Short Stories Vol.1

by Isaac Asimov

  With violence, she added matter to the rough-hewn head and said, "Then let them do it" and turned and fled.

  And Ames saw and remembered, too, that once he had been a man. The force of his vortex split the head in two and he fled back across the galaxies on the energy-track of Brock-back to the endless doom of life.

  And the eyes of the shattered head of Matter still glistened with the moisture that Brock had placed there to represent tears. The head of Matter did that which the energy-beings could do no longer and it wept for all humanity, and for the fragile beauty of the bodies they had once given up, a trillion years ago.

  Segregationist

  The surgeon looked up without expression. "Is he ready?"

  "Ready is a relative term," said the med-eng. "We're ready. He's restless."

  "They always are. . . . Well, it's a serious operation."

  "Serious or not, he should be thankful. He's been chosen for it over an enormous number of possibles and frankly, I don't think . . ."

  "Don't say it," said the surgeon. "The decision is not ours to make."

  "We accept it. But do we have to agree?"

  "Yes," said the surgeon, crisply. "We agree. Completely and wholeheartedly. The operation is entirely too intricate to approach with mental reservations. This man has proven his worth in a number of ways and his profile is suitable for the Board of Mortality."

  "All right," said the med-eng, unmollified.

  The surgeon said, "I'll see him right in here, I think. It is small enough and personal enough to be comforting."

  "It won't help. He's nervous, and he's made up his mind."

  "Has he indeed?"

  "Yes. He wants metal; they always do."

  The surgeon's face did not change expression. He stared at his hands. "Sometimes one can talk them out of it."

  "Why bother?" said the med-eng, indifferently. "If he wants metal, let it be metal."

  "You don't care?"

  "Why should I?" The med-eng said it almost brutally. "Either way it's a medical engineering problem and I'm a medical engineer. Either way, I can handle it. Why should I go beyond that?"

  The surgeon said stolidly, "To me, it is a matter of the fitness of things."

  "Fitness! You can't use that as an argument. What does the patient care about the fitness of things?"

  "I care."

  "You care in a minority. The trend is against you. You have no chance."

  "I have to try." The surgeon waved the med-eng into silence with a quick wave of his hand-no impatience to it, merely quickness. He had already informed the nurse and he had already been signaled concerning her approach. He pressed a small button and the double-door pulled swiftly apart. The patient moved inward in his motorchair, the nurse stepping briskly along beside him.

  "You may go, nurse," said the surgeon, "but wait outside. I will be calling you." He nodded to the med-eng, who left with the nurse, and the door closed behind them.

  The man in the chair looked over his shoulder and watched them go. His neck was scrawny and there were fine wrinkles about his eyes. He was freshly shaven and the fingers of his hands, as they gripped the arms of the chair tightly, showed manicured nails. He was a high-priority patient and he was being taken care of. ... But there was a look of settled peevishness on his face.

  He said, "Will we be starting today?"

  The surgeon nodded. "This afternoon, Senator."

  "I understand it will take weeks."

  "Not for the operation itself, Senator. But there are a number of subsidiary points to be taken care of. There are some circulatory renovations that must be carried through, and hormonal adjustments. These are tricky things."

  "Are they dangerous?" Then, as though feeling the need for establishing a friendly relationship, but patently against his will, he added, ". . . doctor?"

  The surgeon paid no attention to the nuances of expression. He said, flatly, "Everything is dangerous. We take our time in order that it be less dangerous. It is the time required, the skill of many individuals united, the equipment, that makes such operations available to so few ..."

  "I know that," said the patient, restlessly. "I refuse to feel guilty about that. Or are you implying improper pressure?"

  "Not at all, Senator. The decisions of the Board have never been questioned. I mention the difficulty and intricacy of the operation merely to explain my desire to have it conducted in the best fashion possible."

  "Well, do so, then. That is my desire, also."

  "Then I must ask you to make a decision. It is possible to supply you with either of two types of cyber-hearts, metal or . . ."

  "Plastic!" said the patient, irritably. "Isn't that the alternative you were going to offer, doctor? Cheap plastic. I don't want that. I've made my choice. I want the metal."

  "But . . ."

  "See here. I've been told the choice rests with me. Isn't that so?"

  The surgeon nodded. "Where two alternate procedures are of equal value from a medical standpoint, the choice rests with the patient. In actual practice, the choice rests with the patient even when the alternate procedures are not of equal value, as in this case."

  The patient's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to tell me the plastic heart is superior?"

