The Early Asimov. Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  “Please,” said Thorning, “the weapon-”

  “Oh, yes, dat! ” He hitched himself higher in his chair and grimaced with the effort. “He talks about electricity and it goes back and ford very fast- very fast, and its pressure-” He paused hopelessly, and regarded the scowling visage of the bearded Admiral naively, “I dink de word is pressure, but I don’t know, because it is hard to translate. De Martian word is ‘ cranstard .’ Does dat help?”

  “I think you mean ‘potential,’ Dr. Ullen!” Thorning sighed audibly.

  “Well, if you say so. Anyway, dis ‘potential’ changes also very fast and de two changes are synchronized somehow along wid magnetism dat-uh-shifts and dat’s all I know about it.” He smiled uncertainly, “I would like to go back now. It would be all right now, wouldn’t it?”

  The Admiral vouchsafed no answer, “Do you make anything out of that mess. Doctor?”

  “Damned little,” admitted the physicist, “but it gives me a lead or two. We might try getting hold of this Beg’s book, but there’s not much hope. It will simply repeat what we’ve just heard. Dr. Ullen, are there any scientific works on your planet?”

  The Martian saddened, “No, Dr. Doming, dey were all destroyed during de Kalynian reaction. On Mars, we doroughly disbelieve in science. History has shown dat it comes from science no happiness.” He turned to the young Earthman at his side, “Johnnie, let us go now, please.”

  Korsakoff dismissed the two with a wave of the hand.

  Ullen bent carefully over the closely-typed manuscript and inserted a word. He glanced up brightly at Johnnie Brewster, who shook his head and placed a hand on the Martian’s arm. His brow furrowed more deeply.

  Ullen,” he said harshly, “you’re in trouble.”

  “Eh? I? In trouble? Why, Johnnie, dat is not so. My book is coming along famously. De whole first volume, it is completed and, but for a bit of polishing, is ready for de printers.”

  “Ullen, if you can’t give the government definite information on the disintegrator, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

  “But I told all I knew-”

  “It won’t do. Ifs not enough. You’ve got to remember more, Ullen, you’ve got to.”

  “But knowledge where dere is none is impossible to have- dat is an axiom.” Ullen sat upright in his seat, propping himself on a crutch.

  “I know it,” Johnnie’s mouth twisted in misery, “but you’ve got to understand.

  “The Venusians have control of space; our Asteroid garrisons have been wiped out, and last week Phobos and Deimos fell. Communications between Earth and Luna are broken and God knows how long the Lunar squadron can hold out. Earth itself is scarcely secure and their bombings are becoming more serious-.Oh, Ullen, don’t you understand?”

  The Martian’s look of confusion deepened, “Eard is losing?”

  “God, yes!”

  “Den give up. Dat is de logical ding to do. Why did you start at all-you stupid Eardmen.”

  Johnnie ground his teeth, “But if we have the disintegrator, we won’t lose.”

  Ullen shrugged, “Oh, Johnnie, it gets wearisome to listen to de same old story. You Eardmen have one-track minds. Look, wouldn’t it make you feel better to have me read you some of my manuscript? It would do your intellect good.”

  “All right, Ullen, you’ve asked for it, and here’s everything right out If you don’t tell Thorning what he wants to know, you’re going to be arrested and tried for treason.”

  There was a short silence, and then a confused stutter, “T- treason. You mean dat I betray-” The historian removed his glasses and wiped them with shaking hand, “It’s not true. You’re trying to frighten me.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not Korsakoff thinks you know more than you’re telling. He’s sure that you’re either holding out for a price or, more likely, that you’ve sold out to the Veenies.”

  “But Doming-”

  “Thorning isn’t any too secure himself. He has his own skin to think of. Earth governments in moments of stress are not famous for being reasonable.” There were sudden tears in his -eyes, “Ullen, there must be something you can do. It’s not only you-it’s for Earth.”

  Ullen’s breathing whistled harshly, “Dey tink I would sell my scientific knowledge. Is dat de kind of insult dey pay my sense of eddies; my scientific integrity?” His voice was thick with fury and for the first time since Johnnie knew him, he lapsed into guttural Martian. “For dat, I say not a word,” he finished. “Let dem put me in prison or shoot me, but dis insult I cannot forget.”

