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

by Asimov, Isaac, 1920-1992

  On February 17, 1942, I met him, and liked him at once. He was of middle height, slim, and nattily dressed. (All my life I have admired nattily dressed men without ever being able to achieve that state for myself. Nothing natty will fit me or, it seems, will even survive contact with me without turning into instant sag.)

  Dawson was kind and soft-spoken and, it was clear, perfectly willing to take me on. He was working on an enzyme called tyrosinase, which had a copper atom as an essential part of its molecule and which acted on two different kinds of molecules: cresol and catechol. Tyrosinase could be prepared in such a way as to be more active on cresol than on catechol or, by altering the route of preparation, more active on catechol than on cresol—yet the two activities could not be entirely

  2 Sidney Cohen, who was within a year of his M.D., was a second lieutenant now, since he would have to serve time as a medical officer once he was graduated from medical school.

  separated. Was the enzyme one enzyme with two active regions of different kinds, or two very closely related enzymes with one activity each?

  Not only was this interesting to me, but also it was the ideal kind of Ph.D. problem, since any answer was worth a degree.

  I decided, therefore, to go with Dawson.

  What I didn't know at the time, but found out eventually, was that Dawson was a man with a heart of butter. He routinely took on students from whom other professors shied away as being "problems/' Dawson had heard about me from Elderfield, and I believe he felt sorry for me.

  In all the time I was with Dawson, I never knew him to be unkind, to raise his voice, to seem impatient, or to be anything but totally gentle. He was that way with everyone, I believe, but it must have been at considerable cost to himself, for he suffered badly from a duodenal ulcer for many years.

  By February 20, I had a research room assigned me and was ready to start work.

  I have only vague memories of the research room itself, a room I shared with another research student—whom I have forgotten. (I remember things and events more easily than I remember people.)

  The room was none too large and was certainly none too neat and clean. It had the accumulated debris of past generations of researchers in hidden drawers and corners so that there was always the chance of coming across an unexpected treasure in the way of clamps or glassware. For the most part, though, we dealt with the particular glassware we were going to use in our everyday research. These were in conspicuous and available drawers and were kept chemically clean. There were pipettes, burettes, beakers, three-neck flasks, condensers, Erlenmeyer flasks—names that were as familiar to me in those days as "chair" and "table."

  There were also more elaborate setups that came with the room. There was a large constant-temperature bath with a Beckmann thermometer in it that was capable of measuring temperatures to a hundredth of a degree, and a thermostat that kept electric lights flashing on and off under water to keep heating it slightly every time the temperature fell a bit—or allow it to cool off every time the temperature rose a bit.

  The Beckmann thermometer had to be adjusted properly and the thermostat had to be kept working and I was seriously doubtful of my capacity to take care of either.

  There were Warburg manometers designed to measure the uptake

  of tiny quantities of oxygen by thin slices of still-living tissue or by enzyme preparations in the presence of the chemicals they worked on. These swayed back and forth in the thermostat to keep their contents well mixed, and the manometer itself had to be read while swaying.

  However frightening all this was, it was also dramatic and glamorous and I found myself in a state of delighted incredulity that finally, after so many years, I was actually about to engage in research.

  Fortunately, that was all I had to do. The long delay in passing my Qualifyings had made it possible for all my course work to be already under my belt and for my language-proficiency examinations (French and German) to have been passed. I could concentrate single-mindedly on research—if the outside world would let me.

  To be sure, I was still, in some ways, a second-class citizen. Research students were judged by their professor, and Dawson was a young man who had yet to make a name for himself. Those students who worked for older, more flamboyant, and better-known professors shone in reflected glory. Elderfield, in particular, had a much larger corps of students than Dawson's poor half dozen, and though Elderfield's students might suffer from his unpredictable whims, they felt themselves to be in a higher social stratum than I was. I felt it too, for I knew that when eventually the struggle for jobs was to come, to have been a student of a well-known professor would carry weight.

  5

  Fred Pohl had unexpectedly renewed his connection with Astonishing Stories, apparently as assistant to the new editor, Norton, over a wide range of magazines. Pohl told me that they might be interested in "Victory Unintentional," and I was delighted. I gave it to him on February 22 and, despite Pohl's thoughts that revision might be necessary, Norton took it exactly as written on March 16, and I received $70 for it—a full cent a word.

  Making money had its price, of course. My huge thousand-plus income of 1941 meant that I had qualified for income tax. I made out an income-tax statement on February 6, 1942, and before the March 15 deadline, I sent in a tax payment of $24. (I have never missed a tax payment since.)

  I was also making progress with Gertrude. On February 28, I called for her at her home, rather than meeting her on some neutral ground. I didn't actually get inside her apartment, but even meeting in the hall indicated a heightened measure of acceptance. To be sure, the date consisted of going to the Bronx by subway (in those days subways were

  perfectly safe and reasonably pleasant) and visiting Joe and Lee on their home turf.

  On March 14, however, I called for her again, and on this fourth occasion, Joe and Lee played no part. I took her to the movies on my own.