  "It depends on the patient. In my opinion, in your individual case, it is. And we prefer not to use the term, plastic. It is a fibrous cyber-heart."

  "It's plastic as far as I am concerned."

  "Senator," said the surgeon, infinitely patient, "the material is not plastic in the ordinary sense of the word. It is a polymeric material true, but one that is far more complex than ordinary plastic. It is a complex protein-like fibre designed to imitate, as closely as possible, the natural structure of the human heart you now have within your chest."

  "Exactly, and the human heart I now have within my chest is worn out although I am not yet sixty years old. I don't want another one like it, thank you. I want something better."

  "We all want something better for you, Senator. The fibrous cyber-heart will be better. It has a potential life of centuries. It is absolutely non-aller genie ..."

  "Isn't that so for the metallic heart, too?"

  "Yes, it is," said the surgeon. "The metallic cyber is of titanium alloy that . . ."

  "And it doesn't wear out? And it is stronger than plastic? Or fibre or whatever you want to call it?"

  "The metal is physically stronger, yes, but mechanical strength is not a point at issue. Its mechanical strength does you no particular good since the heart is well protected. Anything capable of reaching the heart will kill you for other reasons even if the heart stands up under manhandling."

  The patient shrugged. "If I ever break a rib, I'll have that replaced by titanium, also. Replacing bones is easy. Anyone can have that done anytime. I'll be as metallic as I want to be, doctor."

  "That is your right, if you so choose. However, it is only fair to tell you that although no metallic cyber-heart has ever broken down mechanically, a number have broken down electronically."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that every cyber-heart contains a pacemaker as part of its structure. In the case of the metallic variety, this is an electronic device that keeps the cyber in rhythm. It means an entire battery of miniaturized equipment must be included to alter the heart's rhythm to suit an individual's emotional and physical state. Occasionally something goes wrong there and people have died before that wrong could be corrected."

  "I never heard of such a thing."

  "I assure you it happens."

  "Are you telling me it happens often?"

  "Not at all. It happens very rarely."

  "Well, then, I'll take my chance. What about the plastic heart? Doesn't that contain a pacemaker?"

  "Of course it does, Senator. But the chemical structure of a fibrous cyber-heart is quite close to that of human tissue. It can respond to the ionic and hormonal controls of the body itself. The total complex that need be inserted is far simple
r than in the case of the metal cyber."

  "But doesn't the plastic heart ever pop out of hormonal control?"

  "None has ever yet done so."

  "Because you haven't been working with them long enough. Isn't that so?"

  The surgeon hesitated. "It is true that the fibrous cybers have not been used nearly as long as the metallic."

  "There you are. What is it anyway, doctor? Are you afraid I'm making myself into a robot . . . into a Metallo, as they call them since citizenship went through?"

  "There is nothing wrong with a Metallo as a Metallo. As you say, they are citizens. But you're not a Metallo. You're a human being. Why not stay a human being?"

  "Because I want the best and that's a metallic heart. You see to that."

  The surgeon nodded. "Very well. You will be asked to sign the necessary permissions and you will then be fitted with a metal heart."

  "And you'll be the surgeon in charge? They tell me you're the best."

  "I will do what I can to make the changeover an easy one."

  The door opened and the chair moved the patient out to the waiting nurse.

  The med-eng came in, looking over his shoulder at the receding patient until the doors had closed again.

  He turned to the surgeon. "Well, I can't tell what happened just by looking at you. What was his decision?"

  The surgeon bent over his desk, punching out the final items for his records. "What you predicted. He insists on the metallic cyber-heart."

  "After all, they are better."

  "Not significantly. They've been around longer; no more than that. It's this mania that's been plaguing humanity ever since Metallos have become citizens. Men have this odd desire to make Metallos out of themselves.

  F

  They yearn for the physical strength and endurance one associates with them."

  "It isn't one-sided, doc. You don't work with Metallos but I do; so I know. The last two who came in for repairs have asked for fibrous elements."

  "Did they get them?"

  "In one case, it was just a matter of supplying tendons; it didn't make much difference there, metal or fibre. The other wanted a blood system or its equivalent. I told him I couldn't; not without a complete rebuilding of the structure of his body in fibrous material. ... I suppose it will come to that some day. Metallos that aren't really Metallos at all, but a kind of flesh and blood."

  "You don't mind that thought?"

