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  The trouble was that all this didn’t help. The science fiction books that I published in the 1950s refused to go out of print and continued to sell steadily through the 1960s and 1970s. And because I wrote a series of nonfiction essays for Fantasy and Science Fiction, I remained in the consciousness of the science fiction public. I was therefore still one of the Big Three.

  Then, in 1981, my publisher insisted (with a big INSIST) that I write another novel and I did and, to my horror, it hit the bestseller lists and I’ve had to write a new novel every year since then, in consequence.

  That would have made me feel guiltier than ever, but I’ve done various things to pull the fangs of that guilt. For instance, I have, quite deliberately, decided that since my name has developed a kind of weight and significance, I would use it, as much as possible, for the benefit of the field rather than of myself.

  With my dear and able friends Martin Harry Greenberg and Charles Waugh (and occasionally others), I have helped edit many anthologies. More than a hundred of these have now been published with my name often in the title. What these serve to do is to rescue from the shadows numbers of stories that are well worth exposing to new generations of science fiction readers. Quite apart from the fact that the readers enjoy it, it means a little money to some veteran authors, as well as a shot in the arm to encourage continued production. The thought that the presence of my name might make such anthologies do better and be more efficacious in this respect than otherwise makes me feel fine.

  Then, too, a number of novels by young authors have been published under the “Isaac Asimov Presents” label. In this way, the young authors get perhaps a somewhat better sale than they might otherwise have, and even (perhaps) a better break at the bookshelves.

  I have even granted the right to make use of some of the themes that I have developed in my own books. There is a series of a dozen books, for instance, that have the generic title “Isaac Asimov’s Robot City.” They are written by young writers who have my express permission to use my Three Laws of Robotics, and for each one I write an introduction on one phase or another of robotics. The books are doing well, actually, and it is clear that the presence of my name doesn’t hurt.

  Then another way of using my name came up. Marty Greenberg suggested that, rather than have writers use a “universe” I had already invented and made my own, I invent a brand-new one I had never used and donate it to some publishing house that would be willing to have writers produce stories built about the concepts of the “universe”—and, of course, find the writers who would want to try their hand at it.

  I agreed enthusiastically. After all, I had just devised a new background for my 1989 novel, Nemesis, one which had not been used in any piece of fiction I had written before, so I did not foresee any great difficulty in inventing an “Isaac’s Universe” for other writers to use. (The use of the word “Isaac” in the title was Marty’s idea but I snatched at it eagerly. There are well over sixty books that I have written—by no means all anthologies—with either “Asimov” or “Isaac Asimov” in the title, but none with “Isaac” alone, until this one.)

  In making up a new “Universe” there were some things I couldn’t abandon, of course. We would be working within our own Galaxy in which I postulated the existence of 25,000,000 star systems containing a habitable world, the whole being linked together by devices that made it possible to travel and communicate at faster-than-light speeds. The shorthand for this is “hyperspatial travel and communication.”

  I have this in my Foundation universe, and the other novels I have been connecting to the Foundation, but from here on my Universes part company.

  In my Foundation series and the novels related thereto, the Galaxy contains only one intelligent species—our own. All the habitable worlds have been colonized by human beings so that we, in effect, have an all-human Galaxy. I may have been the first to write important novels based on such a theme, and the reason I did it was to pare away the complexities that would arise from a multiplicity of intelligences. I wanted to be able to deal with humanity and its problems in a detailed all-human manner, making them even clearer by showing them through a Galaxy-wide magnifying glass. This I have ended up doing—albeit imperfectly, of course, since I am no Shakespeare or Tolstoy.

  However, I was well aware that there was the alternative multiple-intelligence Universe. We see that now constantly on such television shows as Star Trek and in many of the older “space opera” stories. There we always have the risk of a failure of imagination that leads to the portrayal of other intelligences as differing from ourselves superficially by the possession of green faces, or antennae, or corrugated foreheads, but allowing these changes to leave them, clearly, primates. You can’t really blame Star Trek for this, since they have to have human beings playing the roles of other intelligences, but in science fiction stories in print, having all intelligences primate (or, if villainous, reptilian) seems insufficient.

  E. E. Smith’s Galactic Patrol and its sequels had a multi-intelligence Universe that had its intelligences encased in radically different physiologies and this I found satisfying when I read the stories as a young man. I was particularly pleased with the feeling Smith labored to give of a communal mental feeling among individuals who had nothing physically in common.

  It was something like this, then, that I wanted for my Universe, but I wanted to make my Universe more specific in its description of the different species and more concerned with the various political, economic, and social problems of the Galaxy. It was to be less space-operaish and more quasi-historical, a melding to some extent of Galactic Patrol and Foundation.

