In February, Hubbard was ordered home: “By assuming unauthorized authority and attempting to perform duties for which he has no qualifications, he became the source of much trouble.” On the way back he fell from a ladder on a ship, which was evidently the cause of his limp, and instead of receiving disciplinary action, he was assigned to the Office of the Cable Censor. He had been in the best position of any of them to serve, and he had blown it.
On May 11, Heinlein formally began work at the Navy Yard, asking that his pension be stopped. On the same day, Asimov was appointed a junior chemist, and soon he was on the train to Philadelphia, writing to Pohl, “Frankly, I’m scared stiff about going off to live alone.”
Before long, however, he would feel differently. At the end of May, he told Pohl, “My job is really a reasonable facsimile of paradise on earth. The work is interesting, the surroundings ideal, the coworkers congenial, my room very nice—and my spirits in great shape.”
And he had another piece of news. “Freddie, old man, old guy, old sock, science fiction’s most eligible bachelor is engaged to be married.”
EARLIER IN 1942, ASIMOV HAD BEEN INVITED TO JOIN A WRITERS’ GROUP IN BROOKLYN. SOMEWHAT to his surprise, he had enjoyed himself, and he became a regular attendee. Another member was a young man named Joe Goldberger, who approached Asimov after one meeting: “Let’s get together next Saturday night and go out on the town. I’ll bring my girl. You bring yours.”
Asimov gave the only reply that he could. “I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t have a girl.”
“That’s all right,” Goldberger responded. “My girl will bring a girl for you.”
Asimov agreed with some trepidation. He had been dating more frequently, writing to Pohl of one social event, “Naturally with the dance in the evening, I’ll have to spend considerable of the afternoon washing, shaving, combing, scouring, scrubbing, polishing, brushing, primping—to say nothing of delousing and deodorizing—no simple trick.” But his romantic experience—as reflected by the absence of women in his fiction—was effectively nonexistent.
He worked up the courage to meet Goldberger at the Astor Hotel, although he didn’t realize until later that it was Valentine’s Day. Asimov was in a good mood, having just passed his qualifying exams—he had decided to stick to graduate school, rather than pursue a medical degree—but the night got off to a poor start. Goldberger had described him as “a Russian chemist with a mustache,” but when his girlfriend caught sight of Asimov, she was horrified enough to apologize to the friend whom she had convinced to come along.
The girl’s name was Gertrude Blugerman. Her parents were Ukrainian, and she was a few years older than Asimov—she had been born in Toronto in 1917, and she was still a Canadian citizen. She was just over five feet tall and shapely, and to his eyes, she looked exactly like the actress Olivia de Havilland.
He stared at her all evening. Their first stop was a bar, where he felt out of his depth. Asimov tried to smoke and drink, and when she noticed that he seemed uncomfortable, he explained, “I don’t want to spoil things.”
“You won’t spoil things,” Gertrude said gently. Asimov, relieved, ground out his cigarette. At the end of the evening he got up to leave, saying that he had to deliver papers at the candy store the next day. Gertrude later said that he was the only person she had ever met who made her feel wicked.
They began to see more of each other. On their third date he took her to Pratt’s war game, which was evidently his idea of a good time. She was also impressed by his answer to the old question “What happens if an irresistible force meets an immovable object?” When he explained that it was a contradiction in terms, Gertrude replied, “Oh my, you are smart.” And he was able to kiss her good night.
He began to seriously think about proposing—like Campbell, he was ready to marry the first woman who took an interest in him—and the prospect of marriage was an important factor in his acceptance of the offer from the Navy Yard. On April 3, he raised the idea to Gertrude, going so far as to show her his bankbook. She was reluctant, but a week and a half later, they went for a stroll on the boardwalk, where he made his case as passionately as he could. Afterward, he hoped that she would take it for granted, and by the time he left for Philadelphia, she did.
