Finally, the special issue on me contained an Asimov-related cartoon by Gahan Wilson, and a biographical sketch of myself and of my character by Sprague de Camp, who praised me far more highly than I deserved.

  17

  At the 1966 World Science Fiction convention, If had won a Hugo as best magazine. It was a sister magazine of Galaxy now, and Fred Pohl edited both. Fred had the notion of putting out a special “Hugo Winners issue,” one to which as many of the winners would contribute as possible.

  He laid siege to me for a short story, and I agreed. (In my state of euphoria over the Hugo, how could I refuse?) I began a story I called “Billiard Ball” on September 21. It was a seven-thousand-word murder mystery that made use of general relativity. I liked it—and so did Fred, who didn’t even change the title. It appeared in the March 1967 If,149 which bore “Special Hugo Winners Issue” on the cover.

  18

  It seemed almost superfluous to attend the Boskone one month after that triumphant Cleveland convention, but I did, of course. My brother and his family happened to be in Boston at the time, and on October 1, all of us—four adults and five children—had dinner. It was a remarkable gathering of the clan.

  While the Boskone was in progress I also wrote Stars, the third little book on astronomy in the Follett series.

  I was working on a new history, too. I had done Greece in one volume and Rome in two, and I had no intention of letting Houghton Mifflin off the hook. The natural subject for the next book was Egypt, and so I was writing The Egyptians with feverish speed.

  19

  Lloyd Roth (of Columbia University days) was in town on October 11, and Gertrude and I took him to dinner. It was then that he told me of our first meeting, when I was trying (and, for a while, failing) to get into graduate school.

  He remembered his end of it far better than I did, and I assume he remembered it correctly. At any rate, I did not have that portion of the tale in the diary, and what I told about that meeting in In Memory Yet Green is based on what he told me that day.

  20

  My mother had passed her seventy-first birthday on September 5, and was operated on for cataracts on October 26. It was a successful operation and, with glasses, she continued to see perfectly well.

  On the day of the operation, Ginn & Company, having assembled its “team” for the grade-school science texts, gathered them together for the initial conference. There was an initial dinner on the twenty-sixth followed by two days of conferences.

  There were three groups of people involved. First the authors. There were myself and Roy Gallant, who were to do the texts from four to eight, inclusive. Roy was an excellent science writer, whose books I had read and enjoyed. He was neatly dressed, of moderate height, and reminded me, irresistibly, of Clifton Webb.

  Then, too, there was Jean Bendick, who was to do the texts from one to three, inclusive. She was short, round-faced, vivacious, and gave an impression of almost girlish good humor.

  There was a group of editors and advisers from the academic community, of whom J. Myron Atkin of the University of Illinois was head. He was bearded and very quick. Three others, whom I recall particularly, were Ed Kormondy, Irvin Ramsey, and Jean York.

  Finally, there were people from the Ginn & Company staff. There was Ben de Luca, rather short and good-natured, and capable of a quick recovery. I remember once, when we asked for the suggested contract to include provision for an advance, he smiled and said something about that not being company policy.

  Thereupon I opened my mouth to say that in that case it was not my policy to do any work for them, but he anticipated my statement and said so smoothly that it almost seemed part of the same sentence, “but, of course, we’ll do it anyway.”

  I admired his aplomb.

  There was Jack Chase; large, stout, and very serious; and there was James Ashley, who was newly hired just to take over the project. He was a tall, thin, young man, very gentle and unsure of himself just at first, but quickly learning to take charge.

  I was amazed how quickly the group learned that it was impossible for me to be serious and how, inevitably, almost anything would serve to remind me of a joke. In fact, Jim Ashley got to the point of starting each session (and we had a number of them in the years to come) with “What’s today’s joke, Isaac?” Then he would invariably collapse when I told one.

  It was all dreadfully dull work, generally, and I could only support it by infusing it with just a tiny bit of convention hilarity. I suspect that most of the others welcomed it, though a few would occasionally look uneasy.

  21

  When “The Key” appeared in the special Isaac Asimov issue of F & SF, I was well aware that it was the fourth of my Wendell Urth stories. Ten years earlier, when I had written three in rapid succession, I had decided that when I had enough I would put out a hard-cover collection of them—but then years had passed in which I wrote little science fiction and I knew that I was never likely to accumulate the ten stories or so I would need for a book.

  The thought occurred to me, though, that the Wendell Urth stories were not the only ones that could be considered mysteries, if the term were defined fairly broadly. I suggested to Larry Ashmead the possibility of putting together a collection of these science-fiction mysteries, and he agreed at once.

  I even suggested using the title Asimov’s Mysteries, and Larry accepted that, too. I felt that the Mysteries part of the title would attract mystery readers who were not interested in science fiction particularly and that my name would be sufficient to drag in the science-fiction fans. On October 29, I began putting the stories together.

