Opus 200 Isaac Asimov

Zhohng," he said.

"But that is excellent. Most formidable."

"You speak English very well," said Halsted, return-

ing the politeness.

"Europeans require linguistic talent," said Servais.

"Besides, I have lived in the United States for nearly

386

ISAAC ASIMOV

ten years now. You are all Americans, I suppose. Mr.

Avalou looks British somehow."

"Yes, I think he likes to look British," said Halsted.

And with a certain hidden pleasure he said, "And it's

Avalon. Accent on the first syllable and nothing nasal

at the end."

But Servais only laughed. "Ah, yes, I will try. When

I first knew Manny, I called him 'Roo-bang,' with the

accent on the last syllable and a strong nasalization.

He corrected me very vigorously and at great length.

He is full of pepper, that one."

The conversation had grown rather heated by this

time over a general dispute concerning the relative

merits of Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler,

with Rubin maintaining a rather lofty silence, as

though he knew someone who was better than either

but would not mention the name out of modesty.

Rubin seemed almost relieved when, with the cof-

fee well in progress and Henry ready to supply the

postprandial brandy, the time came for him to tap the

water glass with his spoon and say, "Cool it, cool it,

gentlemen. We are coming now to the time when our

guest, Jean Servais, is to pay for his dinner. Tom, it's

all yours."

Tom scowled and said, "If you don't mind, Mr. Ser-

vais," giving the final s fust enough of a hiss lo make

his point, "I'm not going to try to display my French

accent and make the kind of Jackass of myself that my

friend Manny Rubin does. Tell me, sir, how do you

justify your existence?"

. "Why, easily," said Servais pleasantly. "Did I not

exist, you would be without a guest today."

"Please leave us out of it Answer in more general

terms."

In general, then, I build dreams. I design things

OPUS 200

387

things

that cannot be built, things I will never see,

that may never be."

"AU right," said Trumbull, looking glum, "you're a

science fiction writer like Manny's pal what's-his-

name—uh—Asimov."

"No friend of mine," said Rubin swiftly. "I just help

him out now and then when he's stuck on some ele-

mentary scientific point."

Gonzalo said, "Is he the one you once said carried

The Columbia Encyclopedia around with him be-

cause he was listed there?"

"It's worse now," said Rubin. "He's bribed someone

at the Britannica to put him into the new, fifteenth

edition, and these days he drags the whole set with

him wherever he goes."

The new, fifteenth edition—," began Avalon.

"For God's sake," said Trumbull, "will you let our

guest speak?"

"No, Mr. Trumbull," said Servais, as though there

had been no interruption at a!I, "I am no science fic-

tion writer, though I read it sometimes. I read Ray

Bradbury, for instance, and Harlan Ellison." (He

nasalized both names.) "I don't think I have ever read

Asimov."

"I'll tell him that," muttered Rubin. "He'll love it."

"But," continued Servais, "I suppose you might call

me a science fiction engineer."

"What does that mean?" asked Trumbull.

"I do not write of lunar colonies. I design them."

"You design theml"

"Oh yes, and not lunar colonies only, though that is

our major task right now. We work in every field of

imaginative design for private industry, Hollywood,

even NASA."

388

ISAAC ASIMOV

Gonzalo said, "Do you really think people can live

on the Moon?"

"Why not? It depends on what mankind is willing to

do, how large an initial investment it is ready to make.

The environment on the Moon can be engineered to

the precise equivalent of Earth's, over restricted un-

derground areas, except for gravity. We must be con-

tent with a lunar gravity that is one sixth our own.

Except for that, we need only allow for original sup-

plies from Earth and for clever engineering—and that

is where we come in, my partner and I."

"You're a two-man Snn?"

"Essentially. While my partner remains my partner,

of course."

"Are you breaking up?"

"No, no. But we quarrel over small points. It is not

surprising. It is a bad time for him. But no, we will

not break up. I have made up my mind to give in to

him, perhaps. Of course, I am entirely in the right and

it is a pity to lose what I would have."

Trumbull leaned back in his chair, folded his arms,

and said, "Will you tell us what the argument is all

about? We can then state our own preferences,

whether for you or for your partner."

"It would" not be a hard choice, Mr. Trumbull, for

the sane," said Servais. "I swear it ... This is the

way it is. We are designing a full lunar colony, in com-

plete detail. It is for a motion picture company and it

is for a good fee. They will make use of some of it in a

grand science fiction spectacle they are planning. We

naturally supply far more than they can use, but the

idea is that if they have an overall picture of what

may be—and for a wonder thev want it as scientifi-

cally accurate as possible—they can choose what they

wish to use of it."

OPUS 200 389

"III bet they bollix it up," said Drake pessimisti-

cally, "no matter how careful you are. They'll give the

Moon an atmosphere."

"Oh, no," said Servais, "not after six lunar landings.

