The Early Asimov. Volume 1 Read online

  I eventually had dates and I eventually introduced girls into my stories, but the early imprinting had its effect. To this very day, the romantic element in my stories is minor and the sexual element virtually nil.

  On the other hand, I wonder if the above explanation for the lack of sex in my stories is not an oversimplification. After all, I am also a teetotaler and yet I notice that my characters drink Martian Jabra water (whatever that is).

  My knowledge of astronomy was quite respectable but I let myself be overinfluenced by the conventions common in the science fiction of that era. All worlds were Earthlike and inhabited in those days, so I gave Callisto an atmosphere containing a small quantity of free oxygen. I also gave it running water, and both plant and animal life. All of this is, of course, unlikely in the extreme, and what evidence we have seems to make of Callisto an airless, waterless world like our Moon (and, of course, I really knew this even back then).

  Back to my third story, now-

  On July 30, 1938, only eight days after Campbell’s second rejection, I had finished my third story, “Marooned off Vesta.” I did not think it politic to see Campbell oftener than once a month, however, since I suspected that I might easily wear out my welcome if I did. I put “Marooned off Vesta” to one side, therefore, and began to write other stories. By the end of the month I had two more: “This Irrational Planet” and “Ring Around the Sun.”

  My first three stories, including “Marooned off Vesta,” had been typed on a very old, but completely serviceable Underwood No. 5 typewriter, which my father had obtained for me in 1936 for ten dollars. After I had submitted my second story to Campbell, however, my father decided that I was in earnest about a writing career, and feeling that my failure to sell was irrelevant and, in any case, temporary, he set about getting me a brand-new typewriter.

  On August 10, 1938, a Smith-Corona portable entered the house and it was on the new typewriter that my fourth and fifth stories were written.

  Of the three, I felt “This Irrational Planet” to be the weakest, so I did not submit it to Campbell. I submitted it directly to Thrilling Wonder Stories on August 26, and it was not rejected till September 24. Campbell had spoiled me, and the four-week interval between submission and rejection appalled me. I even called during that interval to make an indignant inquiry-not knowing that a mere four-week wait was brief indeed for anyone but Campbell.

  But at least the rejection, when it came, was typewritten ‘ and was not a printed form. What’s more, it contained the sentence, “Try us again, won’t you?” That encouraged me. Perhaps I underestimated the story. Buoyantly, I tried Campbell, and he rejected it in six days. Five other magazines rejected it afterward. I never did sell it, and “This Irrational Planet” is also nonexistent now. I don’t even remember the plot, except that I’m pretty certain that the planet of the title was Earth itself. (The only other information I have about it is that it was quite short, only three thousand words long. Actually, most of the stories of those early years that I never sold, and no longer exist, were short. The longest was the first, “Cosmic Corkscrew.”)

  The other two stories written in the same month were reserved for a better fate, but it didn’t seem so at first On August 30, 1938, I visited Campbell for the third time and submitted both “Marooned off Vesta” and “Ring Around the Sun”-and both were returned to me on September 8.

  The very next day I shipped off “Marooned off Vesta,” which I felt to be the better of the two, to Amazing Stories . It took a month and a half to hear from them, but this time the wait was worth it. On October 21, 1938, there came a letter of acceptance from Raymond A. Palmer, who was then editor of Amazing and who has since achieved his greatest fame as a leading figure in the flying saucers craze and in other forms of occultism. To this day I have never met Mr. Palmer personally.

  It was my first acceptance, four months to the day after my first visit to John Campbell. By that time I had written six stories and had collected nine rejections from Various magazines. The check, for $64 (one cent a word), followed on October 31, and that was the first money I ever earned as a professional writer. [In this book, I am going to pay considerable attention to the money I received for my stories. This is not because I write primarily for money or regarded money as particularly important either then or now (my publishers will gladly bear witness to this). The money I received, however, was crucial in determining my career. It paid enough to put me through school and not so much as to lure me out of it. You’ll see as we go along.]