Asimov’s first day at the Navy Yard was May 14, 1942. Employees in the lab worked six days straight, with Sundays off, and he hoped to spend most weekends in New York with Gertrude. Because he couldn’t come out during the week, there was no chance of seeing Campbell, and he had no plans to write in any case. Asimov had always seen fiction as a hobby or a way of paying his tuition, and now that he didn’t need the money, he gave it up.
He was busy enough as it was. The Navy Yard was built on a stretch of swampland near the Schuylkill River, with a series of huge buildings, like airplane hangars, equipped with racks for bicycles. Its parking lot was being repaved, so everyone had to park half a mile away and continue on foot across a stretch of land that became a quagmire when it rained.
The first floor of the Materials Lab was an open shop, filled with cranes, where workers conducted noisy stress tests on aircraft. At his desk on the next level, Asimov hung a map of Europe that he used to keep track of troop movements, including a special pin for Petrovichi. Just as he had in college, he kept to his own area and didn’t explore, but he saw Heinlein every day.
Most of the lab consisted of civilian engineers who checked materials—seam sealers, cleaners, soaps—to ensure that they met specifications. Asimov spent much of his time on “Mother Asimov’s pies,” pans of calcium chloride that he used to test plastics for waterproofness. On one occasion, he accidentally forced an evacuation after burning a substance that smelled like skunk juice. He embraced the routine, and of all the writers that he knew, he was the most content during the war, in part because he wasn’t overly burdened by his own expectations.
It helped that he felt happy at home. On July 25, he and Gertrude were married in the Blugermans’ living room. He was twenty-two, she was twenty-five, and as they left, her mother called out, “Remember, Gittel, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come home to me.” For their wedding night they rented a room at a hotel in Midtown. Both were nervous virgins, and the act of consummation wasn’t particularly successful. For now, their marriage would be pleasant enough, but the one thing that they always lacked was a satisfying sex life.
The apartment in Philadelphia was cramped and hot, and Gertrude—who was unable to get war work because of her Canadian citizenship—spent most of her time alone. Asimov was afraid that she would go back to New York, but she never did. They both kept apart from the social scene. Asimov tried to join a poker game, but he left after losing sixteen cents, which prompted his father to observe, “I am greatly relieved, for you might have won sixteen cents and become a lifelong gambler.”
His only friends at work were Bernard Zitin, his boss, and Leonard Meisel, a mathematician who shared their car pool. All three became conscious of an atmosphere of mild anti-Semitism, which some feared would grow worse if the war went badly. Asimov—who frequently found himself blamed for practical jokes, although he was never the one responsible—was asked to lower his profile at the lab, but he felt no obligation to change his boisterous behavior.
It came to a head in September. In the past, Jewish employees had taken off Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but under new rules the one holiday allowed was Christmas. A petition was prepared proposing that Jewish workers get time off on Yom Kippur and work on Christmas Day, and when Asimov was told that it would only be effective if they all signed it, he reluctantly added his name.
Heinlein came to see him immediately. “What’s this I hear about your not working on Yom Kippur, Isaac?”
Asimov didn’t know why he was asking this. “I signed a petition about working on Christmas instead.”
Heinlein wasn’t inclined to let the issue drop. “You’re not religious, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Asimov said. He admitted that
he had no plans to attend temple, and when Heinlein pressed him further, he grew annoyed. “I won’t go to church on Christmas, either, so what difference does it make which day I take off for nonreligious purposes?”
Heinlein pounced. “It doesn’t. So why not take off Christmas with everyone else?”
“Because it would look bad if I didn’t sign. They explained to me that—”
Heinlein quickly broke in. “Are you telling me they forced you to sign?”
Asimov saw that Heinlein had trapped him, although he wasn’t sure why. “No. I was not forced to sign it. I signed it voluntarily because I wanted to. But since I freely admit I intend no religious observances, I will agree to work on Yom Kippur if I am told to, provided that does not prejudice the petition.”