  There was no mistaking the firmness in his eyes, and Johnnie’s shoulders sagged. The Earthman didn’t move at the glare of the signal light.

  “Answer de light, Johnnie,” said the Martian, softly. “Dey are coming for me.”

  In a moment, the room was crowded with green uniforms. Dr. Thorning and the two with him were the only ones present in civilian clothes.

  Ullen struggled to his feet, “Gentlemen, say nodding. I have heard dat it is dought dat I am selling what I know- selling for money .” He spat the words. “It is a ding never before said of me-a ding-F-bave not deserved. If you wish you can imprison me immediately, but I shall say nodding more- nor have anyding furder to do wid de Eard government.”

  A green-garbed official stepped forward immediately, but Dr. Thorning waved him back.

  “Whoa, there. Dr. Ullen,” he said jovially, “don’t jump too soon. I’ve just come to ask if there isn’t a single additional fact that you remember. Anything, no matter how insignificant-”

  There was stony silence. Ullen leant heavily on his crutches but remained stolidly erect.

  Dr. Thorning seated himself imperturably upon the historian’s desk, picked up the high stack of type-written pages, “Ah, is this the manuscript young Brewster was telling me about.” He gazed at it curiously, “Well, of course, you realize that your attitude will force the government to confiscate all this.”

  “Eh?” Ullen’s stern expression melted into dismay. His crutch slipped and he dropped heavily into his seat.

  The physicist warded off the other’s feeble clutch, “Keep your hands off. Dr. Ullen, I’m taking care of this.” He leafed through the pages with a rustling noise. “You see, if you are arrested for treason, your writings become subversive.”

  “Subversive!” Ullen’s voice was hoarse, “Dr. Doming, you don’t know what you are saying. It is my-my great labor.” His voice caught huskily, “Please, Dr. Doming, give me my manuscript.”

  The other held it just beyond the Martian’s shaking fingers.

  “ If -” he said.

  “But I don’t know!”

  The sweat stood out on the historian’s pale face. His voice came thickly. “Time! Give me time! But let me dink-and don’t, please don’t harm dis manuscript”

  The other’s fingers sank painfully into Ullen’s shoulder, “So help me, I burn your manuscript in five minutes, if-”

  “Wait, I’ll tell you. Somewhere-I don’t know where-it was said dat in de weapon dey used a special metal for some of de wiring. I don’t know what metal, but water spoiled it and had to be kept away-also air. It-”

  “Holy jumping Jupiter ,” came the sudden shout from one of Thorning’s companions. “Chief, don’t you remember Aspartier’s work on sodium wiring in argon atmosphere five years ago-”

  Dr. Thorning’s eyes were deep with thought, “Wait-wait- wait- Damn! It was staring us in the face-”

  “I know,” shrieked Ullen suddenly. “It was in Karlsto. He was discussing de fall of Gallonie and dat was one of de minor causes-de lack of dat metal-and den he mentioned-”

  He was talking to an empty room, and for a while he was silent in puzzled astonishment.

  And then, “My manuscript!” He salvaged it from where it lay scattered over the floor, hobbling painfully about, smoothing each wrinkled sheet with care.

  “De barbarians-to treat a great scientific work so!”

  Ullen opened still another drawer and
scrabbled through its contents. He closed it and looked about peevishly, “Johnnie, where did I put dat bibliography? Did you see it?”

  He looked toward the window, “Johnniel”

  Johnnie Brewster said, “Wait a while, Ullen. Here they come now.”

  The streets below were a burst of color. In a long, stiffly-moving line the Green of the Navy paraded down the avenue, the air above them snow-thick with confetti, hail-thick with ticker-tape. The roar of the crowd was dull, muted.

  “Ah, de foolish people,” mused Ullen. “Dey were happy just like dis when de war started and dere was a parade just like dis-and now anodder one. Silly!” He stumped back to his chair.

  Johnnie followed, “The government is naming a new museum after you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” was the dry reply. He peered helplessly about under the desk, “De Ullen War Museum-and it will be filled wid ancient weapons, from stone knife to anti-aircraft gun. Dat is your queer Eard sense of de fitness of dings. Where in dunderation is dat bibliography?”