  On March 27, things were even better. We had a long supper at a cafeteria (not that the supper was long, but that we dawdled deli-ciously). Then I took her to one of Fletcher Pratt's war games. I never found out what she made of it, though that was the first occasion on which she met Sprague de Camp. For myself, however, I paid very little attention to the little ships and a great deal to Gertrude.

  Afterward, it being an unusually mild evening for that time of year, we walked down Fifth Avenue, window-shopping. A crucial moment came when she said to me, during a natural turn of the conversation, "There's a question I've never gotten a satisfactory answer for: What happens if an irresistible force meets an immovable body?"

  I had heard the question before, it being a common paradox among young people, but I never bothered thinking about it. I did this time.

  I said, "An irresistible force would have to possess an infinite energy, and an immovable body would have to possess infinite mass, so neither can exist in a finite universe. Moreover, if we suppose an irresistible force does exist, then, by that very fact, no immovable body can exist; and if we suppose an immovable body can exist, then, by that very fact, no irresistible force can exist. In other words, the two things cannot possibly coexist in the same universe. Therefore, on two different counts, the question is meaningless."

  And Gertrude reacted much as that other girl had when I said, "Gut yontiff, Pontiff."

  "Oh my," she said, "you are smart." Things were more friendly at once and when I took her to her apartment door, I managed to kiss her good night for the first time.

  Gertrude, it seemed, had completed a five-year high-school course in Toronto, Canada (where she was born and where she had lived till 1936, when her family came to New York). The fifth year was equivalent to the college freshman year and she had done very well. Financial difficulties, however, had made it necessary to channel effort and, as was all too customary, the son got the best of it.

  Gertrude had a nineteen-year-old younger brother at this time named John (I had not yet met him) and he was going to college. He was very bright and ap
parently did not hesitate to disapprove, on intellectual grounds, young men whom Gertrude had brought home. This was naturally embarrassing for Gertrude.

  That I was going for my doctorate and had published science-fiction stories were not quite enough, since John might sneer at both. My comments on irresistibility and immovability had led her to feel, however, that I could take care of myself in any encounter with John, and that meant I had gained a much better chance of penetrating the outer door of her apartment.

  Meanwhile, Fate was approaching from another direction as well.

  Robert Heinlein was now universally accepted as the best science-fiction writer in the United States, and probably in the world. I recognized this as well and was delighted when he sent me very kind words concerning "Nightfall," for instance. The two of us began a mild correspondence and we were on a first-name basis though we had never met.

  After Pearl Harbor, Heinlein was caught up in frustration. He was a graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy, but had been retired from active service for reasons of health. Although he was completely cured, regulations prevented him from rejoining the Navy, even though the United States was at war and needed naval officers badly. Heinlein came East, therefore, in order to work out some way of helping the war effort in a civilian capacity.

  A classmate of his, a Lieutenant Commander Scoles, had now been made head of the U. S. Navy Yard at Philadelphia, and it was Heinlein's plan to work for him there and, perhaps, to recruit other bright and imaginative people to work there.

  I knew nothing of this at the time, although in February, when Campbell told me that Heinlein had come East, he added, rather mysteriously, that I was to let him (Campbell) know at once if I were in danger of being drafted.

  On March 2, I traveled to Manhattan to visit Hubert Rogers, the artist who had drawn the cover of "Nightfall," in order to pick up the original painting. 3 When I arrived, I found, to my surprise, that Heinlein was there. It was our first meeting.

  On my next visit to Campbell, I was invited to his home for the first time. Campbell lived in New Jersey, so it was a major undertaking for me to get there. On March 11, 1942, I took a subway to a ferry across the Hudson, then I took another train to Westfield, New Jersey. When I got off I asked the station agent for the location of the street on which Campbell lived and he pointed and said, "In that direction." I said, "How far?" and he said, "Very far."

  3 I no longer possess that original. I don't know what happened to it.

  My heart sank. I began to walk, with my eyes fixed on the horizon and hadn't walked for more than half an hour (my eyes still fixed on the horizon) when I noticed the street I was passing was Campbell's. I apologized for being late, explaining that I had had a longer walk than I had anticipated.

  Campbell stared at me in wonder. "Why didn't you call?" he said. "I would have come and got you by car."

  He hadn't told me that. How did I know? Cars were strange animals to me.

  Campbell, Heinlein, Ley, and Rogers were there. I had met all of them before, but also present were the wives of the first three, and Campbell's infant daughter.

  I was very effervescent, as I usually am, and after a while Heinlein offered me what looked like a Coca-Cola. The odor seemed strange, however, and I said, "What is this, Bob?"

  He said, very straight-faced, "It's a Coke. Go ahead, drink it down."

  I was ashamed to hold back and I drank it down as though it were a Coke. It wasn't, of course. It was a Cuba Libre, and the rum had been added with a heavy hand. In about five minutes I had turned red and was feeling very odd indeed. I wandered off into a corner and sat down quietly, hoping the feeling would pass.

  Heinlein laughed heartily. "No wonder Isaac doesn't drink," he said. "It sobers him up."

  The only other thing I remember distinctly was that Heinlein projected some photographic transparencies of a beautiful nude woman, discreetly posed, photographs he had take himself. I tried to act nonchalant.

