Barry Horn is made aware of this during his long slumber through space and time. He finds himself able to eavesdrop mentally on the course of future human development (a capacity explained with a reference in passing to “Rhine’s famous experiments in ‘parapsychology’ ”).725
In this telepathic dream-state, Horn perceives the rise of human interstellar empire. He tells us:
Men multiplied and grew mighty. Commerce followed exploration, and commerce brought interstellar law. For a hundred thousand years—that seemed in that uncanny sleep no more than an hour—I watched the many-sided struggle between a score of interplanetary federations and the armada of space pirates that once menaced them all. . . .
Spreading from star to star, the rival federations drove the pirates at last to the fringes of the galaxy, and then turned back upon one another in ruthless galactic war. For ten thousand years ten million planets were drenched with blood. Democracies and communes crumbled before dictatorship. And one dictator, at last, was triumphant. The victorious League of Ledros became the Galactic Empire.
A universal peace and a new prosperity came to the world of stars. Enlightened Emperors restored democratic institutions. Ledros, the capital planet, became the heart of interstellar civilization.726
With this account, Jack Williamson was suggesting something wonderful and previously unheard-of—the possibility of a human political empire that was capable of reaching out and encompassing all the stars of our galaxy. Up until now, science fiction stories had always treated the farther future and the stars as realms of fierce evolutionary struggle, testing grounds of cosmic fitness to survive. But here, in a bold imaginative move, Williamson was elbowing all evolutionary rivals aside to lay claim to the galactic future as a playground for human historical development.
When he read “After World’s End,” Williamson’s young fan, Isaac Asimov, had to find this new line of speculation thrilling. Asimov was a history buff as well as a science fiction reader, and it was a revelation to him to see the stars and human history united this way under the name of Galactic Empire.
At the same time, however, to the Isaac Asimov who had lately become John Campbell’s pupil in the new discipline of modern science fiction, there were certain aspects of this story that were downright exasperating. And they would continue to bother him until he presented answers to them in his own SF stories.
One example of this was Williamson’s perpetuation of the “hundred-times-told”727 convention of the arrogant and ungrateful robot who turns upon his creator and destroys him. It was Malgarth and his like that Asimov would be reacting against in “Reason” when he presented Cutie, a robot who might be argumentative and contrary, but who was ultimately to be counted upon to do the job he was made to do.
Another troublesome point for Asimov was that despite all that “After World’s End” did to indicate the possibility of future human historical development, it wasn’t historically minded enough. With its galactic wars that go on for ten thousand years at a stretch, family names that survive the passage of two hundred thousand years, and robots whose contempt and hostility for mankind never vary for an instant, even over the course of a million years, it was just too simple and static a picture of history-to-come to suit Asimov.
More than that—in the instant that Malgarth and his robot minions appear on the scene, the two hundred thousand years of future human galactic development indicated in this story would abruptly come to an end. After this, there would be a million years in which men and robots do nothing but endlessly arm-wrestle, until at last the first Barry Horn is roused to deal with Malgarth.
For Asimov, with his newly awakened taste for galactic history, this lapse into one more struggle for evolutionary dominance would seem an unnecessary step backward.
In fairness to Williamson, however, we should note that the historical element in “After World’s End” was of less concern to him than the question of whether it would be possible for humanity to maintain its sense of confidence and purpose in a universe in which robots do all the meaningful labor. Eventually, Williamson would take this question up again, together with many of the key materials, circumstances and relationships of “After World’s End,” and would restate them more effectively in the new terms of modern science fiction in the novelet “With Folded Hands” (Astounding, July 1947), and its sequel, the serial novel . . . And Searching Mind (Astounding, Mar.-May 1948)—which is better known by the title of its rewritten book version, The Humanoids (1949).
In late 1938, however, what was centrally important to Williamson’s reader, Isaac Asimov, was his new-found conviction that the human future in space, from the first landing on the moon to the attainment of interstellar empire, would necessarily have to have a historical dimension that SF so far had not seriously begun to consider. And within just a few weeks of reading “After World’s End,” Asimov wrote a story that presented the first trip to the moon, not in terms of personal adventure, but in terms of its social and historical impact.
With his imaginative eye looking beyond toward the farther goal, Asimov named this story “Ad Astra”—Latin for “to the stars.” But John Campbell, wishing to place emphasis upon the originality of Asimov’s socio-historical stance, retitled it “Trends.”
After this first sale to Astounding, Asimov’s next story aimed at Campbell was called “The Decline and Fall.” We know very little about it. It was never published, the manuscript was eventually lost, and even Asimov can remember nothing more of it than its title. But that title is an allusion to Edward Gibbon’s immense pioneer historical study, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776-1788), which Asimov had read and then read again. Even if it was employed only facetiously or trivially, this title is an indication that Asimov continued to have history on his mind, and specifically the passing of empires.