  “Here,” said Johnnie, withdrawing the document from Ullen’s vest pocket. “Our victory was due to your weapon, ancient to you, so it is fit in a way.”

  “Victory! Sure! Until Venus rearms and reprepares and refights for revenge. All history shows-but never mind. It is useless, dis talk.” He settled himself deeply in his chair, “Here, let me show you a real victory. Let me read you some of de first volume of my work. It’s already in print, you know.”

  Johnnie laughed, “Go ahead, Ullen. Right now I’m even willing to listen to you read your entire twelve volumes- word for word.”

  And Ullen smiled gently. “It would be good for your intellect,” he said.

  ***

  “History,” you will notice, mentions Hitler’s end. It was written in the first days of September 1940, when Hitler seemed at the very peak of his success. France was defeated and occupied and Britain was at bay and seemed unlikely to survive. -Still, I had no doubt as to his ultimate defeat. I did not visualize his ending in suicide, however. I thought that like Napoleon and the Kaiser, he would end his life in exile. Madagascar was the place I picked.

  Also mentioned in the story are “the tiny ‘Drops of Death,’ the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen-foot crater wherever they fell.”

  By the time I wrote the story, uranium fission had been discovered and announced. I had not yet heard of it, however, and I was unaware that reality was about to outstrip my prized science fictional imagination.

  On October 23, 1940, I visited Campbell and outlined to him another robot story I wanted to write, a story I planned to call “Reason.” Campbell was completely enthusiastic. I had trouble writing it and had to start over several times, but eventually it was done, and on November 18 I submitted it to John. He accepted it on the twenty-second, and it appeared in the April 1941 issue of Astounding .

  It was the third story of mine that he had accepted and the first in which he did not ask for a revision. (He told me, in fact, that he had liked it So well, he had almost decided to pay me a bonus.)

  With “Reason,” the “positronic robot” series was fairly launched, and my two most successful characters yet, Gregory Powell and Mike Donovan (improvements on Turner and Snead of “Ring Around the Sun”) made their appearance. Eventually, “Reason” and others of the series that were to follow, together with “Robbie,” which Campbell had rejected, were to appear in I, Robot .

  The success of “Reason” didn’t mean that I was to have no further rejections from Campbell.

  On December 6, 1940, influenced by the season and never stopping to think that a Christmas story must sell no later than July in order to make the Christmas issue, I began “Christmas on Ganymede.” I submitted it to him on the twenty-third, but the holiday season did not affect his critical judgment. He rejected it.

  I tried Pohl next, and, as was happening so often that year, he took it. In this case, for reasons I will describe later, the acceptance fell through. I eventually sold it the next summer (June 27, 1941, the proper time of year) to Startling Stories, the younger, sister magazine of Thrilling Wonder Stories.

  Christmas On Ganymede

  Olaf Johnson hummed nasally to himself and his china-blue eyes were dreamy as he surveyed the stately fir tree in the corner of the library. Though the library was the largest single room in the Dome, Olaf felt it none too spacious for the occasion. Enthusiastically he dipped into the huge crate at his side and took out the first roll of red-and-green crepe paper.

  What sudden burst of sentiment had inspired the Ganymedan Products Corporation, Inc. to ship a complete collection of Christmas decorations to the Dome, he did not pause to inquire. Olaf’s was a placid disposition, and in his self-imposed job as chief Christmas decorator, he was content with his lot.

  He frowned suddenly and muttered a curse. The General Assembly signal light was Hashing on and off hysterically. With a hurt air Olaf laid down the tack-hammer he had just lifted, then the roll of crepe paper, picked some tinsel out of his hair and left for officers quarters.

  Commander Scott Pelham was in his deep armchair at the head of the table when Olaf entered. His stubby fingers were drumming unrhythmically upon the glass-topped table. Olaf met the commander’s hotly furious eyes without fear, for nothing had gone wrong in his department in twenty Ganymedan revolutions.

  The room filled rapidly with men, and Pelham’s eyes hardened as he counted noses in one sweeping glance.

