campbell replied, “Why? Do you think you would be any safer in Brooklyn if that uranium exploded?”
In fact, there was no danger of an explosion, but the knowledge weighed on Asimov, who had just obtained his master’s degree. He later attended a lecture on thermodynamics delivered by his old nemesis, Professor Harold Urey, who lamented that he was the only one in his department who didn’t have interesting war work. Asimov piped up, “But Professor Urey, what are you talking about? What about the cubic foot of uranium in Pupin? Isn’t that your field?”
Urey turned crimson. Finally, he managed to say, “Some people talk too much.”
Asimov knew exactly what was going on, and a few months later, he registered for the draft. Because he was still in school, he was given a deferred classification, but events in the wider world were moving inexorably forward.
On June 22, 1941, the Nazis had invaded Russia. When the news broke, Campbell argued about it with Lester del Rey for four hours, insisting that Russia wouldn’t last six weeks. The two men then took the train to New Jersey, where the author watched with amazement as Campbell told another passenger that the Nazis didn’t stand a chance—and added a few new points of his own. Not only had he changed his mind, but he had even improved on the argument.
Asimov had a rather different reaction to the invasion. When the word came that the Nazis had taken the Smolensk district, he knew exactly what would happen to the villagers who had remained in Petrovichi. Deep down, he wanted to believe that psychohistory meant that Hitler’s defeat was inevitable, but at the rate that the war was going, he feared that he could expect nothing but an early death. When de Camp asked him why, Asimov simply replied, “Because I’m a Jew.”
BY 1941, HEINLEIN WAS ON THE VERGE OF BECOMING THE MOST RESPECTED WRITER IN SCIENCE fiction. The high point was the May issue of Astounding, which included the complete timeline of his Future History. It was an unprecedented act of generosity toward an individual writer, as well as the first hint of a hidden theme in his stories—in his future, the earth fell apart after the most competent people went into space. In an editor’s note, Campbell wrote to readers:
It might be of very real interest to you to trace in on this suggestion of the future your own life line. My own, I imagine, should extend up to about 1980—a bit beyond the time of “Roads Must Roll” and “Blowups Happen.” My children may see the days of “The Logic
of Empire.”
The issue also featured Heinlein’s “Universe,” which was based on Campbell’s premise about a lost generation starship. Heinlein hadn’t been sure that he was right for it—“Van Vogt probably could do a better job”—but it became one of his most acclaimed works, with a plot that turned, like “Nightfall,” on the psychological impact of a first glimpse of the stars.
Its most interesting story, however, was one that Heinlein published as Anson MacDonald. Years before the Cold War, Campbell pitched the idea of a superweapon, based on radioactive dust, that led to a destructive arms race. He proposed a twist ending that revealed that the narrator was a member of a new, superior species created by mutation, but Heinlein didn’t like it: “Too reminiscent of Slan and too much like a rabbit out of a hat.” But he failed to come up with anything better, and the finished story ended with the creation of a global police force that has monopoly power over the weapon, effectively holding the rest of the world hostage.
When Campbell read it, he replied, “The story is weak, because the solution is so palpably synthetic and unsatisfactory—and that very fact can be made, by proper blurbing, the greatest strength of the story.” It was a masterstroke of editing, and “Solution Unsatisfactory” closed with a note to the reader: “Can any solution not invoking the aid of the Arisian super-beings”—the aliens in E. E. Smith’s Lensman stories—“protect mankind against the irresistible weapon?” And the editor’s answer, which arose years later in dianetics, turned out to depend on a certain kind of superman after all.
Campbell and Heinlein moved on to an ambitious story about extreme longevity, with a colorful protagonist, Lazarus Long, who was over two hundred years old. Heinlein sent in the first section for notes before proceeding further, and they corresponded about it at length. Methuselah’s Children turned out to be an exuberant, if superficial, masterpiece, and it testified to the extent to which the editor had replaced Leslyn as Heinlein’s reader of choice. It was followed by “By His Bootstraps,” a fully realized attempt to exploit the paradoxes of time travel. Heinlein thought it was “cotton candy,” but Campbell loved it.
John W. Campbell, circa 1942.
Courtesy of Leslyn Randazzo
All the while, the question lurked of what would happen if Campbell rejected a submission. Heinlein said that he valued their friendship too highly to risk it over work: “If you someday find it necessary to start rejecting my stuff, I expect to take a crack at some other forms.” For now, the prospect seemed remote, and Heinlein was touched when the editor casually numbered him among his best authors: “To be classed as one among the sort of writers you have attracted to Astounding is one of the most completely satisfying things that has ever happened to me.”
Campbell’s praise was more than justified—the genre was still confined to the pulps, but within that closed world, Heinlein had inspired greater devotion than any writer since E. E. Smith. As the guest of honor at the third World Science Fiction Convention in Denver, he was pestered by a group of Futurians and told the crowd in his speech, “Mrs. Heinlein and I are in almost complete collaboration on everything. She never signs any of the stories, but I do better if she’s there.” On his return, he submitted “Creation Took Eight Days,” a story inspired by the work of the paranormal researcher Charles Fort, and he had no reason to expect anything but the usual reception.