Then, with his next effort, “Pilgrimage,” Asimov attempted to write a story that was simultaneously galactic and historical. In this novelet, human colonies among the stars that have allowed themselves to forget their Earthly origins rediscover their sense of historical awareness and purpose and return to liberate Earth from its long-time occupation by the Lhasinu, reptilian aliens who are the one other intelligent race in our galaxy.
What is more, in framing the particular circumstances of “Pilgrimage,” Asimov drew upon one historic parallel after another. The occupation of Earth was imagined as being like the Roman rule of Judea at the beginning of the Christian era. The campaign to liberate Earth was modeled after the Christian Crusades of the Middle Ages. And the climactic space battle was based upon the Greek defeat of Persia at the naval battle of Salamis in 480 B.C.
Despite being worked over again and again, however, “Pilgrimage” would never be a completely successful story in any of its incarnations, including the one ultimately published in Planet Stories. The reason for this was that even though it was far and away the most substantial and ambitious piece of work that Asimov had yet attempted, nonetheless it was only 16,000 words long—about the same length as Heinlein’s “The Roads Must Roll” or van Vogt’s “The Weapon Shop.” In his inexperience, Asimov was attempting to make a pint pot hold the ingredients of an epic.
However, as breathless and sketchy as this novelet was, it would still be an intimation of the style and direction of much of Asimov’s future work. In fact, it could fairly be said that it would take him the better part of fifteen years and fully half-a-dozen books to work his way through all the issues, materials, attitudes and situations that he had originally tried to cram into “Pilgrimage.”
After this story—or, more properly, during the period in which he was writing and rewriting “Pilgrimage”—Asimov eased back somewhat on his galactico-historical aspirations while he experimented with other sorts of science fiction and learned to write consistently in terms that John Campbell would accept. But he never let go of the insight into human stellar history that had come to him as a result of reading “After World’s End.”
&
nbsp; In sum, then, on August 1, 1941, when young Isaac Asimov got on the subway without a conscious idea for a story in his head, and, seeking inspiration, opened his Gilbert and Sullivan at random to an illustration from Iolanthe, he was about as well-prepared as a modern science fiction writer could possibly be to receive a sudden vision of the fall of Galactic Empire and the return of feudalism, written from the viewpoint of someone in the secure days of the Second Empire.
As soon as this idea burst upon him, Asimov knew that it was a dandy. He held on tight to it for the remainder of his subway ride, thinking about Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, working out the direction his story might take, and trying to anticipate what John Campbell’s reaction was going to be.
However, as filled with Galactic Empire as Asimov’s thoughts were, the fact of the matter is that he hadn’t yet grasped the full potential of the idea that had just come to him. It is true that he couldn’t stop himself from grinning compulsively—he knew that what he had was that good—but he didn’t have the least suspicion of how big this idea would eventually prove to be.
It took John Campbell to see more. Not everything, but more. And just as soon as he realized what it was that Asimov had brought to him, Campbell set out to broaden the youngster’s awareness.
Here, from Asimov’s autobiography, is the way he remembers things going between them:
I was bubbling over by the time I got to Campbell’s, and my enthusiasm was catching. It was perhaps too catching, for Campbell blazed up as I had never seen him do.
“That’s too large a theme for a short story,” he said.
“I was thinking of a novelette,” I said, quickly, adjusting my thoughts.
“Or a novelette. It will have to be an open-ended series of stories.”
“What?” I said, weakly.
“Short stories, novelettes, serials, all fitting into a particular future history, involving the fall of the First Galactic Empire, the period of feudalism that follows, and the rise of the Second Galactic Empire.”
“What?” I said, even more weakly.
“Yes, I want you to write an outline of the future history. Go home and write the outline.”728
Since elsewhere Asimov says that they talked for two hours, this has to be a highly compressed version of their conversation. But even in this spare account, certain things are clear.
One is that John Campbell immediately recognized that Asimov was thinking once again in terms of pint pots. He only aimed to write a short story, or, just possibly, a novelet, and that wasn’t space enough to do this subject justice.
In order to shift Asimov’s thinking in the right direction, the editor told him that what he wanted to see was an open-ended series full of stories of various lengths, including serial novels, about the sequence of events from the fall of the First Galactic Empire to the rise of the Second.
Hearing that took Asimov completely by surprise. Up until this time, he had sold just half-a-dozen stories to Astounding, only one of which was longer than a short story, and he had never written a novel. The suddenness of Campbell’s enthusiasm and the wide-openness of his receptivity were sufficient to leave the youngster speechless.
This is what Asimov tells us—but there is even more that he leaves out: the specifics of the story he originally proposed; the reasons why Campbell was so sure that a series of stories would be more appropriate than just one; and the details of Campbell’s criticism and advice. However, with the aid of scattered clues from other places, together with our knowledge of Asimov and Campbell and of the story that Asimov actually did come to write, it is possible to fill in a little more of what passed between them during their two hours of talk.
