by Isaac Asimov
“I told you,” explained Hayes, “that it is transparent to almost all solar radiation. Only the radiation it absorbs can go into heat and that’s a very small percentage of all it receives. Besides, it isn’t ordinary matter. It’s probably much more refractory than anything on Earth, and the Solar surface is only at 6,000 degrees Centrigrade.”
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, “It’s 2:09?, gentlemen. The super-neutron has struck and death is on its way. We have eight minutes.”
We were dumb with something that was just simply unbearable terror. I remember Hayes’ voice, quite matter-of-fact, saying, “Mercury just went?” then a few minutes later, “Venus has gone!” and lastly, “Thirty seconds left, gentlemen!”
The seconds crawled, but passed at last, and another thirty seconds, and still another…
And on Hayes’ face, a look of astonishment grew and spread. He lifted the clock and stared at it, then peered through his film at the sun once more.
“It’s gone?” He turned and faced us, “It’s unbelievable. I had thought of it, but I dared not draw the atomic analogy too far. You know that not all atomic nuclei explode on being hit by a neutron. Some, cadmium, for instance, absorb them one after the other like sponges do water. I-”
He paused again, drew a deep breath, and continued musingly, “Even the purest block of uranium contains traces of all other elements. And in a universe of trillions of stars acting like uranium, what does a paltry million of cadmium-like stars amount to-nothing! Yet the sun is one of them! Mankind never deserved that!”
He kept on talking, but relief had finally penetrated and we listened no longer. In half-hysterical fashion, we elected Gilbert Hayes to the office of Perpetual President by enthusiastic acclamation, and voted the story the whoppingest lie ever told.
But there’s one thing that bothers me. Hayes fills his post well; the Society is more successful than ever-but I think he should have been disqualified after all. His story fulfilled the second condition; it sounded like the truth. But I don’t think it fulfilled the first condition.
I think it was the truth!
***
I had series on my mind by now. “Super-Neutron” was certainly intended to be but the first in a long chain of very clever and very ingenious tales to be told at the meetings of the “Honorable Society of Ananias.” It didn’t work out that way. There was never a second story, not even the beginnings of one, not even the idea for one.
By the time I was writing “Super-Neutron,” in February of 1941, I had heard of uranium fission and had even discussed it in some detail with Campbell. I managed to refer to it in the course of the story as “the classical uranium fission method for power.” I also spoke of the metal cadmium as a neutron absorber. It wasn’t bad for a story that appeared in 1941, and I sometimes quote it in public to create an impression.
Notice, though, that in the same paragraph in which I mention fission, I also talk of “masurium.” Actually, masurium was the name given to element ~43 in 1926, but that discovery had proven a false alarm. The element was really discovered in 1937 and was given the now-accepted name of “technetium.” It seems, then, that I could look years into the future and see uranium fission as a practical power source, but I couldn’t look a few years into the past and see the correct name for element #43.
This brings us to March 17, 1941, and one of the key turning points of my literary career.
By that day, I had written thirty-one stories. Of these I had already sold seventeen and was yet to sell four more. Of all these stories, three perhaps, and no more, were to turn out to be of more than ephemeral value, and those were the three “positronic robots” stories I had so far written: “Robbie,”
“Reason,” and “Liar!”
Looking back on my first three years as a writer, then, I can judge myself to be nothing more than a steady and (perhaps) hopeful third-rater. What’s more, that’s all I considered myself then, too. Nor did anyone else, at that time, seriously consider me as a potential first-magnitude star in the science fiction heavens-except, maybe, Campbell.
What are the odds, then, that on March 17, 1941, I would sit down and write something that for thirty years now has been considered by a surprising number of people to be the outstanding short classic of magazine science fiction? It was one of those things that couldn’t possibly happen-yet it did.
