One of them said at once, “Asimov!”

  I said, suspiciously, “Do you know my name?”

  They didn’t. As always we were all on a first-name basis only. I revealed myself and after that I was made much of (which I enjoy). One young woman asked me how many books I had written. I said “Nineteen,” and she said, “Wow!”

  It was the first time, as far as I can remember, that I was asked the question. I have been asked it continually ever since. Eventually, as the number became the most important thing about my professional activities, the question was altered into a sophisticated, world-weary, “What’s the number now, Isaac?”

  20

  We called Mary every night, and every night she assured us she was living in paradise. On the sixth night, however, the paradise she described didn’t match the shakiness of her voice, and early on August 15 we drove home as fast as we could.

  We got home to find that Robyn had an abscess on her chest and David had a fever of 102. Mary held out till we had put down the suitcases and then went into hysterics.

  For two days I scurried till the children got well and we were back in the swing.

  21

  Robyn was a year and a half old on the nineteenth. She could walk, run, and climb stairs; and amid her voluble gibberish were two words: “hi” and “cookie.” She had seven teeth.

  David was five years old the next day, and we had a delayed birthday party for him on the twenty-fourth, one that he decided not to enjoy but in which Robyn found great delight.

  It was our first clear indication of the basic difference between the two. Whereas David seemed never at ease with other children and preferred always to go his own way, Robyn was a social animal and melted easily into any group.

  22

  On the morning of the twenty-fourth, I found I had little cause for celebration myself. I felt the familiar abdominal stab that meant I had a kidney stone, the first of consequence in four years. I promptly drank two quarts of water and the pain abated, at least for a while.

  It came at a particularly bad time, since the World Science Fiction convention was to be held in New York that year and I was planning to go. I did not want to be immobilized by a kidney stone.

  23

  Kidney stone or not, my stories were appearing in the magazines in a virtual flood. The November 1956 Science Fiction Quarterly (one of Lowndes’ magazines) contained “The Last Question,”25 and the September 1956 Astounding contained “Paté de Foie Gras,”26 my gag article. I had “First Law”27 in the October 1956 Fantastic Universe, and another short-short, “The Watery Place”28 in Satellite Science Fiction, the first issue of a new magazine put out by Leo Margulies. Lowndes published “Each an Explorer”29 in an undated issue of Future (No. 30), and my Gilbert parody, “How to Succeed at Science Fiction Without Really Trying” (never placed in one of my collections), in the November 1956 Science Fiction.

  Finally, in the October 1956 Astounding, the first of the three parts of The Naked Sun appeared.

  24

  All this, however, was secondary to my plans for the convention. I was going alone, by train, and I had made arrangements to room with Harry Stubbs. Harry made the ideal roommate (if one overlooks the fact that he is male). He didn’t drink or smoke or carouse; he slept quietly without the trace of a snore; he was gentle and agreeable at all times.

  Rather it was I who was the pest, involuntarily. I, too, didn’t drink or smoke or carouse. I am told I snore, but Harry slept too soundly to be bothered by it. No, my problem was my kidney stone. It didn’t have me in agony, but there was a dull pain associated with it that made it very hard for me to be pleasant, vivacious, and effervescent. Worse yet, the stone managed to get itself into a position where it activated the “I have to urinate” button, and I was up all night long trying to urinate, and failing. No amount of intellectual awareness of the fact that the bladder was empty kept me from the bathroom. What’s more, the function rooms were not air conditioned, and therefore we had a very hot and humid weekend (don’t tell me there’s no connection), which didn’t raise the level of my spirits.

  Nevertheless, I did what I could. I met science-fiction writers Walter Miller and Mildred Clingerman for the first time. Randall Garrett and I shrieked it up in fashion reminiscent of Cleveland, whenever I could forget my kidney stone long enough to allow it.

  Sunday, September 2, 1956, was my worst day. During the afternoon, I stood in the ballroom, signing books with a scowl on my face, for I was in agonizing discomfort.

  Attending the convention (for that day only so that she and her brother could attend the banquet that night) was a young woman named Janet Opal Jeppson, who had just turned thirty.30

  She had been introduced to science fiction by her brother, John (who was going to turn twenty-one later that month). Janet fell in love with science fiction as a result of reading Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End—and he was guest of honor, which accounted for her interest in the banquet. She then went on to my books and loved them as well.31

  Seeing me signing books, Janet rushed to the huckster room to get something for me to sign. (Every convention has a huckster room where small dealers sell their secondhand magazines and books, and science-fiction-related paraphernalia.) She obtained a copy of Foundation and Empire and waited in line.

  Finally, she reached me, rather put off by the fact that I was scowling and looking angry. She had no way of knowing I wasn’t angry, but suffering torture.

  I took the book from her, without looking up at her, and said, “What’s your name?” so I could inscribe it properly.

  “Janet Jeppson,” she said, spelling it.

  I signed appropriately, and said, making conversation, “And what do you do?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist,” she said.

  “Good,” I said, quite automatically, for, believe me, I was in no mood for dalliance, “let’s get on the couch together.”