  For a number of years I kept that first acceptance letter, from Palmer, framed on my bedroom wall. But in the vicissitudes of life, it, too, has disappeared and, yes, I’m sorry.

  The story appeared in the March 1939 issue of Amazing Stories , which reached the newsstands on January 10, 1939, just eight days after my nineteenth birthday. It was the first occasion on which I ever appeared professionally, and I still have an intact copy of that issue of the magazine. I did not save one at the time (my sense of historical importance, as I have already explained, is deficient) but eventually removed my story for binding and discarded the rest. Ordinarily, I don’t mind doing this and have done it ruthlessly through all the years (space is limited even in the best of apartments when one is as prolific as I have been), but the time came when I was sorry I hadn’t saved that first one intact. The well-known science fiction fan Forrest J Ackerman heard me express regret and kindly sent me a copy in excellent condition.

  That copy, by the way, contains a little autobiographical squib in the rear, written by my teen-age self. On rereading, years later, it turned out to be exquisitely embarrassing.

  “Marooned off Vesta” is not included here, since it appeared in Asimov’s Mysteries . (This doesn’t mean it was a mystery. The reason for its inclusion in that particular collection is explained there. -Well, go ahead, buy the book and satisfy your curiosity.)

  As for “Ring Around the Sun,” it was rejected by Thrilling Wonder Stories , but then, on February 5, 1939, it was accepted by Future Fiction , one of the new science fiction magazines that were springing up.

  It appeared in the second issue of that magazine, which did not, however, reach the stands until nearly a year after the sale. The payment (theoretically on publication, rather than on acceptance as was Campbell’s more civilized procedure) was even more delayed. What’s more, it was at the rate of only half a cent a word, so the check came to a mere twenty-five dollars. Astonishing Stories also paid only half a cent a word at that time, but “The Callistan Menace” was the longer story-6,500 words-so it netted me $32.50.

  I didn’t feel put upon, however. I well knew by that time that in the still earlier history of science fiction magazines, payment of a quarter of a cent a word was common, and that not on publication but (the saying went) on lawsuit. Besides, those were lean times, and twenty-five dollars represented something like five months’ pocket money to me (no kidding).

  The editor of Future Fiction was, at that time, Charles D. Hornig. I occasionally visited his office to inquire when a story might appear, or when a check might, but I don’t recall ever having found him in. In fact, to this day I have never, to my knowledge, met him.

  Ring Around the Sun

  Jimmy Turner was humming merrily, if a bit raucously, when he entered the reception room.

  “Is Old Sourpuss in?” he asked, accompanying the question with a wink at which the pretty secretary blushed gratefully.

  “He is; and waiting for you.” She motioned him towards the door on which was written in fat, black letters, “Frank McCutcheon, General Manager, United Space Mail.”

  Jim entered. “Hello, Skipper, what now?”

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” McCutcheon looked up from his desk, champing a foul-smelling stogie. “Sit down.”

  McCutcheon stared at him from under bushy gray eyebrows. “Old Sourpuss,” as he was euphoniously known to all members of United Space Mail, had never been known to laugh within the memory of the oldest inmate,
though rumor did have it that when a child he had smiled at the sight of his father falling out of an apple-tree. Right now his expression made the rumor appear exaggerated.

  “Now, listen. Turner,” he barked, “United Space Mail is inaugurating a new service and you’re elected to blaze the trail.” Disregarding Jimmy’s grimace, he continued, “From now on the Venerian mail is on an all-year-round basis.”

  “What! I’ve always thought that it was ruinous from a financial standpoint to deliver the Venerian. mail except when it was this side of the Sun.”

  “Sure,” admitted McCutcheon, “if we follow the ordinary routes. But we might cut straight across the system if we could only get near enough to the sun. That’s where you come in! They’ve put out a new ship equipped to approach within twenty million miles of the sun and which will be able to remain at that distance indefinitely.”

  Jimmy interrupted nervously, “Wait a while, S-Mr. McCutcheon, I don’t quite follow. What kind of a ship is this?”