It began when I walked into Campbell’s office that day and, as usual, suggested an idea. What it was I don’t remember, but whatever it was he turned it down instantly, not because it was such a bad idea but because he had something he wanted to show me that crowded everything else out of his mind. He had come across a quotation from Ralph Waldo Emerson that went: “If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God!” [Does anyone know in what essay, and in what connection, Emerson says this? Every once in a while I make a desultory search through quotation books or through a collection of Emerson but haven’t found it yet. I hope it exists and that the quote is given correctly.]
Campbell asked me what I thought would happen if the stars would appear at only very long intervals. I had nothing intelligent to suggest.
“I think men would go mad,” he said thoughtfully.
We talked about that notion for quite a while, and I went home to write a story on the subject, one that Campbell and I decided from the start was to be called “Nightfall”
I began it that night. I can remember the details exactly: my parents’ apartment on Windsor Place in Brooklyn, across the street from the candy store; my own room, just next to the living room, is clear in my mind, with the position of my bed, my desk, my typewriter-and myself getting started.
In years to come, fans would occasionally vote in polls designed to decide the best science fiction short stories of all time. Quite frequently, “Nightfall” would finish in first place. Just a couple of years ago, the Science Fiction Writers of America polled their membership to decide the best science fiction short stories ever published, for inclusion in a Hall of Fame anthology. “Nightfall” finished in first place by a sizable margin. And, of course, it has been anthologized a dozen times so far.
With all this, one might argue that “Nightfall” is the best (or at least the most popular) short science fiction story ever to appear in the magazines. Well, I often wonder, with a shudder, what might have happened on the evening of March 17, 1941, if some angelic spirit had whispered in my ear, “Isaac, you are about to start writing the best short science fiction story of our time.”
I would undoubtedly have frozen solid. I wouldn’t have been able to type a word.
But we don’t know the future, and I tapped away blissfully, writing the story and completing it by April 9, 1941. That day, I submitted it to Campbell. He asked for a small revision. I took care of that, and on April 24, 1941, he bought the story.
It set several records for me. It was the longest story I had yet sold, a little over thirteen thousand words. Since Campbell paid me a bonus (my first one), the word rate was one and a quarter cents a word, and the total check was for $166, more than twice as large as any single payment I had ever before received. [“Black Friar of the Flame” was three thousand words longer than “Nightfall,” but the former was not to be sold for another half year, and since it earned merely one cent a word, it brought in only $161. Of course, first-time earnings are not the whole story, either. “Nightfall” has earned me some thousands of dollars since 1941 and will yet earn me more; “Black Friar of the Flame” has not yet earned me one cent over the original check-till its appearance in this book.]
Then, too, “Nightfall” appeared in the September 1941 issue of Astounding as the lead novelette. For the first time, I made the cover of that magazine, with “Nightfall, by Isaac Asimov” in large, bold letters.
Most important of all, the appearance of “Nightfall” graduated me by common consent (three years after I had begun my
career) into the list of first-rank science fiction writers.
Alas, the story is not included here. It appears (of course) in Nightfall and Other Stories. [In telling the story, in that collection, of how “Nightfall” came to be written, I mentioned that I had received $150 for it, quoting from memory. Once again, I must confess fallibility. The records say $166. It is a small point, and perhaps not worth noting, but I know my readers. By explaining this now, I fend off dozens of letters that will mention the discrepancy and demand an explanation.]
The excitement of writing “Nightfall” and Campbell’s hearty and unqualified praise of it ought, one might think, to have set me furiously to work at the typewriter, but it didn’t. Spring 1941 was a bad time for me.
I could at any time that half year have left Columbia with a master’s degree, but that would have done me no good. I had no job to go to, so I could only mark time and try to raise my value to some prospective employer by going on to the big one, the doctorate.
But that meant I had to take a series of elaborate, interminable “qualifying examinations,” which I had to pass in order to be allowed to begin the research without which I could not get the Ph.D. Passing was difficult and I didn’t feel prepared at all, but I had to try it sometime, and besides, if I didn’t fall short by too far, I would be allowed to continue taking courses and to repeat the qualifying examinations at some future date.