  "Why not? And metallized human beings, too. We have two varieties of intelligence on Earth now and why bother with two. Let them approach each other and eventually we won't be able to tell the difference. Why should we want to? We'd have the best of both worlds; the advantages of man combined with those of robot."

  "You'd get a hybrid," said the surgeon, with something that approached fierceness. "You'd get something that is not both, but neither. Isn't it logical to suppose an individual would be too proud of his structure and identity to want to dilute it with something alien? Would he want mongrelization?"

  "That's segregationist talk."

  "Then let it be that." The surgeon said with calm emphasis, "I believe in being what one is. I wouldn't change a bit of my own structure for any reason. If some of it absolutely required replacement, I would have that replacement as close to the original in nature as could possibly be managed. I am myself; well pleased to be myself; and would not be anything else."

  He had finished now and had to prepare for the operation. He placed his strong hands into the heating oven and let them reach the dull red-hot glow that would sterilize them completely. For all his impassioned words, his voice had never risen, and on his burnished metal face there was (as always) no sign of expression.

  I Just Make Them Up, See!

  Oh, Dr. A. -

  Oh, Dr. A. -

  There is something (don't go 'way)

  That I'd like to hear you say.

  Though I'd rather die

  Than try

  To pry,

  The fact, you'll find,

  Is that my mind

  Has evolved the jackpot question for today.

  I intend no cheap derision,

  So please answer with decision,

  And, discarding all your petty cautious fears,

  Tell the secret of your vision!

  How on earth

  Do you give birth

  To those crazy and impossible ideas?

  Is it indigestion

  And a question

  Of the nightmare that results?

  Of your eyeballs whirling,

  Copyright (r) 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc.

  Twirling,

  Fingers curling

  And unfurling,

  While your blood beats maddened chimes

  As it keeps impassioned times

  With your thick, uneven pulse?

  Is it that, you think, or liquor

  That brings on the wildness quicker?

  For a teeny

  Weeny

  Dry martini

  May be just your private genie;

  Or perhaps those Tom and ferries

  You will find the very

  Berries

  For inducing

  And unloosing

  That weird gimmick or that kicker;

  Or an awful

  Combination

  Of unlawful

  Stimulation,

  Marijuana plus tequila,

  That will give you just that feel o'

  Things a-clicking

  And unsticking

  As you start your cerebration

  To the crazy syncopation

  Of a brain a-tocking-ticking.

  Surely something, Dr. A., Makes you fey And quite outrt. Since I read you with devotion, Won't you give me just a notion Of that shrewdly pepped-up potion Out of which emerge your plots? That wild secret bubbly mixture That has made you such a fixture In most favored s.f. spots-

  Now, Dr. A., Don't go away-

  Oh, Dr. A. - Oh, Dr. A. -

  Rejection Slips

  a-Learned

  Dear Asimov, all mental laws Prove orthodoxy has its flaws. Consider that eclectic clause In Kant's philosophy that gnaws With ceaseless anti-logic jaws At all outworn and useless saws That stick in modern mutant craws. So here's your tale (with faint applause). The words above show ample cause.

  b-Gruff

  Dear Ike, I was prepared

  (And, boy, I really cared) To swallow almost anything you wrote.

  But, Ike, you're just plain shot,

  Your writing's gone to pot, There's nothing left but hack and mental bloat.

  Take back this piece of junk;

  It smelled; it reeked; it stunk; Just glancing through it once was deadly rough.

  But Ike, boy, by and by,

  Copyright (c) 1959 by Isaac Asiniov.

  Just try another try. I need some yams and, kid, I love your stuff.

  c-Kindly

  Dear Isaac, friend of mine,

  I thought your tale was fine.

  Just frightful-

  Ly delightful

  And with merits all a-shine.

  It meant a quite full

  Night, full,

  Friend, of tension

  Then relief

  And attended

  With full measure

  Of the pleasure

  Of suspended

  Disbelief.

  It is triteful,

  Scarcely rightful,

  Almost spiteful

  To declare

  That some tiny faults are there.

  Nothing much,

  Perhaps a touch,

  And over such

  You shouldn't pine.

  So let me say

  Without delay,

  My pal, my friend,

  Your story's end

  Has left me gay

  And joyfully composed.

  P. S.

  Oh, yes,

  I must confess

  (With some distress)


  Your story is regretfully enclosed.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct the situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight.

  Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of Biochemistry.

  Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never looked back.

  In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his future was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had begun his Foundation series.

  What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 440 books, distributed through every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity is notorious.

  He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous marriage, and lives in New York City.

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