David was considered premature because of his weight and it wasn't till he was four days old that he was taken out of the incubator and put into Gertrude's arms, and because he seemed too small to have enough suction for breast feeding, he became a bottle baby.
On the twenty-fifth, the Blugermans arrived, and I took them to the hospital to see their first grandchild.
On August 27, Gertrude left the hospital and came home, but they held onto David one more day. On the twenty-eighth we went in and brought him home. It was a terribly frightening thing to have the responsibility for a tiny scrap of life—much more frightening than trying to take care of a kitten.
We had hired a practical nurse to sleep in and take care of David for a while, till Gertrude really got on her feet and learned the ropes. It
was a disaster! A more incompetent and unpleasant practical nurse I couldn't imagine.
Yet maybe that was a good thing. We were so anxious to get rid of her that when she was gone and we were left alone with David we were too busy feeling good about her being gone to feel scared about being left alone with a baby. By the end of the month, David weighed five pounds, eight ounces.
During that interval the November 1951 Marvel appeared with "Shah Guido G." 1 in it. It was the first of my stories to appear in the days of my fatherhood.
3
On September 3, I got a call from Fred. He was buying out Roz Wylie and assuming sole control of the Dirk Wylie Literary Agency, but that meant he needed money. Could he borrow some?
That put me in a bind. With a newborn baby, I suddenly felt shakier economically than I had as a childless person. So I asked, "Has my Doubleday royalty check come in yet?"
Yes, it had, and it amounted to $443.
"Very well, then," I said. "Hold onto that till you can afford to pay it to me."
That set a pattern that was to continue for two years. Fred was chronically hard up. One of the reasons was that he was paying new and struggling writers out of his own funds to keep them going, whenever he was certain their stories would eventually sell, or when their stories had sold but the buyers were slow in paying.
This meant, of course, that he had to hold off on the money of those who, like myself, could afford to wait. He was chronically in debt to me, therefore, from this point on, but I didn't worry. For one thing, I always knew exactly how much he owed me, and his payments, though late, did come. For another, I owed him so much in a non-financial way that I could scarcely complain.
4
On September 4, advance copies of Foundation arrived, and other things were moving, too. The textbook, for instance, was in its last stages, and soon we would have a completed manuscript
On September 21, Gotthard Guenther (who had once developed his odd theory of the significance of "Nightfall") called to tell me that
1 See Buy Jupiter and Other Stories.
his German publisher wanted to put out a German edition of J, Robot. This was eventually done. It appeared as lch y der Robot, and it was the first time anything I had written appeared in a foreign language (or at least it was the first foreign translation I saw).
5
The first problem with David, other than the day-to-day feeding, diapering, washing, and weighing, was the matter of circumcision.
Gertrude and I took it as a matter of course that there would be no religious ritual involved and we were certainly not going to try to have the ceremony performed on the traditional eighth day, when he was entirely too small and fragile.
On the other hand, I didn't want to let circumcision go altogether. It was a hygienic move, I believed (though I might have been the readier to believe it out of a lingering superstition), and I didn't want to seem to be denying that David was Jewish.
I compromised by having him circumcised by his pediatrician, who happened to be named John J. Ryan. You couldn't ask for a more Gentile circumcision than that. The operation took place on September 22, 1951, when David was thirty-three days old.
Bill Boyd pulled an unexpected surprise on me on October 1, 1951. He was hiring Bernie Pitt as an assistant. Bernie had been at Columbia with me in 1948 and I remembered him well.
Bill knew Bernie was a classmate of mine since Bernie had told him so. Bill therefore asked me what I thought of him. This put me in a bind. Bernie was very bright, but I remembered his sardonic sense of humor and I was convinced he would not find Bill's bumbling peculiarities as endearing as I did. Nor did I think Bill would find Bernie's occasional bitterness pleasant.
That, however, was just my opinion, and I couldn't spoil another man's job opportunity. I just said, "Well, he's got a pronounced personality, Bill. You'll have to get used to it, the way you got used to mine."
"I'm sure there will be no problem," he said.
I could just smile doubtfully.
What didn't help my self-love was that Bill's grant enabled him to pay out a sizable sum to Bernie and that Bill lacked the discretion to keep quiet about it. He proudly announced he was going to pay Bernie
$7,000—which made my $5,500 after over two years on the job look pretty sick.
To be sure, Bernie would simply be an assistant to Bill and would carry no faculty status. In view of the fact that I was only an instructor, that wasn't enough. Once again, I put pressure on Walker for a promotion in title. I said nothing about money.
7
The October 1951 Galaxy appeared, containing "C-Chute," 2 and a couple of hard-cover anthologies came out with stories of mine in them: "Death Sentence" and "The Red Queen's Race." They were the ninth and tenth hard-cover anthologies to contain stories of mine, and I was becoming used to it, even unmoved by it.
On October 23, 1951, we were finally finished with the manuscript of Biochemistry and Human Metabolism after just over a year of fairly hard and unremitting labor. I judged its length to be something over 300,000 words, of which I had written a third. On that day, we sent it off to Williams & Wilkins by Air Express.