  “How do you expect me to know? I’m no fugitive from a laboratory. From what they tell me, it emits some kind of a field that bends the radiations of the sun around the ship. Get it? It’s all deflected. No heat reaches you. You can stay there forever and be cooler than in New York.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Jimmy was skeptical. “Has it been tested, or is that a little detail that has been left for me?”

  “It’s been tested, of course, but not under actual solar conditions.”

  “Then it’s out. I’ve done plenty for United, but this is the limit. I’m not crazy, yet.”

  McCutcheon stiffened. “Must I recall the oath you took upon entering the service. Turner? ‘Our flight through space-’ “

  “‘-must ne’er be stopped by anything save death,’“ finished Jimmy. “I know that as well as you do and I also notice that it’s very easy to quote that from a comfortable armchair. If you’re that idealistic, you can do it yourself. It’s still out, as far as I’m concerned. And if you want, you can kick me out. I can get other jobs just like that,” he snapped his fingers airily.

  McCutcheon’s voice dropped to a silky whisper. “Now, now. Turner, don’t be hasty. You haven’t heard all I have to say yet. Roy Snead is to be your mate.”

  “Huh! Snead! Why, that four-flusher wouldn’t have the guts to take a job like this in a million years. Tell me some other fairy tale.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, he has already accepted. I thought you might accompany him, but I guess he was right. He insisted you’d back down. I thought at first you wouldn’t.”

  McCutcheon waved him away and bent his eyes unconcernedly on the report he had been scrutinizing at the time of Jimmy’s entrance. Jimmy wheeled, hesitated, then returned.

  “Wait a while, Mr. McCutcheon; do you mean to say that Roy is actually going?” McCutcheon nodded, still apparently absorbed in other matters, and Jimmy exploded, “Why, that low-down, spindle-shanked, dish-faced mug! So he thinks I’m too yellow to go! Well, I’ll show him. I’ll take the job and I’ll put up ten dollars to a Venerian nickel that he gets sick at the last minute.”

  “Good!” McCutcheon rose and shook hands, “I thought you’d see reason. Major Wade has all the details. I think you leave in about six weeks and as I’m leaving for Venus tomorrow, you’ll probably meet me there.”

  Jimmy left, still boiling, and McCutcheon buzzed for the secretary. “Oh, Miss Wilson, get Roy Snead on the ‘visor.”

  A few minutes’ pause and then the red signal-light shone. The ‘visor was clicked on and the dark-haired, dapper Snead appeared on the visi-plate.

  “Hello, Snead,” McCutcheon growled. “You lose that bet, Turner accepted that job. I thought he’d laugh himself sick when I told him you said he wouldn’t go. Send over the twenty dollars, please.”

  “Wait a while, Mr. McCutcheon,” Snead’s face was dark with fury, “what’s the idea of telling that punch-drunk imbecile I’m not going? You must have, you double-crosser. I’ll be there all right, but you can put up another twenty and I’ll bet he changes his mind yet. But /’// be there.” Roy Snead was still spluttering when McCutcheon clicked off.

  The General Manager leaned back, threw away his mangled cigar, and lit a fresh one. His face remained sour, but there was a definite note of satisfaction in his tone when he said, “Ha! I thought that would get them.”

  It was a tired and sweaty pair that blasted the good ship Helios across Mercury’s orbit. In spite of the perfunctory friendship enforced upon them by the weeks alone in space, Jimmy Turner and Roy Snead were scarcely on speaking terms. Add to this hidden hostility, the heat of the bloated sun and the torturing uncertainty of the final outcome of the trip and you have a miserable pair indeed.

  Jimmy peered tiredly at the maze of dials confronting him, and, brushing a damp lock of hair from his eyes, grunted, “What’s the thermometer reading now, Roy?”

  “One hundred twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit and still climbing,” was the growled response.