Heinlein left, apparently satisfied. On Yom Kippur, Asimov was the only Jewish employee who came to work. He later wrote, “It was no great hardship, but I must admit that I resented Heinlein’s having put me on the spot. He meant well, I’m sure, and we have stayed good friends, but I have never been able to erase the memory of his having backed me into a corner.”
If anything, this was overly generous. Heinlein was administering another test, like giving Asimov a Cuba Libre or threatening to quit science fiction over his rejection from Campbell. In both cases, he was marking his territory. A few years earlier, Asimov might have deferred unthinkingly, but they had drawn within striking distance of each other in the magazine. For now, Heinlein had established the pecking order, but it left Asimov—who remembered such slights for decades—conscious of “a meanness of spirit” in a man he otherwise admired.
On October 26, Asimov got a rare Monday off, which he used to visit Campbell for the first time in six months. Gertrude joined as well. He recalled, “I don’t think they hit it off. It always seemed to me that Campbell was not at his best with women. At least, I have never heard him make a single remark in the presence of one from which one could deduce that he had noticed she was a woman. . . . It may be that I find it odd only because I never make a single remark in the presence of a woman from which one can deduce that I have even momentarily forgotten she is a woman.”
In fact, this was a side of his personality that would become increasingly problematic, as his domestic life made him more secure around the opposite sex. He liked to snap their bras through their blouses, and, once, he broke the strap. It was a bad habit, he admitted, that he never lost, and it was at the Navy Yard that he began to let his fingers roam more freely.
He remained in touch with Pohl, who told him that he thought that Gertrude was “attractive and pleasingly quiet.” On January 2, 1943, Pohl wrote with the news that he was divorcing his wife Leslie Perri—who had loathed Asimov—and added, “For Christ’s sake, Isaac, stay married to your bride; somebody has to maintain science fiction’s good name.”
Asimov replied, “I don’t know with what authority I can speak, being a married man of not quite half a year’s time, but as of now I can say, with supreme confidence, that science fiction’s good name is safe with me.”
The exchange prompted him to think about writing again. He had always wanted to sell a piece to Unknown, which he loved even more than Astounding, so he wrote a story about a mystery writer whose fictional detective comes to life. Asimov mailed “Author! Author!” to Campbell in April. It was the first time he had sent a submission without bringing it in person, but Campbell liked it so much that he paid him his first bonus since “Nightfall.”
Asimov realized that he could use the money after the war was over. At the end of the month, he visited Campbell, telling him that he wanted to write a new installment in the Foundation series. Campbell asked for a robot story as well, and Asimov understood, to his amazement, that the editor needed him, rather than the other way around. It was a profound change. A year ago, he had left as a grateful protégé, but now his apprenticeship was over.
DURING THE WAR, ONE ISSUE THAT WAS NEVER FAR FROM ANYONE’S MIND WAS THE PROBLEM OF rationing. Gertrude smoked, but neither she nor Asimov drank, and they became used to their friends asking if they had any extra liquor stamps. Their lack of interest in drinking was another quality that kept them socially apart. Asimov’s idea of indulging himself after moving to Philadelphia had been to consume a huge bottle of soda on his own, which only made him sick, and Gertrude wrote to Pohl, “Try as I may, propriety and dullness must be my lot.”
Another object of rationing was gas. The preferred mode of transportation at the Navy Yard was by bicycle, and Heinlein could often be seen pedaling between the buildings in his suit and tie. One day, as a joke, a coworker removed the tags from a few tea bags and stopped Heinlein in the hallway, offering to sell him some illicit gasoline stamps. After examining the paper slips, Heinlein handed them back coldly. “You’re lucky they weren’t real.”
He wasn’t inclined to make light of wartime sacrifices, and there were moments when the courtly mask that he cultivated so carefully seemed to crack. On his arrival at the Navy Yard, he had been assigned to the Altitude Chamber and Cold Room, which were used to test materials under conditions of low pressure and temperature. He supervised their construction before handing them over to de Camp, who was a lieutenant in the Naval Reserve.