On October 29, I had the galleys to David Starr: Space Ranger and I had finished a 10,000-word novelette called "Youth/' which only took me ten days. About the only bad news about writing that month was the return of the first third of The Currents of Space from Brad. He found me overwriting in spots again and wanted certain changes.
Meanwhile, I had heard from Scott Feldman again, the friend of my bachelor days. A surprising sea change had overtaken him. His kindness to Wodehouse in wartime internment was not forgotten by that gentleman.
After the war, Wodehouse came to the United States and never returned to Great Britain (although the bitterness against him died down and he was eventually knighted by Elizabeth II). In the United States, he offered, in gratitude, to let Scott serve as his agent. Scott eventually changed his last name to Meredith and, beginning with Wodehouse, founded what is perhaps the most successful literary agency in the United States.
Now Scott wrote me. Apparently he was of the opinion that Fred Pohl's literary agency was on the point of failure and he suggested that
1 become a client of the Scott Meredith agency.
It might well have been to my financial benefit to do so, but there was no way I could let Fred down just because he was having a hard
2 See Nightfall and Other Stories.
time. Besides, if Fred left the agency business I intended to have no agent at all thereafter. I replied politely to Scott and refused.
8
David filled our lives. We watched eagerly for all signs of development. On October 7, when he was forty-eight days old, he smiled for the first time, and had been able to follow our moving fingers with his eyes some days before that. On October 11, he consumed his first solid food.
The one disturbing development was that he was getting strange patches on his skin which, on October 20, were finally interpreted by Dr. Ryan as an allergy to milk. He assured us it would pass but that, for a while, David would have to switch to soybean extract, which would supply all necessary nutrition and which was nonallergenic. By n
ow he was two months old and weighed nearly ten pounds.
By the twenty-ninth, after nine days on the soybean regimen, the patches on the skin were about gone, which demonstrated the correctness of Ryan's diagnosis.
I had a small dental problem of my own. The removable bridge that replaced my one missing tooth was beginning to affect its neighbors. In October, then, my dentist (a meticulous worker who drove me mad, however, by lecturing me in an ultrarightist manner while I was helpless in the dentist's chair) outfitted me with a permanent bridge. 3
9
Now that David was with us, it was difficult to go out together; nay, impossible. We took to going to the movies separately, and on October 30, when I had to go to New York, I went alone, and Gertrude remained behind with David.
On arriving in New York, I went straight to Fred Pohl's to find out if he was indeed, as Scott had implied, about to fail. Mary Byers was working for him now and I saw her for the first time since that episode, 12 Vi years before, when I had introduced her to the Futurians. She was Mary Kornbluth now, was pregnant with twins, and was looking rather tired.
Fred admitted things were in a bad way. He was getting a divorce from Judy, was desperately trying to stay afloat, and asked me to have patience. Well, what could I do? I had patience.
3 Permanent, indeed. It's still with me today, as staunch as ever, and has never given me any trouble.
The next day I visited Brad, handed in the corrected galleys of David Starr: Space Ranger, and listened with a grin as he told me of how well Pebble in the Sky was doing. I also visited Scott Meredith, seeing him for the first time in nine years. He had put on weight, had taken off his mustache, was married, had a two-year-old son, and lived in Forest Hills.
On November 1, I saw Campbell, gave him "Youth," then drove back to Waltham. To my delight, David seemed to have thriven in my absence, and Gertrude had been able to take care of him without too much trouble.
That night, however, I felt the now-familiar pains of a kidney stone. My regimen of drinking water paid off, however. The pains were not nearly so bad as they had been a year before. I increased my water intake further, and after six days of intermittent discomfort, passed the stone. It was a tiny thing compared to the earlier one.
10
Fred Pohl visited us on November 10. It was a surprise visit; I hadn't expected him. It gave him a chance to admire David, however.
He brought some bad news: Campbell had rejected "Youth." (Later on, Gold was to reject it, too.) Fred spent some time telling me that I ought to write nonfiction articles. That, he said, was where the money was. He impressed me and I did not forget, but at the time, I was not ready.
11
On November 15, we drove to New York with David. He was nearly three months old now and it was on this occasion that my mother and father saw their first grandchild for the first time.
Among those whom I saw on my rounds on this occasion was Howard Browne, who was once again trying to start a high-class science-fiction magazine and who wanted stories badly.
When I got back to Boston, I started a story named "Button, Button" intended for Browne. Once again, I was attempting a humorous story, and once again, as in the case of "The Monkey's Finger," I overdid it badly. Those days, though, I could finish a story in four days, so the time investment wasn't overpowering.
On November 25, we moved David's crib out of the bedroom and set it up in the fourth room that I had been using as my workroom. After fourteen weeks, he had a room of his own—and I didn't. For half
a year I had had a room to work in all to myself but now I had to move my typewriter, desk, and chair into the bedroom.
12
The layman's-biochemistry project suddenly got a new lease on life. I had written two different sample chapters in my attempt to please Angus Cameron of Little, Brown. He had persisted in not being pleased. But now he had left Little, Brown, and Jane Lawson seemed more interested. By December 2,1 was writing a third attempt at a sample, and this time I just kept on going. Toward the end of the month, I had 33,000 words done, and Little, Brown finally decided to sign me up. I was delighted.