  I wanted a Universe with millions of planets bearing life, with the indigenous life on every planet unique to itself and with differences limited only by the imagination of the writer. However, there are only six intelligent species—widely different in nature:

  1. Earthmen.

  2. An aquatic race, vaguely analogous to Earthly porpoises.

  3. A fragile, skeletal insectlike species adapted to a low oxygen atmosphere plus neon rather than nitrogen.

  4. A sinuous, limbless species, possessing fringed flippers, however, that are snakish in a way.

  5. A small, winged species adapted to a thick atmosphere.

  6. A strong, slow-moving, blocklike species with no appendages, and adapted to a gravity higher than Earth’s.

  The intelligences each control more than their native planets. They can be pictured as going through the Galaxy, colonizing and settling planets suitable to themselves. In general, a world suitable for one is not particularly desirable for any of the others, and with plenty of each variety, there is no push for going to the enormous expense of modifying a planet to suit one’s own kind. The intelligences can therefore live together in the Galaxy without treading on each other’s toes. There is nothing to fight over unless there is an inability to overcome the unreasoning dislike of one species for another because, of course, each appears incredibly ugly to all the others, and each may have social customs and ways of thought that are distasteful to the others.

  Yet the various intelligences need to be in contact, since trade among them is useful for all, and since advances in technology by one species may be useful to others as well (and each intelligence has its own specialities in technology, some of which are unpalatable to the others for one reason or another), and since disputes may arise occasionally and there must be some form of political/social machinery to settle them. There are even occasional dangers that might require Galactic cooperation. What’s more, each intelligence may be split up into several mutually hostile subcultures.

  So, you see, the Universe I invented (and which I described in considerable detail to the publishers and to the writers who were willing to chance working within it) supplies plenty of problems, some of which would certainly be beyond my imagination to handle well, and has broad enough limits to allow the writer a great deal of personal room for his own visions.

  You can
see how it works out in the sampling of stories in this volume, which (we very much hope) will be but the first of a series. Good reading—and if you like it, write and say so. It will lower my level of guilt, and I can always use that.

  Flying Saucers and Science Fiction

  I am helping to edit a book on flying saucers? Isaac Asimov? Surely, I am a leading and vocal skeptic where flying saucers are concerned!

  Have I changed my mind now? Do I believe in the existence of flying saucers?

  That depends on what you mean by the question. Do I believe that many people have seen something in the sky that they can’t explain?

  Absolutely! Of course! You bet! Seeing something one can’t explain is very common. Every time I watch a magician perform his act I see something I can’t explain.

  However, when I see something I can’t explain, I assume there is a perfectly normal explanation, one that fits in with the structure of the universe as worked out by modern science. I don’t instantly jump to the idea that there is no explanation short of the supernatural or of some far-out near-zero-probability hypothesis.

  For that reason, I have no tendency to explain every appearance of a light in the sky by declaring it to be a spaceship manned by extraterrestrial beings.

  Nowadays, in an effort to gain respectability, people who accept the wilder hypotheses about flying saucers call them “unidentified flying objects” and abbreviate it UFO. On numerous occasions, I have been asked if I “believe” in UFOs.

  My usual answer is, “I assume that by UFO you mean ‘unidentified flying objects.’ I certainly believe that many people have seen objects in the air or sky that they can’t identify, and those are UFOs. But then, many people can’t identify the planet Venus, or a mirage. If you are asking me whether I believe that some mysterious object reported is a spaceship manned by extraterrestrial beings, then I must say I am very skeptical. But that, you see, is an identified flying object, and that’s not what you’re asking about, is it?”

  Mysterious objects have been reported in Earth’s skies all through history. Usually they are interpreted according to the preoccupations of the day. In ancient and medieval times and in primitive societies, they would be interpreted as angels, demons, spirits, and so on. In technological societies, they would be interpreted as first balloons, then dirigibles, then airplanes, and then spaceships.

  Of course, if they’re spaceships now, then they’ve been spaceships all the time, and some people have indeed interpreted Ezekiel’s vision in the Bible, for instance, as the sighting of spaceships manned by extraterrestrials.

  The modern surge of flying saucer sightings began on June 24, 1947, when Kenneth Arnold, a salesman, claimed he saw bright disk-shaped objects flying rapidly through the air near Mount Rainier. From the shapes he described, the expression “flying saucers” came into being.

  Nothing much might have happened in consequence, for wild reports about all sorts of things reach the news media every day and then fade out. In this case, though, the report attracted the attention of Raymond A. Palmer, who was then the editor of the science fiction magazine Amazing Stories.

  Palmer may not himself have been a piece of broken pottery, but he was certainly not averse to building circulation by means of items that appealed to crackpots. He had shown this in his earlier work on something completely wacky that he called “The Great Shaver Mystery.”

  Now he took up flying saucers and single-handedly promoted them into an international mania. That is one connection (an important one) between flying saucers and science fiction.

  Mind you, I have a soft spot in my heart for Ray Palmer. Way back in 1938, he bought the first science fiction story I ever sold, and sent me the very first check I ever earned as a professional writer. Nevertheless, candor compels me to state that for years after this noble deed of his I never had occasion to believe a word he said.