  I suppose I was under inspection—and I suppose I passed. In any case, on March 30, I received an official letter from Lieutenant Commander Scoles, the commandant of the Philadelphia Navy Yard, offering me a position at the Yard at a salary of $2,600 a year. That was unheard-of-munificence, for it meant $50 each and every week. I would have to be interviewed first, however.

  It put me in a quandary. I was just beginning my research work-something I had been aiming toward for years—and I didn't want to leave that. On the other hand, I wouldn't be leaving it altogether, for Columbia, under the unusual circumstances, was bound to give me leave for the duration of the war, with the understanding I could return without ceremony when the war was over. They had been doing it for other people.

  But then, too, I was afraid of leaving home and of living by myself

  —yet it had to be done sometime. I had to get away from the candy store, and out from under my mother and father, who, however loving they might be, were a steadily greater burden to me with their constant interference (with the best of motives, I'm certain) in my private life.

  Arguing strongly in favor of accepting the position, moreover, were two other factors. One was that the danger of being drafted was coming closer. Graduate student after graduate student was being reclassified as 1A, and friends were actually being drafted—Joe Goldberger was soon to be inducted, for instance.

  Although I was prepared to enter the Army, I would welcome an honorable way of staying out, and the job at the Navy Yard would offer just that.

  Second, I had an idea that, my diary states, "is so radical that I'm not even putting it down here."

  I'll tell you what it was. In all my dating of girls over the previous two years the one thing that had stood in my way was always a lack of money. I was working my way up to a real affection for Gertrude and I knew that under the current situation, it would come to nothing again. All I could offer was an occasional movie and she would soon tire of dates consisting of nothing more, as all my previous dates had.

  If I got the job, on the other hand, there was even the possibility of marriage (that was the "radical" idea), since I would be able to support a wife—at least I would be able to support her till the war was over, and I would tackle the problem of postwar support when the time came.

  I put the matter up to my friends at school the next day. They were divided. Roth wanted me to stay, predicting dolefully that if I left, for any reason, I would get married, gain family obligations, and never return. Professor Dawson wanted me to stick it out too, and take my chances with the draft.

  Professor Thomas, however, urged me to take the job, because he said that the department was bound to lose its students to the draft unless they took on war-related jobs. I passed this on to Dawson and, reluctantly, he said that perhaps I might as well leave.

  I therefore sent a short letter to the Navy Yard, on March 30, 1942, asking for an appointment for an interview.

  7

  That same day, March 30, 1942, the May 1942 Super Science came out with my story "The Weapon." For some strange reason, it appeared under the pseudonym H. B. Ogden. I haven't the faintest idea

  why that pseudonym was chosen or, indeed, why any pseudonym was chosen.

  So distressed was I with the pseudonym or the story or both, however, that I did not save the story and, as time went on, utterly and completely forgot its existence. It is the only story I have ever published that I did not save and which I did not have in my library, carefully catalogued, so that I could put fingers on it at a moment's notice.

  When I went through my diary in the preparation of The Early AsimoVy I missed its appearance and all I could say about 'The Weapon" was, "There came a time . . . when Astonishing seemed interested in 'The Weapon,' but that fell through. ..." I listed it among my lost stories.

  It wasn't lost. It was published and I never rediscovered that fact until I went through my diary, page for page, in preparing this book. A science-fiction convention was meeting at this time, and I announced that I was in the market
for a copy of the May 1942 Super Science Stories and explained the reason. Within days, Forry Ackerman sent me a copy.

  It seems to me that the only thing to do is to rescue this story from the limbo of the lost, and reprint the story here exactly as it appeared (it is only four thousand words long) and put it at last under my own name.

  "The Weapon"

  by Isaac Asimov

  The council room was in absolute silence. From a raised dais, five Martians looked down upon the Earthman standing before them. Their strange feline faces were entirely expressionless. Only their eyes exhibited signs of life. Glowing greenly, they seemed to pierce the innermost core of Preston Calvin's being.

  The Chief Elder of Mars spoke from his seat in the center, "Your request for an audience has been granted, Earthman. What do you want of the Elders of Mars?"

  "Assistance." Calvin's voice cut like a knife. With these Martians bluntness was the best diplomacy. "Assistance in our fight against the forces of ruthlessness and evil."

  The Chief Elder's gray vibrissae twitched. "Mars does not interfere with Earth. We give no assistance."

  "You are doubtless unacquainted with the facts, Excellency,"

  Calvin urged. "In the name of all humanity, I beg for aid. Democracy must not lose."

  "Affairs on Earth have been followed with keen interest," came the calm answer, "but every world must work out its own destiny."

  Calvin's shoulders sagged. He had been warned of this emotionless superrace, this product of countless aeons of evolution, but the reality was hard to face.

  He shifted his ground. "Aid us for your own sakes then, if not for ours. If the brutes win, Earth will be dominated by a cult of hate. Mars itself may not be safe from danger."

  "We don't fear Earth; you should know that." There was no anger, merely the coldest indifference in the Martian's voice. "We allowed you to colonize the Jovian and Saturnian worlds, which we ourselves had forsaken long before, but Mars itself we will keep. 77