Less delightful was the fact that Howard Browne sent back "Button, Button/' I seemed to have fallen out of luck with my shorter pieces. Was I being seduced by my novels into an inability to work at the lesser lengths?
I tried again for him, writing a 2,500-word story, a rather bitter one called "King Lear IV, 1, 36." This was a reference to Gloucester's famous remark, "As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods./They kill us for their sport."
*3 The Fred Pohl situation affected others. After all, there were other writers who were his clients, and not all were as patient as I was. I received a letter on December 11 from Clifford Simak, the first in ten years, asking about Fred's position. I answered as circumspectly as I could. I didn't want to lose Fred a client and I didn't want to allow Cliff to lose money, and I tried to tread a tightrope.
l 4
As far as the Medical School was concerned, I was turning grim, indeed. Since Walker remained adamant in his refusal to grant me a promotion, I began to look for another job.
I heard of an opening at the Veteran Administration Hospital in Bedford, about nine miles north of Waltham, and followed it up. On December 12, I secured an interview with a Dr. Hoffman. I spent 2V2 hours with him and was shown around the hospital.
The job carried a P4 status, which involved a yearly salary of $5,940. It had its attractions, but it was civil service, and I didn't re-
ally intend ever to subject myself to that again. Besides, it wasn't money I wanted, it was a title.
Nevertheless, after thinking about the matter over the weekend, I felt that I had to put the matter to Walker squarely. On Monday, December 17, I told him that I had an offer and that unless I got my professorship, I would take it.
On December 20, Walker told me that he had spoken to Dean Faulkner who had, in turn, agreed to recommend me for an assistant professorship and to have my salary gradually taken over by the school, thus moving me out from under Lemon.
I presume Walker had had an embarrassing session putting pressure on the dean, for he seemed annoyed with me and told me that he wouldn't advise me to try "these tactics" again as they "might backfire." I answered, quite coolly, that I had been quite prepared for a backfire this time and, indeed, had expected one.
So I ended the year of 1951 as an assistant professor of biochemistry at last after 2V2 years as an instructor. For the first time, I could call myself Professor Asimov.
15
On December 28, I drove to New York by myself. The next day I saw Pohl and he gave me a check for $884.67, clearing up his entire indebtedness of the moment. On December 30, I met Harry Stubbs in midtown Manhattan and drove him back to Boston with me. It was now I who was giving rides to other people.
David ended the year weighing fifteen pounds and, as nearly as we could tell, making normal progress.
As for myself, for the second year in a row I had published two books: 4
3. The Stars, like Dust— (Doubleday)
4. Foundation (Gnome)
My writing earnings for 1951 were, however, a disappointment. I ended the year with a literary income of $3,625. It was only three quarters what I had made in 1950. It was better than my earnings in any other year by far, of course, but one is quickly spoiled.
My school income had gone up a bit, to $5,350, but that was not enough to make up for it. The total came to just under $9,000.
4 In listing the books year by year, I will number them so as to give a running total of all of them. Those who question me about my books never ask how many I have published "this year"; they always want to know the overall total.
There were explanations, of course. The time I had spent on the textbook and on the layman's biochemistry book had been enormous and had brought me in nothing. Nevertheless, I felt a little shaken in my belief that I could support myself by my writing if I had to.
As invariably
happened, the new year brought my birthday, my first as a father, and on January 2, 1952,1 was thirty-two years old.
Events are no respecters of birthdays. On January 4, I heard from Howard Browne. He rejected "King Lear IV, I, 36" but, rather to my surprise, told me he was accepting "What if—/' the story I had written in response to Gertrude's question about where I got my ideas.
Then, on January 9, the galleys of Biochemistry and Human Metabolism began to come in in three copies plus a master.
What we did was this: Each of us—Walker, Boyd, and I— searched our own copies for mistakes. We then foregathered. The author of that chapter would list the corrections and they would be entered in the master. Each of the other two would then add any other corrections he had found. Invariably, no one of us caught all the errors. Always, No. 2 could add to what No. 1 could find, and then No. 3 would come along with something both the others had missed. And on a surprising number of occasions, there were mistakes none of us found.
The publisher's proofreader himself searched for mistakes and would point out inconsistencies in capitalization, hyphenation, and so on. It was a dreadful chore to try to decide on consistency, especially when the three of us never agreed. Finally Bill Boyd said, "According to Emerson, 'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.'"
After that whenever we came to a trivial inconsistency, we would chorus "Emerson!" and let it stand.
The official notification that I was Assistant Professor having come on January 22, that was entered in place of "Instructor" on the title page of the textbook. That gave me enormous satisfaction.
*7
On January 15, I got my advance copy of David Starr: Space Ranger. It was my first book written under a pseudonym.
In addition, I was working steadily on The Currents of Space and on the biochemistry book for Little, Brown. I was also organizing my Foundation stories, "Dead Hand," and "The Mule" to make up the second book of the series, Foundation and Empire.
In memory yet green : the autobiography of Isaac Asimov, 1920-1954 Page 78