  Janet stalked off, furious, deciding that while my books were great, I was, personally, a “pill” (her most extreme derogatory term for anyone) and someone whom she never wanted to see again, lest repeated exposure to my nastiness spoil her pleasure in my books.

  That was my first meeting with Janet.

  25

  The banquet that night was long and elaborate. Al Capp was a special guest and delivered a very funny speech that was excellently well received. Randall Garrett got up to sing the patter song from The Gondoliers (“Rising early in the morning/We proceed to light the fire”) but was a little high, I suppose, and didn’t remember the words. So, since I was sitting at the dais and was supposed to give a talk of my own, I whispered across to Robert Bloch, who was toastmaster, “Quick, Bob, introduce me.”

  He did, in two sentences, and I was up and grabbed Randall and made him sing it along with me. I didn’t know all the words either, but I knew enough to put them into his mind, we interspersed it with our own brand of lunacy, and it went better than singing it straight would have.

  Then I vanished momentarily to visit the nearest men’s room. I had warned the people who were organizing the convention that I would be periodically leaving the dais and explained why, and they said that it would be perfectly all right.

  But when Arthur Clarke got up to speak, I was determined not to leave the dais until he was through, lest the audience assume that I was demonstrating my disapproval of what he was saying. I turned slightly green, therefore, when he rose with something like thirty sheets of typing paper, which he proceeded to read slowly. I can’t remember ever spending a more agonizing hour.

  There was no use trying to sleep that night. I spent the early part in Dick Wilson’s room, and the later part in a cafeteria with A. J. Budrys and Jim Blish, and at 5 a.m. of September 3, I visited the men’s room, and out came the kidney stone. It was not a very large one at all, but it had a crystalline outgrowth like a tiny sword.

  Why the devil couldn’t I have passed it three days sooner?

  The next day, Al Capp drove back to Boston and took me and Harry Stubbs with him. Al and I alternated jokes all the way back (with Harry an appreciative audience), so that the ride was like an extension of the convention.

  26

  On September 10, 1956, David began kindergarten sessions at Peirce Grammar School, and I had by then paid off half the mortgage. But if I was settling down into fatherhood and house ownership and becoming an old hand at each, the past did not vanish. On September 19, I received a letter from Bernie Zitin of the old Navy Yard days.

  What had inspired it was an article I had written—”The Byproduct of Science Fiction,”32 which had appeared in the August 13, 1956, issue of Chemical & Engineering News, the news organ of the American Chemical Society. It was my first effort, but certainly not my last, to explain the importance of science fiction to the great world outside. (Tony Boucher referred to me once as “the apostle to the Gentiles.”)

  27

  Another intrusion of the past came when I discovered that living across the street was Gerry Cohen of the days in Camp Lee. He was Gerry Conrad now, and was married to a pleasant Danish woman. Our friendship was renewed at once, though Gerry sounded more cynical and world-weary than I remembered him.

  28

  And still my appearances in the magazines continued unabated. The November 1956 F & SF contained “Gimmicks Three,”33 which combined the three well-worn gimmicks of pact with the devil, locked-room mystery, and time travel. (Tony Boucher changed the name of the story to “The Brazen Locked Room,” but I changed it back when I put it in a collection.) The December 1956 Infinity contained “Jokester,”34 and the December 1956, Astounding contained my article “Names! Names! Names!”. The January 1957 issue of Science Fiction contained “Strikebreaker,”35 which, for some reason known only to Satan, Lowndes had retitled “Male Strikebreaker.”

  Bob Mills was editing a magazine called Venture Science Fiction, a sister magazine to F & SF, and its first issue was dated January 1957. It was going to feature daring stories with more sex in them than one expected to find in ordinary science fiction. In that first issue, my story “The Dust of Death”36 appeared. It had no sex at all. It was originally a Wendell Urth story, but Tony Boucher hadn’t liked it and neither had Bob Mills. Mills, however, needed stories desperately for that first issue and I offered to remove the Urth motif. For some reason, he agreed.

  And in the February 1957 Infinity, “Let’s Get Together”37 appeared. In no year yet, had I published as many science-fiction stories as in 1956.

  5

  Hiatus at School

  1

  Dr. Walker’s troubles were obviously growing worse. Added to his commuting difficulties and his depression over Keefer’s position as his superior, there came the fact that in September 1956, Mrs. Walker was seriously ill and required surgery.

  It was too much for him and, on October 2, 1956, he told me he had resigned as of November 1. He had been my boss for 7½ years, and although we had had our differences, he had, on the whole, been friendly and understanding, and I was dreadfully upset at his departure.

  It was not just the matter of losing him. It was a question of who was to succeed him. Who would be standing between myself and Keefer? Surely I would need some buffer, since it was quite obvious to everyone at the school that I was Keefer’s pet abomination on the faculty.

  For the moment, Bill Boyd was going to be acting head of the department on the basis of seniority, but Bill was no administrator, nor was he a fighter in any way. He was a good friend and I loved him, but if it came to a fight between myself and Keefer, there was no chance in the world that I could expect effectual support from Bill. In fact, I wouldn’t want him to get in between; he was too likely to get hurt.