  “We’re all here. Men, we face a crisis!”

  There was a vague stir. Olaf’s eyes sought the ceiling and he relaxed. Crises hit the Dome once a revolution, on the average. Usually they turned out to be a sudden rise in the quota of oxite to be gathered, or the inferior quality of the last batch of karen leaves. He stiffened, however, at the next words.

  “In connection with the crisis, I have one question to ask.” Pelham’s voice was a deep baritone, and it rasped unpleasantly when he was angry. “What dirty imbecilic troublemaker has been telling those blasted Ossies fairy tales?”

  Olaf cleared his throat nervously and thus immediately became the center of attention. His Adam’s apple wobbled in sudden alarm and his forehead wrinkled into a washboard. He shivered.

  “I-I-” he stuttered, quickly fell silent. His long fingers made a bewildered gesture of appeal. “I mean I was out there yesterday, after the last-uh-supplies of karen leaves, on account the Ossies were slow and-”

  A deceptive sweetness entered Pelham’s voice. He smiled.

  “Did you tell those natives about Santa Claus, Olaf?”

  The smile looked uncommonly like a wolfish leer and Olaf broke down. He nodded convulsively.

  “Oh, you did? Well, well, you told them about Santa Claus! He comes down in a sleigh that Hies through the air with eight reindeer pulling it, huh?”

  “Well-er-doesn’t he?” Olaf asked unhappily.

  “And you drew pictures of the reindeer, just to make sure there was no mistake. Also, he has a long white beard and red clothes with white trimmings.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Olaf, his face puzzled

  “And he has a big bag, chock full of presents for good little boys and girls, and he brings it down the chimney and puts presents inside stockings.”

  “Sure.”

  “You also told them he’s about due, didn’t you? One more revolution and he’s going to visit us.”

  Olaf smiled weakly. “Yeah, Commander, I meant to ten you. I’m fixing up the tree and-”

  “Shut up!” The commander was breathing hard in a whistling sort of way. “Do you know what those Ossies have thought of?”

  “No, Commander.”

  Pelham leaned across the table toward Olaf and shouted:

  “They want Santa Claus to visit them!”

  Someone laughed and changed it quickly into a strangling cough at the commander’s raging stare.

  “And if Santa Claus doesn’t visit them, the O
ssies are going to quit work!” He repeated, “Quit cold-strike!”

  There was no laughter, strangled or otherwise, after that. If there were more than one thought among the entire group, it didn’t show itself. Olaf expressed that thought:

  “But what about the quota?”

  “Well, what about it?” snarled Pelham. “Do I have to draw pictures for you? Ganymedan Products has to get one hundred tons of wolframite, eighty tons of karen leaves and fifty tons of oxite every year, or it loses its franchise. I suppose there isn’t anyone here who doesn’t know that. It so happens that the current year ends in two Ganymedan revolutions, and we’re five per cent behind schedule as it is.”

  There was pure, horrified silence.

  “And now the Ossies worit work unless they get Santa Claus. No work, no quota, no franchise-no jobs! Get that, you low-grade morons. When the company loses its franchise, we lose the best-paying jobs in the System. Kiss them good-by, men, unless-”

  He paused, glared steadily at Olaf, and added:

  “Unless, by next revolution, we have a flying sleigh, eight reindeer and a Santa Claus. And by every cosmic speck in the rings of Saturn, we’re going to have just that, especially a Santa!”

  Ten faces turned ghastly pale.

  “Got someone in mind, Commander?” asked someone in a voice that was three-quarters croak.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  He sprawled back in his chair. Olaf Johnson broke into a sudden sweat as he found himself staring at the end of a pointing forefinger.

  “Aw, Commander!” he quavered.

  The pointing finger never moved.

  Pelham tramped into the foreroom, removed his oxygen nosepiece and the cold cylinders attached to it One by one he cast off thick woolen outer garments and, with a final, weary sigh, jerked off a pair of heavy knee-high space boots.

  Sim Pierce paused in his careful inspection of the latest batch of karen leaves and cast a hopeful glance over his spectacles.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Pelham shrugged. “I promised them Santa. What else could I do? I also doubled sugar rations, so they’re back on the job-for the moment.”