  At the other extreme of the flying saucer spectrum is Professor J. Allen Hynek. He is a respectable and learned scientist who has spent decades examining the evidence and who remains firmly convinced that there is something there. He doesn’t accept the extraterrestrial spacecraft hypothesis, but he thinks that something mysterious underlies the phenomenon, which, if understood, may revolutionize science.

  However, in all the years he’s been investigating the phenomenon, he’s come up with—nothing! Far from revolutionizing science, his work has not added one even marginal item to the world of physical science.

  Then what am I doing helping edit this anthology?

  That brings us to the second connection between flying saucers and science fiction. The whole concept of flying saucers—the whole notion of thousands upon thousands of spaceships hovering about us without ever seeming to do anything or to affect us in any way—has supplied science fiction writers with an endless supply of story material.

  All of us have written flying saucer stories. I have myself, and one of them is included in this book.

  Generally, we have to deal with a situation in which extraterrestrial spacecraft visit us, but keep out of sight for some reason, or decide not to do anything for some reason, or try to do something and fail for some reason, or fail to manage to convince Earthpeople they are real for some reason.

  You see, science fiction writers, being sane and rational, have to find some reason for so many spaceships doing nothing. Usually the results turn out to be funny, satiric or ironic; sometimes tragic. Very often, they prove to be stories that are entertaining and good—so what we have done is to collect a sizable number of them into one book for your delectation.

  Come, see for yourself that every cloud has a silver lining, and that even the silliest notions can undergo a sea change into something rich and strange in the hands of skilled science fiction writers.

  Invasion

  Invasion is undoubtedly as old as humanity. Hunting groups must occasionally have encountered each other, if only by accident. Each side must have felt the other was invading. The obviously weaker side would have had to de-camp. If the matter were not obvious, there might have been threats or even a brief struggle to settle the matter.

  Once agriculture became a way of life and farmers were pinned in place by their farms and food stores, these same food stores became an overwhelming temptation to surrounding nomads; invasions were more terrible because farmers could not flee but had to stand and fight.

  We begin to have records of early civilizations suddenly inundated and taken over by raiders. The Sumerians were taken over by Gutian invaders as early as 2200 B.C. The Egyptians fell under the grip of the Hyksos invaders soon after 1700 B.C. We can go through an endless list of such things.

  Considering that those people who were invaded (until quite recent times) had little knowledge of the world outside the boundaries of their own cultures, the invasions must usually have come as unbelievable shocks, as a sudden influx of the unknown from the unknown. This would be especially so when the invaders spoke strange languages, wore strange clothes, had strange ways, and even, perhaps, have looked odd.

  As the most recent example of our cultural ancestors being subjected to the horror of an unexpected invasion, we need only go back to 1240, when the Mongols (short, squat, slant-eyed) swept into Europe on their hardy desert mounts. Europe knew nothing about them, had no way of knowing they were on the way (they had been ravaging Asian kingdoms for twenty years). All they knew were that these terrible horsemen, moving with incredible speed and organization, winning every battle, smashed Russia, Poland, Hungary, and were penetrating Germany and reaching for Italy, all in a matter of a single year. And then they left and raced eastward again, smashing Bulgaria en route. (They left because their khan had died back in Mongolia and the army had to be there for the election of a successor. Nothing the Europeans could have done would have stopped them.)

  But the Mongols were “the last of the barbarians.” Partly because of the Mongolian empire that was set up, communications between China and Europe became smoother. Such things a
s printing, the magnetic compass, and (most of all) gunpowder, leaked westward from China, and these things—for some reason not exploited by the technologically more advanced Chinese—were put to amazing use by Europeans.

  And beginning about 1420, the tide of invasion was reversed. The “civilized” Europeans, with their ships and their guns, fell upon the coastlines of all the continents and, eventually, penetrated the interiors until Europe dominated the world politically and militarily (and as it still does, even today, culturally).

  But how did the non-Europeans feel about it? How about the Africans who watched the Portuguese ships come from nowhere and carry them off as slaves; the Asians who watched Portuguese, Dutch, and English ships come in, set up trading posts, skim off profits and treat them as inferiors; the Native Americans who watched the Spanish ships come in and take over and destroy their civilizations? There must have been the feeling of monsters arriving from some other world.

  All invasions, however, at least of the kind I’m discussing, were by human beings. However strange they might have seemed—Mongols to Europeans, or Spaniards to Incas—they were clearly human beings. (There were also invasions of infestations of non-human types—rats, locusts, the plague bacterium of the Black Death, the AIDS virus—but these fall outside the subject matter of this introduction, and even they were forms of terrestrial life.)

  What if, however, the invaders were intelligent beings who were not human and, in fact, not Earthly. The possibility did not seriously arise until the time when it was thoroughly recognized that the planets were other worlds and that the universe might be full of still other planets outside the domain of our own sun.

  At first, other worlds were the subject of “travel tales.” Human beings went to the moon (as early as the second century A.D. in fiction and more frequently as time went on), but there are no tales I can think of in which the inhabitants of the moon came to Earth.