  A silver lining was that the third edition of the textbook was almost done, so that I would not be compelled to make frequent trips to Ashby to work on it. (I had made some and had visited Mrs. Walker in the hospital on September 21, for instance.)

  A more distant silver lining was that I was certain, now, that there would never be a fourth edition with Walker gone. I was heartily sick of the textbook. It was a failure, from beginning to end.

  The manuscript of the third edition, almost complete, was mailed off to Williams & Wilkins on October 16.

  I then settled down to live through the hiatus caused by Walker’s resignation—to see who his successor might be and what the upshot would be.

  2

  Though my various novels had been put into paperback, Pebble in the Sky remained an exception. Ever since the first offer had fallen through, nothing further had happened. Then Pyramid Books, one of the smaller paperback concerns, offered to do it, with a one-thousand-dollar advance, provided I cut the book to fifty-five thousand words. I agreed with the greatest reluctance and explained carefully that they would have to get Doubleday’s permission and that I could in no way guarantee that they would get it.

  I went to considerable trouble cutting Pebble in the Sky and sent it in to Pyramid on October 1. Pyramid then took up the matter with Doubleday, and Brad’s secretary, Betty Shapian, called me at once. Bantam was offering twenty-five hundred dollars with no suggestion of a cut at all.

  It was almost a repeat of what had happened in connection with The Currents of Space four years before, but the situation was changed. I had carefully warned Pyramid and had disclaimed personal responsibility.

  I explained this to Betty and said, “Give it to Bantam!” And that’s the way it was.

  3

  It was another presidential year. Dwight Eisenhower and Richard Nixon were running for re-election, and opposing for the Democrats was Adlai Stevenson again, and this time his running mate was Estes Kefauver. I had precious little doubt that Eisenhower would be reelected, even though he had had a heart attack the year before. If there was any chance of an upset, it vanished on October 30 when Great Britain and France tried to take over the Suez Canal with the help of Israel, which sent its armor cutting through the Sinai Desert.

  The United States stepped in to prevent this so that the whole affair ended in a fiasco. Eisenhower was able to take up the role of world statesman, and the election took place in an atmosphere of world emergency. On November 6, I gloomily voted for Stevenson, then conceded the election to Eisenhower at 7:25 p.m. I didn’t need Univac.

  The Democrats, however, retained both houses of Congress. The country might trust Eisenhower as a person, but it had a great deal of difficulty in trusting the Republicans as a party.

  4

  I was turning out my books regularly. On November 11, I completed Lucky Starr and the Moons of Jupiter, and I was already working on a new science book for Abelard-Schuman, one on organic chemistry, which I called The World of Carbon.

  What’s more, I was putting together a collection of the stories that had been flooding the magazines, for Brad had agreed to publish one. I was still thinking of the remarks of reviewers such as George O. Smith and the unspeakable Bott concerning my penchant for wandering over the Galaxy. I therefore picked stories that took place on Earth and called the book Earth Is Room Enough.

  I drove down to New York with David and submitted both Lucky Starr and the Moons of Jupiter and Earth Is Room Enough to Doubleday on November 14, 1956.

  At Abelard-Schuman, there seemed to be a willingness to do my collections of essays, but “Names! Names! Names!” was definitely rejected. That set me back, since it was my favorite among the articles to be included and the longest. Without it, I didn’t have a book’s worth and I would have to write three articles simply to replace it. I agreed gloomily to do that and went away, hugging poor “Names! Names! Names!” to my bosom.

  I had the three additional articles done by the end of the month. To do this, I merely expanded and popularized several of the articles that had appeared in The Journal of Chemical Education. (I try to waste nothing.)

  5

  For over six years, I had been speaking here and there and getting better and better at it. Unfortunately, there was never any chance of being paid for these talks. Some were to science-fiction groups, some to schools; none were to any organizations that had money.

  Besides, I just spoke off the cuff, and it never occurred to me that one charged for talks that one didn’t prepare. I chalked it all up to publicity and hoped they helped sell my books.

  One of my faculty colleagues was Herbert Wotiz, Viennese-born and with a slight accent. He was of moderate height and he was bright and a little aggressive, but I got along well with him. He threw himself into community affairs, and in Milton, the southern suburb in which he then lived (Harry Stubbs also lived there), Wotiz was an active member of the PTA.

  He asked me to address them and it seemed to me I couldn’t let a friend down, so I agreed. On November 28, 1956, I made my way down to Milton and spoke to the PTA meeting. According to my diary, I “made a big hit.”

  Wotiz, over my weak protests, paid me ten dollars of the PTA’s money for the talk. I believe this was my first paid talk.

  6

  By the end of 1956, I had been using typewriters for some twenty-one years. First had been the old Underwood No. 5 my father had bought me secondhand. Then there had been two successive Smith-Corona portables.

  The grant from the National Heart Institute included five hundred dollars for an electric typewriter, but it took me several months to nerve myself to the task. It was an awfully large purchase—that much money just for a typewriter.