That error we need not fear. Yet I have no doubt they

will make mistakes. They will find it impossible to

handle low gravity effects properly throughout, and

the exigencies of the plot will force some infelicities.

"Still that cannot be helped and our job is merely to

supply them with the most imaginative material possi-

ble. This is my point, as vou will see in a moment . . .

We plan a citv, a small citv, and it will be against the

inner iip of a crater. This is unavoidable because the

plot of the movie demands it. However, we have our

choice as to the identity and location of the crater,

and my partner, perhaps because he is an American,

goes for the obvious with an American directness. He

wishes to use the crater Copernicus.

"He says that it is a name that is familiar; so if the

city is called Camp Copernicus, that alone will

breathe the Moon, exotic adventure, and so on- Every-

one knows, he savs, the name of the astronomer who

first placed, the Sun at the center of the planetary sys-

tem, and moreover it is a name that sounds impres-

sive.

"I, on the other hand, am not impressed with this.

As seen from Copernicus, the Earth is high in the sky

and stays there. As you all know, only one side of the

Moon always faces the Earth, so that from any spot on

that side of the Moon's surface the Earth is always

more or less in the same spot in the sky."

Gonzalo said suddenly, "If you want the lunar city

to be on the other side of the Moon so that the Earth

isn't in the sky, you're crazy. The audience will abso-

lutely want the Earth there."

390

ISAAC ASIMOV

Servais held up his hand in agreement. "Absolutely!

I agree. But if it is always there, it is almost as though

it is not there. One gets too used to it. No, I choose a

more subtle approach. I wish the city to be in a crater

that is on the boundary of the visible side. From

there, of course, you will see the Earth at the horizon.

"Consider what this introduces. The Moon does not

keep the same side to the Earth exactly. It swings

back and forth by a very small amount. For fourteen

days it swings one way and then for fourteen days it

swings back. This is called 'iibration.'" He paused

here as though to make sure he was pronouncing it

correctly in English. "And it comes about because the

Moon does not move in a perfect circle about the

earth.

"Now, you see, if we establish Camp Bahyee in the

crater of that name, the Earth is not only at the hori-

zon but it moves up and down in a twenty-eight-day

cycle. Properly located, the lunar colonists will see the

Earth rise and set, slowly, of course. This lends itself

to imaginative exploitation. The characters can ar-

range for some important action at Earthset, and the

different positions of the Earth can indicate the pas-

sage of time and raise the suspense. Some terrific spe-

cial effects are possible, too. If Venus is near the

Earth and Earth is in a fat crescent stage, Venus will

then be at its brightest; and when Earth sets, we can

show Venus, in the airless sky of the Moon, to be a

very tiny crescent itself."

"Earthset and evening star, and one clear call for

me," muttered Avalon.

Gonzalo said, "Is there really a crater called Bah-

yee?"

"Absolutely," said Servais. "It is, in fact, the largest

OPUS 200 391

crater that can be seen from the Earth's surface. It is

290 kilometers across—180 miles."

"It sounds like a Chinese name," said Gonzalo.

"French!" said Servais solemnly. "A French astrono-

mer of that name was mayor of Paris in 1789 at the

time of the Revolution."

"That wasn't a good time to be mayor," said Gon-

zalo.

"So he discovered," said Servais. "He was guillo-

tined in 1793."

Avalon said, "I am rather on your side, Mr. Servais.

Your proposal lends scope. What was your partner's

objection?"

Servais shrugged in a gesture that was more Gallic

than anything he had yet said or done. "Foolish ones.

He says that it will be too complicated for the movie

people. They will confuse things, he says. He also

points out that the Earth moves too slowly in the

Moon's sky. It would take days for the Earth to lift its

entire globe above the horizon, and days for it to

lower entirely below the horizon."

"Is that right?" asked Gonzalo.

"It's right, but what of that? It will still be

interesting."

Halsted said, "They can fudge that. Make the Earth

move a little faster. So what?"

Servais looked discontented. "That's no good. My

partner says this is precisely what the movie people

will do and this alteration of astronomical fact will be

disgraceful. He is very violent about it, finding fault

with everything, even with the name of the crater,

which he says is ridiculous and laughable so that he

will not endure it in our report. We have never had

arguments like this. He is like a madman."

392

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Remember," said Avalon, "you said you would give

in.

"Well, I will have to," said Servais, "but I am not

pleased. Of course, it is a bad time for him."

Rubin said, "You've said that twice now, Jean. I've

never met your partner, so I can't judge the personali-

ties involved. Why is it a bad time?"

Servais shook his head. "A month ago, or a little

more, his wife killed herself. She took sleeping pills-

My partner was a devoted husband, most uxorious.

Naturally, it is terrible for him and, just as naturally,

he is not himself."

Drake coughed gently. "Should he be working?"