On August 21, Campbell rejected it. The letter that he sent was weirdly impersonal, addressed to “Mr. Heinlein” rather than the familiar “Bob,” and signed with the editor’s full name. Instead of the customary detailed critique, it was brief to the point of opacity: “The basic trouble is that it lacks point; nothing of particularly convincing importance occurs in the story. I’m afraid it simply has no punch.” He didn’t elaborate further, although he may also have been concerned by its parallels to Eric Frank Russell’s Sinister Barrier.
When Heinlein received the rejection, he felt a twinge of regret, but he was secretly relieved that he no longer had to write. A few days later he wrote to propose that the editor send a weekly letter to the Mañana Literary Society, for which Heinlein would serve as an “unofficial scout.” He had generous words for “Nightfall” and its author: “We were delighted to see Asimov in the cover position. . . . As a young prodigy yourself, I think you will admit that Isaac’s present stuff is more subtle, sensitive, and mature than yours of ten years back.”
Campbell replied a week later. His tone was friendly again, and he said that he hoped Heinlein would send more fiction soon, adding, “Asimov is one of my personal finds; he had ideas, word-sense, but couldn’t write up an obituary when he first submitted.” There was no discussion of retirement, and in his response, Heinlein made the situation more explicit:
You are apparently under the impression that I am still writing. To be sure, I did not drop you a card saying, “I retired today.” I could not—under the circumstances it would have seemed like a childish piece of petulance. Nevertheless I knew that I would retire and exactly when and why, and I sent a letter to you a number of months back in which I set forth my intention and my reasons. Surely you recall it?
The letter exuded a sense of wounded pride that must have troubled him even as he was typing it, and he ended by softening the threat, offering to write as a hobby whenever an idea occurred to him: “It seems funny that I should be retiring on page two and suggesting a serial on page five.”
In his reply, Campbell apologized, saying that he had been sick with the flu when he wrote the rejection. He added that it was the product of “pressure and uncertainty” at the office, and he hinted that perhaps the story could be saved. When Heinlein replied that he would try to write occasionally, the editor was relieved: “If you retire abruptly at this particular moment, Astounding is going to feel it in much the way one’s tongue feels a missing tooth just after it’s been yanked.”
Heinlein revised the submission according to the editor’s instructions, and it was published as “Goldfish Bowl.” It was a seemingly inconclusive episode, but it marked a fundamental shift. At worst, Heinlein had been cutting back, not retiring, but he framed it as an ultimatum. If Campbell blinked first, it was for much the same reason that he hadn’t pushed Asimov to use a pen name—in the long run, it was less important than everything he had in mind.
It effectively put them on equal footing, and within weeks they were trading ideas as avidly as ever. Heinlein pitched a serial about a society that used selective breeding to create a superman, but he wasn’t sure how to write it. Campbell proposed that instead of a straight utopia, he frame it as a conflict between two opposing philosophies, and in the same letter he included a striking tribute:
What you contributed to science fiction was a direct expression of what I’d been vaguely groping for—personalized, emotionalized science fiction instead of intellectualized stuff. Your prime strengths are two—reality of personalities who have reasonable emotional reactions, and a reality of technical-political-social culture against which they can react.
It was an acknowledgment of what both of them knew, but had never said aloud. Campbell was looking for stories that felt like they could appear in a “slick” magazine a century in the future, and Heinlein was the realization of everything that he had wanted, but had been unable to bring off on his own.
The hint got Heinlein unstuck, and he set the story in an aggressive dueling culture, for which he coined the problematic aphorism “An armed society is a polite society.” Campbell proposed that he come out to work on it in New Jersey, but Heinlein feared that it was too late—he had been asked to volunteer to route merchant traffic in San Pedro, which was a transparent excuse to ensure his availability in case of war. In a phone call to Campbell in the last week of November, he said, “If the Japanese start a war with us, as it looks as if they intend to, then they will do so this coming weekend and probably on Sunday.”
As it turned out, he was off by a few days. He finished Beyond This Horizon in a burst of activity and
mailed it on December 1. It included the earliest definition in his fiction of the “encyclopedic synthesist,” a figure capable of consolidating information from a wide range of disciplines, but when Doña wrote that Heinlein seemed like one himself, he demurred, “I would like to have been a synthesist, but I am acutely aware that many of my characteristics are second-rate. . . . Don’t discount this as false modesty; you two are among the very, very few (less than half a dozen) to whom I feel safe in speaking truthfully.”
Beyond This Horizon was as dense and strange as “Lost Legacy,” and it was profoundly influenced by Leslyn, who casually spoke of the story as if they had written it together. If it hadn’t been for their earlier confrontation, Campbell might not have taken it, but it arrived on his desk at a later stage in their partnership. Like Hubbard and Asimov, Heinlein was defining himself as a writer through his relationship with Campbell—and the careers of all four men might have unfolded very differently if they hadn’t been put on hold by the disruptions to come.
IN A LETTER TO HEINLEIN, CAMPBELL HAD MENTIONED A DEPARTMENT, PROBABILITY ZERO, THAT HE was trying to launch in the magazine. The new section would consist of very short “tall stories” that hinged on amusingly impossible science: “Like that yarn about the grandfather clock that was so old the shadow of the pendulum had worn a hole in the back.” He hoped that it would serve as an entry point for new writers, but he needed a few submissions from more established authors to fill it out first, and he asked Heinlein to spread the word.
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