Heinlein was suffering from his usual medical problems—his back and kidneys were acting up—and he felt buried by paperwork. Scoles, who admired his competence, assigned him additional administrative duties, which Heinlein accepted against his will. He wrote to Campbell, “I hate my job. There is plenty of important work being done here but I am not doing it. Instead I do the unimportant work in order that others with truly important things to do may not be bothered with it.”
He derisively called himself “the perfect private secretary,” but he was also good at it. Tension between civilians and officers often ran high, and Heinlein was respected by both groups, advising the inexperienced de Camp, who could irritate others, to “clip those beetling brows.” De Camp recalled, “It must have irked Heinlein to be working as a civilian while I, green to Navy ways, went about with pretty gold stripes on my sleeve. But he was a good sport about it, and I am sure his advice saved me from making a bigger ass of myself than I otherwise might have.”
Heinlein’s basic trouble—which Hubbard shared to an even greater degree—was that he was too imaginative to fully commit himself to the work that had to be done, even as he feared that they were losing the war. He learned to deal with it, but only by consciously willing himself into the attitude of patience that came naturally to Asimov. “A war requires subordination,” Heinlein wrote to Campbell, “and I take a bitter pride in subordinating myself.”
This remark was aimed directly at the editor. Months after their meeting with Scoles, Campbell’s status was still up in the air. Early on, he had been enthusiastic about the Navy Yard, writing to Robert Swisher that Scoles was recruiting science fiction writers “as the type of men wanted for real research today.” The editor added, “I have the satisfaction of already having succeeded in contributing a suggested line of attack that yielded results on one project.” He even reached out to del Rey about taking over the magazine in the event that he was drawn into war work.
Campbell remained unsure of his prospects for getting a reserve commission, however, citing a list of ailments, including bad vision in his left eye, a poorly healed appendectomy scar, an irregular heartbeat, and what he called “fear syndrome” in his psychiatric records. Ultimately, he didn’t even take the physical. His attempts to find a position at the National Defense Research Committee faltered—his contact was often out of town—and it became clear that his limited lab experience made him less desirable than the most recent crop of engineering graduates.
Heinlein told him that if money were an issue, he and Leslyn would be happy to contribute a stipend for Peedee, but he conceded, “Truthfully, we aren’t shorthanded enough to recommend it.” But he also advised:
I strongly recommend for your own present and future peace of mind a
nd as an example to your associates that you find some volunteer work. . . . I predict that it will seem deadly dull, poorly organized, and largely useless. . . . I am faced with that impasse daily and it nearly drives me nuts.
He anticipated many of Campbell’s objections: “Remember, it does not have to be work that you want to do, nor work that you approve of. It suffices that it is work which established authority considers necessary to the war.” And he concluded pointedly, “But find yourself some work, John. Otherwise you will spend the rest of your life in self-justification.”
Campbell never did. He found it hard to subordinate himself to duties that didn’t utilize his talents, and he was disinclined to make the sacrifice that Heinlein had bitterly accepted. In the end, he decided to stay with his magazines, a civilian role with a high priority rating because of its perceived importance to morale. Heinlein never forgave him, speaking years later of “working my heart out and ruining my health during the war while he was publishing Astounding.”
L. Sprague de Camp, Isaac Asimov, and Robert A. Heinlein at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, 1944.
Courtesy of John Seltzer and Geo Rule
The Heinleins still remained outwardly friendly toward the Campbells, as well as the de Camps, and they occasionally walked the two miles to visit Asimov and Gertrude. At work, their social life centered on the Navy Yard cafeteria, which was known without affection as Ulcer Gulch. Heinlein and Leslyn worked in different buildings—she had landed a job as a junior radio inspector—but they ate together every afternoon. Asimov became part of the lunch crowd when Gertrude left on a trip to clarify her immigration status, and after her return, Heinlein asked him to stay. Asimov resented the pressure, but finally consented “with poor grace.”
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