So in May I absented myself from the typewriter, studied earnestly for my qualifyings, took them-and didn’t pass. I did well enough to earn the option of a future repeat, and I also received my M.A. as a kind of consolation prize, but I was badly disheartened all the same.
(And in the larger world outside, though Great Britain had survived air bombardment, Hitler still seemed unstoppable. He invaded the Balkans and was again winning spectacular victories, and that was disheartening, too.)
It was not till May 24. 1941, that I could bring myself to go back to my writing. I turned out “Not Final!” which I submitted to Campbell on June z. It was accepted on the sixth, but without a bonus.
Not Final!
Nicholas Orloff inserted a monocle in his left eye with all the incorruptible Briticism of a Russian educated at Oxford and said reproachfully, “But, my dear Mr. Secretary! Half a billion dollars!”
Leo Birnam shrugged his shoulders wearily and allowed his lank body to cramp up still farther in the chair, “The appropriation must go through, commissioner. The Dominion government here at Ganymede is becoming desperate. So far, I’ve been holding them off, but as secretary of scientific affairs, my powers are small.”
“I know, but-” and Orloff spread his hands helplessly. “I suppose so,” agreed Birnam. “The Empire government finds it easier to look the other way. They’ve done it consistently up to now. I’ve tried for a year now to have them understand the nature of the danger that hangs over the entire System, but it seems that it can’t be done. But I’m appealing to you, Mr. Commissioner. You’re new in your post and can approach this Jovian affair with an unjaundiced eye.”
Orloff coughed and eyed the tips of his boots. In the three months since he had succeeded Gridley as colonial commissioner he had tabled unread everything relating to “those damned Jovian D.T.’s.” That had been according to the established cabinet policy which had labeled the Jovian affair as “deadwood” long before he had entered office.
But now that Ganymede was becoming nasty, he found himself sent out to Jovopolis with instructions to hold the “blasted provincials” down. It was a nasty spot.
Birnam was speaking, “The Dominion government has reached the point where it needs the money so badly, in fact, that if they don’t get it, they’re going to publicize everything.”
Orloff’s phlegm broke completely, and he snatched at the monocle as it dropped, “My dear fellow!”
“I know what it would mean. I’ve advised against it, but they’re justified. Once the inside of the Jovian affair is out; once the people know about it; the Empire government won’t stay in power a week. And when the Technocrats come in, they’ll give us whatever we ask. Public opinion will see to that.”
“But you’ll also create a panic and hysteria-”
“Surely! That is why we hesitate. But you might call this an ultimatum. We want secrecy, we need secrecy; but we need money more.”
“I see.” Orloff was thinking rapidly, and the conclusions he came to were not pleasant. “In that case, it would be advisable to investigate the case further. If you have the papers concerning the communications with the planet Jupiter-”
“I have them,” replied Birnam, dryly, “and so has the Empire government at Washington. That won’t do, commissioner. It’s the same cud that’s been chewed by Earth officials for the last year, and it’s gotten us nowhere. I want you to come to Ether Station with me.”
The Ganymedan had risen from his chair, and he glowered down upon Orloff from his six and a half feet of height.
Orloff flushed, “ Are you ordering me?”
“In a way, yes. I tell you there is no time. If you intend acting, you must act quickly or not at all.” Birnam paused, then added, “You don’t mind walking, I hope. Power vehicles aren’t allowed to approach Ether Station, ordinarily, and I can use the walk to explain a few of the facts. It’s only two miles off.”
“I’ll walk,” was the brusque reply.
The trip upward to subground level was made in silence, which was broken by Orloff when they stepped into the dimly lit anteroom.
“It’s chilly here.”
“I know. It’s difficult to keep the temperature up to norm this near the surface. But it will be colder outside. Here!”
Birnam had kicked open a closet door and was indicating the garments suspended from the ceiling. “Put them on. You’ll need them.”