It would seem that when Asimov came rushing into Campbell’s office, all eager to share his latest story idea, he was primarily thinking about the period of interstellar feudalism following the fall of empire.
As Asimov had it, a planet of men of learning—encyclopedists—located on the fringes of the galaxy would be working to offset the effects of the great collapse. During the Galactic Dark Ages, these scholars would be caretakers of humanity’s best knowledge in much the same way that Irish monks on the periphery of Europe had served as custodians of classical culture after the fall of Rome.
And (we can imagine Asimov saying) as a demonstration of the ultimate success of their enterprise, a quote could be included from the Encyclopedia Galactica—published in the secure days of a new and better Second Empire that their efforts have helped to bring into being.
The more closely we look at these story circumstances, the clearer it will become that this is the final situation of “Nightfall”—in which all hope of ever bringing cyclical history to an end on the planet Lagash depends upon the survival of the scientific knowledge that is stored for safekeeping in the Hideout—only written large and carried a step further. We can also see a reflection of Asimov’s respect and love for the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which he longed to own a copy of, and had ambitions of reading from one end to the other.
While Asimov sketched his idea, John Campbell, as usual, leaned back in his swivel chair and puffed on a cigarette in a black holder. But even while the editor listened, his mind was busy weighing and assessing each word and testing alternative possibilities.
He could see immediately that Asimov had reason to be excited. It was a highly promising situation that he was setting forth—if only it could be grabbed by the right handle.
At the same time, however, Campbell couldn’t help but be aware of the limits of the youngster’s proposal. He was never satisfied by first order answers, and this story that Asimov was suggesting was too simple and static and easy.
Specifically, the editor was sure that it could never be sufficient to just preserve and codify the imperfect state of understanding of some civilization in collapse. As he would say in the blurb that he attached to Asimov’s story, “Foundation,” when it was published in the May 1942 Astounding: “It’s a characteristic of a decadent civilization that their ‘scientists’ consider all knowledge already known—that they spend their time making cyclopedic gatherings of that knowledge.”729
In Campbell’s book, knowledge—real knowledge—was the ability to deal successfully with a problem never encountered before, including the fall of Galactic Empire. And if what you thought you knew didn’t work, then it ought to be discarded in favor of better answers. But he saw no point in attempting to turn ineffective “knowledge” into an icon.
As he listened to Asimov, the editor felt there had to be a better way to deal with the problem of the fall of Galactic Empire than making encyclopedias, and he looked for a hint of wider possibility that he could snatch up and toss back to Asimov. And then he was given exactly what he was looking for. He heard Asimov declare that out of the rubble of the First Galactic Empire a later Second Empire would arise.
That was enough to make Campbell straighten up in his chair. He saw at once that if the attainment of the Second Empire was made the center of concern, then this promising idea of Asimov’s would become a spectacularly good idea!
The fall of the old Galactic Empire was just the starting point. The challenge for the modern science fiction writer was to imagine men who knew what they were doing as they strove to countermand the power of cyclical history and bring a new and better Galactic Empire into being!
And so, in the very instant that Asimov finished laying out his story idea to Campbell, the editor was ready to answer him. And each and every thing he had to say was aimed to alter Asimov’s thinking in the direction of this new and wider conception.
It was a lot for Asimov to take in at once—a radical shift in both scope and emphasis—and he gave signs of needing some time to absorb it all. So after a while Campbell decided that the discussion had gone on long enough. He suggested to Asimov that he work up an outline of this future history and sent him off to Brooklyn.
And when he got home, Asimov dutifully spent the next ten days attempting to produce
the outline Campbell had asked for. But he just couldn’t get it to work. He says that it “got longer and longer and stupider and stupider until I finally tore it up.”730
Three months earlier, when Robert Heinlein’s Future History chart had been published in Astounding, Asimov had been as impressed by it as everybody else. Perhaps more impressed, since he was both an appreciator of history and Heinlein’s earliest fan. But banging his head against this outline was enough to convince him that if Campbell wanted him to be another Heinlein and base all his stories on detailed charts and 70,000 word background manuscripts, it wasn’t going to happen.
It was Asimov’s conviction that he was incapable of planning a story out on paper, all in advance, and then following that plan exactly—let alone doing this for an entire series of stories. It was just the opposite of how he actually worked.
Asimov didn’t build up a whole out of an accumulation of details. He started with a sense of something—a glimmering—and eventually found the specific form and words that would express it.
First would come the inkling. Then, after he had moved factors and insights and potentialities around and around in his mind, a story pattern would fall into place. This might happen almost instantaneously, or it might take considerable thought, but the process couldn’t be talked about, let alone pinned down on paper in any meaningful way.
The World Beyond the Hill: Science Fiction and the Quest for Transcendence Page 73