  At the same time I was deep in the New Testament portion of the Bible book.

  22

  I had been an associate professor of biochemistry for eleven years now, and every once in a while it did cross my mind vaguely that it would be nice to be a full professor.

  It could be done. There was no one at the university now who saw me as anything but an asset to the school, and there was no feeling against the promotion—provided I did some work and gave some classes.

  I myself was willing to accept almost any professorial title—”Professor of Science Communications,” for instance—and expected no pay. However, I would not take any classes. I simply lacked the time or the desire.

  On November 4, 1966, I had lunch with Dean Gus Wiebe of the School of Communications and discussed the matter, but, as always before and since, we came to this irresolvable difficulty. They had to have some time in exchange, and I simply had none to give.

  As a result I continued to be nothing more than an associate professor of biochemistry, and I resigned myself to that status as permanent.

  23

  I had become a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, which met monthly at an old mansion on the border of Brookline. The mansion was an extraordinary piece of evidence of a sumptuous way of life in a day when the rich paid no income tax and the poor had to barter their labor for bare subsistence—a day I hope will never return, no matter how well off I become. I was particularly fascinated by the library, which was huge and, by and large, unreadable.

  The procedure was always the same. There was a period of drinks, hors d’oeuvres, and talk. This was followed by a very good dinner, and then by a serious talk on some heavily intellectual subject by someone who was, usually, not an accomplished speaker.

  I usually enjoyed it despite the stiffness of the assemblage, but of all the sessions I attended over a period of some five years, I remember the one on November 9, 1966, with the most satisfaction. That was the day Gertrude and I sat down at an empty table. Some of the young women who actually ran the day-to-day workings of the organization came in with, apparently, permission to join the dinner festivities. There seemed room only at my table so, hesitantly, they asked if they might join us.

  I welcomed them joyfully, and the table was jumping all through the meal. After that, I invariably made some effort to find some way to join the staff rather than my fellow academicians at some table, but it never happened again.

  I suspect I am not really an academician at heart.

  24

  On November 19, 1966, I was at a party concerning which I remember nothing except that I was introduced to someone as follows: “Isaac Asimov—John Updike.”

  Now, I know perfectly well that one John Updike is a luminary of American letters, a writer far beyond my own poor ability to emulate—but John Updike is not a unique name, and I hesitated. What if I expressed delight and reverence and it turned out to be John Updike the local veterinarian.

  Updike, however, had no such problem. Since he had heard of Isaac Asimov, he knew that this must be the Isaac Asimov. To have two people with a name like that passed the bounds of credibility.

  He therefore said at once, “Say, Asimov, how do you manage to write all those books?”

  At once I was certain he was Updike the writer and I was ashamed to have let him make the advance. I felt myself to be professionally subordinate and I ought to have beat him to the punch and expressed the proper respect. It was too late, now. I passed off his question jokingly and we exchanged some mild conversation, but I remained upset.

  I determined, therefore, not to let pass the next opportunity of being properly humble toward my betters. As it happened, the chance came the next night.

  Boston University was dedicating a new library, the Mugar Memorial Library (named for a large contributor), and I was involved, since Howard Gotlieb (my curator, who lovingly collected all my papers) was a moving spirit behind it.

  I showed up and wreaked my usual havoc among the hors d’oeuvres until I spotted Max Shulman across the room. He had written some best-selling humor books (The Feather Merchants, Barefoot Boy with Cheek), which I had enjoyed, and was the originator of at least one TV situation comedy, “Dobie Gillis,” which I was fond of.

  Fortunately, I knew what he looked like and there was no question that he was the Max Shulman.

  I therefore walked up to him and said very diffidently, “Mr. Shulman, my name is Isaac Asimov and I want to tell you how much I enjoy your books.”

  No chance! I got as far as “My name is Isaac Asimov—” when he broke in and said, “Say, Asimov, how do you manage to write all those books?”

  I gave up.

  25

  My father turned seventy on December 21, 1966, and there I was approaching the end of my section on the gospels in my Bible book. When I had told him I was working on a book on the Bible, he had been dubious, and I had shied off from explaining that that would mean the New Testament as well. Eventually, of course, he would have to know.

  I carefully sent him (and also the Blugermans) a copy of every book I published and I could scarcely refrain from sending him a copy of my book on the Bible.

  26

  I spent the last week of the year in Washington, attending the AAAS conventions. I was slated to give a talk on the twenty-ninth, but it was a minor one.

  I heard an excellent talk by Lynn White on the history of technology on the twenty-sixth and an even better one by George Wald on the chemistry of vision on the twenty-eighth. The talk by Wald, I felt, was the best I had ever heard up to that time. Wald spoke without notes and is the only speaker I have ever heard who, I was willing to admit, was better than I was.