Orloff fingered them doubtfully, “Are they heavy enough?”
Birnam was pouring into his own costume as he spoke. “They’re electrically heated. You’ll find them plenty warm. That’s it! Tuck the trouser legs inside the boots and lace them tight.”
He turned then and, with a grunt, brought out a double compressed-gas cylinder from its rack in one corner of the closet. He glanced at the dial reading; and then turned the stopcock. There was a thin wheeze of escaping gas, at which Birnam sniffed with satisfaction.
“Do you know how to work one of these?” he asked, as he screwed onto the jet a flexible tube of metal mesh, at the other end of which was a curiously curved object of thick, clear glass.
“What is it?”
“Oxygen nosepiece! What there is of Ganymede’s atmosphere is argon and nitrogen, just about half and half. It isn’t particularly breathable.” He heaved the double cylinder into position, and tightened it in its harness on Orloff’s back.
Orloff staggered, “It’s heavy. I can’t walk two miles with this.”
“It won’t be heavy out there,” Birnam nodded carelessly upward and lowered the glass nosepiece over Orloff’s head. “Just remember to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, and you won’t have any trouble. By the way, did you eat recently?”
“I lunched before I came to your place.”
Birnam sniffed dubiously, “Well, that’s a little awkward.” He drew a small metal container from one of his pockets and tossed it to the commissioner. “put one of those pills in your mouth and keep sucking on it.”
Orloff worked clumsily with gloved fingers and finally managed to get a brown spheriod out of the tin and into his mouth. He followed Birnam up a gently sloped ramp. The blind-alley ending of the corridor slid aside smoothly when they reached it and there was a faint soughing as air slipped out into the thinner atmosphere of Ganymede.
Birnam caught the other’s elbow, and fairly dragged him out.
“I’ve turned your air tank on full,” he shouted. “Breathe deeply and keep sucking at that pill.”
Gravity had flicked to Ganymedan normality as they crossed the threshold and Orloff after one horrible mom
ent of apparent levitation, felt his stomach turn a somersault and explode.
He gagged, and fumbled the pill with his tongue in a desperate attempt at self-control. The oxygen-rich mixture from the air cylinders burned his throat, and gradually Ganymede steadied. His stomach shuddered back into place. He tried walking.
“Take it easy, now,” came Birnam’s soothing voice. “It gets you that way the first few times you change gravity fields quickly. Walk slowly and get the rhythm, or you’ll take a tumble. That’s right, you’re getting it “
The ground seemed resilient Orloff could feel the pressure of the other’s arm holding him down at each step to keep him from springing too high. Steps were longer now-and flatter, as he got the rhythm. Birnam continued speaking, a voice a little muffled from behind the leather flap drawn loosely across mouth and chin.
“Each to his own world,” he grinned. “I visited Earth a few years back, with my wife, and had a hell of a time. I couldn’t get myself to learn to walk on a planet’s surface without a nosepiece. I kept choking-I really did. The sunlight was too bright and the sky was too blue and the grass was too green. And the buildings were right out on the surface. I’ll never forget the time they tried to get me to sleep in a room twenty stories up in the air, with the window wide open and the moon shining in.
“I went back on the first spaceship going my way and don’t ever intend returning. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine! Splendid!” Now that the first discomfort had gone. Orloff found the low gravity exhilarating. He looked about him. The broken, hilly ground, bathed in a drenching yellow light, was covered with ground-hugging broad-leaved shrubs that showed the orderly arrangement of careful cultivation.
Birnam answered the unspoken question, “There’s enough carbon dioxide in the air to keep the plants alive, and they all have the power to fix atmospheric nitrogen. That’s what makes agriculture Ganymede’s greatest industry. Those plants are worth their weight in gold as fertilizers back on Earth and worth double or triple that as sources for half a hundred alkaloids that can’t be gotten anywhere else in the System. And, of course, everyone knows that Ganymedan green-leaf has Terrestrial tobacco beat hollow.”