  Jimmy cursed fluently, “The cooling system is on at maximum, the ship’s hull reflects 95% of the solar radiation, and it’s still in the hundred twenties.” He paused. “The gravometer indicates that we’re still some thirty-five million miles from the Sun. Fifteen millions miles to go before the Deflection Field becomes effective. The temperature will probably scale 150 yet. That’s a sweet prospect! Check the desiccators. If the air isn’t kept absolutely dry, we’re not going to last long.”

  “Within Mercury’s orbit, think of it!” Snead’s voice was husky. “No one has ever been this close to the sun before. And we’re going closer yet.”

  “There have been many this close and closer,” reminded Jimmy, “but they were out of control and landed in the sun. Friedlander, Debuc, Anton-” His voice trailed into a brooding silence,

  Roy stirred uneasily. “How effective is this Deflection Field anyway, Jimmy? Your cheerful thoughts aren’t very soothing, you know.”

  “Well, it’s been tested under the harshest conditions laboratory technicians could devise. I’ve watched them. It’s been bathed in radiation approximating the sun’s at a distance of twenty million. The Field worked like a charm. The light was bent about it so that the ship became invisible. The men inside the ship claimed that everything outside became invisible and that no heat reached them. A funny thing, though, the Field will work only under certain radiation strengths.”

  “Well, I wish it were over one way or the other,” Roy glowered. “If Old Sourpuss is thinking of making this my regular run-, well, he’ll lose his ace pilot.”

  “He’ll lose his two ace pilots,” Jimmy corrected.

  The two lapsed into silence and the Helios blasted on.

  The temperature climbed: 130, 135, 140. Then, three days later, with the mercury quivering at 148, Roy announced that they were approaching the critical belt, the belt where the solar radiation reached sufficient intensity to energize the Field.

  The two waited, minds at feverish concentration, pulses pounding.

  “Will it happen suddenly?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait.”

  From the portholes, only the stars were visible. The sun, three times the size as seen from Earth, poured its blinding rays upon opaque metal, for on this specially designed ship, portholes closed automatically when struck by powerful radiation.

  And then the stars began disappearing. Slowly, at first, the dimmest faded-then the brighter ones: Polaris, Regulus, Arcturus, Sirius. Space was uniformly black.

  “It’s working,” breathed Jimmy. The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the sunward portholes clicked open. The sun was gone!

  “Ha! I feel cooler already,” Jimmy Turner was jubilant. “Boy, it worked like a charm. You know, if they could adjust this Deflection field to all radiation strengths, we would have perfected invisibility. It would make a convenient war weapon.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back luxuriously.

  “But meanwhile we’re flying blind,” Roy insis
ted.

  Jimmy grinned patronizingly, “You needn’t worry about that, Dishface. I’ve taken care of everything. We’re in an orbit about the sun. In two weeks, we’ll be on the opposite side and then I’ll let the rockets blast and out of this band we go, zooming towards Venus.” He was very self-satisfied indeed.

  “Just leave it to Jimmy ‘Brains’ Turner. I’ll have us through in two months, instead of the regulation six. You’re with United’s ace pilot, now.”

  Roy laughed nastily. “To listen to you, you’d think you did all the work. All you’re doing is to run the ship on the course I’ve plotted. You’re the mechanic; I’m the brains.”

  “Oh, is that so? Any damn pilot-school rookie can plot a course. It takes a man to navigate one.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion. Who’s paid more, though, the navigator or the course-plotter?”

  Jimmy gulped on that one and Roy stalked triumphantly out of the pilot room. Unmindful of all this, the Helios blasted on.

  For two days, all was serene; then, on the third day. Jimmy inspected the thermometer, scratched his head and looked worried. Roy entered, watched the proceedings and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Is anything wrong?” He bent over and read the height of the thin, red column. “Just 100 degrees. That’s nothing to look like a sick goat over. From your expression, I thought something had gone wrong with the Deflection Field and that it was rising again,” he turned away with an ostentatious yawn.

  “Oh, shut up, you senseless ape,” Jimmy’s foot lifted in a half-hearted attempt at a kick. “I’d feel a lot better if the temperature were rising. This Deflection Field is working a lot too good for my liking.”

  “Huh! What do you mean?”