  27

  The year 1966 ended with a publication list of twelve books, more than I had ever had before in a single year, far surpassing the previous record of eight books in 1960. It was a rather queer feeling that I had managed to average a book a month. There had been jokes prior to this about the “Asimov book of the month,” but 1966 was the first year in which I managed to make the joke come literally true. The list follows:

  67. Fantastic Voyage (Houghton Mifflin)

  68. The Noble Gases (Basic Books)

  69. Inside the Atom, Revised Edition (Abelard-Schuman)

  70. The Neutrino (Doubleday)

  71. The Roman Republic (Houghton Mifflin)

  72. Understanding Physics I: Motion, Sound, and Heat (Walker)

  73. Understanding Physics II: Light, Magnetism, and Electricity (Walker)

  74. Understanding Physics III: The Electron, Proton, and Neutron (Walker)

  75. The Genetic Effects of Radiation (Atomic Energy Commission)

  76. Tomorrow’s Children (Doubleday)

  77. The Universe (Walker)

  78. From Earth to Heaven (Doubleday)

  I suppose, looking at the list coldly, that I was helped along to my record output by an increasingly liberal attitude concerning what constituted a “book.” Thus, Inside the Atom was still basically what it had been when I had listed it as Book No. 19, ten years before, but I decided that the rewriting had been extensive enough to make it sufficiently new to be listed.

  Then, too, I might have considered Understanding Physics to be one book instead of three, and The Genetic Effects of Radiation was a relatively short pamphlet.

  In each case, however, I decided in my own favor because the number of books had become important to me. A strict interpretation might have given me as little as eight books for the year, and the fact is I wanted my twelve.

  28

  I celebrated my forty-seventh birthday on January 2, 1967, and Robyn helped me celebrate by taking me to the local Brigham’s and treating me to hamburgers and ice cream at her expense. She had been saving up her allowance for the purpose. She was very excited and was the complete hostess.

  Stanley and I at the book-and-author luncheon on Long Island where I made my “Stanley who?” tech.

  Ben Bova. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Robert Silverberg. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Fred and Carol Pohl. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  At Boskone, 1969. Harry Stubbs (Hal Clement) and I. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  I am between Anne McCaffrey and Knight (Kate Wilhelm is peeking out under Damon’s beard), in Toronto in 1970, I believe. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Sitting next to me are Judy-Lynn and Lester del Rey—Infinity Con, 1972. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  John Campbell in the last year of his life. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Boston convention, 1971. I’m handing Ed Ferman a Hugo. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Boston convention, 1971. Cliff Simak is on the right. Robyn (age sixteen) is next to me. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Toronto, 1973. I have just won the Hugo for The Gods Themselves. Lester del Rey, toastmaster. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  A typical lecture shot. This one is at a science-fiction convention. I don’t remember which; it could be Toronto in 1973. Photo by Jay K. Klein.

  Me in foreign parts! June 1973, disembarking in Canary Islands and looking nervous.

  Janet and I in Toronto in 1973. Photo by Harvey L. Bilker.

  25

  “You Are the Field”

  1

  Occasionally it has occurred to some publishing house or other to have me do a younger version of some adult book I had earlier done. Occasionally I even promised to do so—and then backed out. There were always new projects occupying my time, and an adaptation never seemed interesting enough to compete with them.

  Walker & Company, however, suggested a juvenile version of The Universe, and somehow I found that project interesting. On January 19, 1967, I began the process of cutting The Universe to a third of its length without leaving out anything essential. I called the new version To the Ends of the Universe.

  2

  You can’t write as many items as I do without having some of them turn up in strange places or under strange conditions, and every once in a while something unprecedented would happen. I received an announcement from a Unitarian church in Bedford that my story “The Last Question” would be part of the services on Sunday, January 22.

  That was more than I could resist, and since the weather that Sunday was not threatening, I drove my car to the northern suburb (where, a dozen years before, I had considered the possibility of a job), quietly entered the church, and took a seat in the rearmost row.

  The minister read the story with considerable verve, and when he came to the end with the Computer-as-God saying, “Let there be light!” the organ let go with a crash and the effect was tremendous.

  The minister had recognized me when I entered, so my attempt at anonymity failed. He wouldn’t let me get away without having me join the coffee-and-cookie session afterward. I wasn’t exactly loath to stay, however, for I never mind being made much of.

  3

  I had lunch in New York on January 27, with my brother and two other people from Newsday. We talked about the possibility of my writing articles for syndication by them, and afterward I had forty-five minutes alone with Stan. It was the first time we had ever been so long a time together, the two of us alone, since he had become adult.