"I would not dare suggest he not work. The work is

keeping him sane."

Halsted said, "Why did she kill herself?"

Servais didn't answer in words but gestured with

his eyebrows in a fashion that might be interpreted in

almost any way.

Halsted persisted. "Was she incurably ill?"

"Who can say?" said Servais, sighing. "For a while,

poor Howard—" He paused in embarrassment. "It was

not my intention to mention his name."

Trumbull said, "You can say anything here. What-

ever is mentioned in this room is completely confiden-

tial. Our waiter, too, before you ask, is completely

trustworthy."

"Well," said Servais, "his name doesn't matter in any

case. It is Howard Kaufman. In a way, work has been

very good for him. Except at work, he is almost dead

himself. Nothing is any longer important to him."

"Yes," said Trumbull, "but now something is impor-

tant to him. He wants his crater, not your crater."

"True," said Servais. "I have thought of that. I have

told myself it is a good sign. He throws himself into

OPUS 200 393

something. It is a beginning. And perhaps all the more

reason, then, that I should give in- Yes, I will. It's set-

tled, I will. There's no reason for you gentlemen to try

to decide between us. The decision is made, and in his

favor."

Avalon was frowning. "I suppose we should go on

to question you further on the work you do and I sup-

pose, moreover, that we should not intrude on a pri-

vate misfortune. Here at the Black Widowers, how-

ever, no questions are barred, and there is no Fifth

Amendment to plead. I am dissatisfied, sir, with your

remarks concerning the unfortunate woman who com-

mitted suicide. As a happily married man, I am puz-

zled at the combination of love and suicide. You said

she wasn't ill?"

"Actually, I didn't," said Servais, "and I am uncom-

fortable at discussing the matter."

Rubin struck the empty glass before him with his

spoon. "Host's privilege," he said vigorously. There

was silence.

"Jean," he said, "you are my guest and my friend.

We can't force you to answer questions, but I made it

clear that the price of accepting our hospitality was

the grilling. If you have been guilty of a criminal act

and don't wish to discuss it. leave now and we will say

nothing. If you talk, then, whatever you say, we will

still say nothing."

"Though if it is indeed a criminal act," said Avalon,

"we would certainly strongly advise confession."

Servais laughed rather shakily. He said, "For one

minute there, for one frightened minute, I thought I

had found myself in a Kafka novel and would be tried

and condemned for some crime you would drag out of

me against my will. Gentlemen, I have committed no

crime of importance. A speeding ticket, a bit of crea-

394 ISAAC ASIMOV

tive imagination on my tax return—al] that is, so I hear

it said, as American as apple pie. But if you're think-

ing I killed that woman and made it look like suicide-

please put it out of your heads at once. It was suicide.

The police did not question it."

Halsted said, "Was she ill?" -;

"All right, then, I will answer. She was not ill as far

as I know. But after all, I am not a doctor and I did

not examine her."

Halsted said, "Did she have children?"*

"No. No children. Ah, Mr. Halsted, I suddenly re-

membered that you spoke earlier that your guests had

problems that they brought up for discussion, and I

said I had none. I see vou have found one anyway.'7

Trumbull said, "If vou're so sure it was suicide, I

suppose she left a note."

"Yes," said Servais, "she left one."

"What did it say?"

**I couldn't quote it exactly. I did not myself see it

According to Howard, she merely apologized for caus-

ing unhappiness but said that she could not go on. It

was quite banal and I assure you it satisfied the po-

lice."

Avalon said, "But if it was a happy marriage, and

there was no illness and no complications with chil-

dren, then—Or were there complications with chil-

dren? Did she want children badly and did her hus-

band refuse—"

Gonzalo interposed. "People don't kill themselves

because they don't have kids."

"People kill themselves for the stupidest reasons,"

said Rubin. "I remember—"

Trumbull cried out with stentorian rage, "Damn it,

you guys, Jeff has the floor."

OPUS 200 395

Avalon said, "Was the lack of children a disturbing

influence?"

"Not as far as I know," said Servais. "Look, Mr.

Avalon. I am careful in what I say, and I did not say it

was a happy marriage."

"You said your partner was devoted to his wife,"

said Avalon gravelv, "and you used that fine old word

'uxorious' to describe him."

"Love," said Servais, "is insufficient for happiness if

it flows but one way. I did not say that she loved

him."

Drake lit another cigarette. "Ah," he said, "the plot

thickens."

Avalon said. "Then it is your opinion that that had

something to do with the suicide."

Servais looked harassed. "It is more than my opin-

ion, sir. I know it had something to do with the sui-

cide."

"Would you tell us the details?" asked Avalon, un-

bending just slightly from his usual stiff posture as

though to convert his question into a courtly invita-

tion.

Servais hesitated, then said, "I remind you that you

have promised me all is confidential. Mary—Madame

Kaufman and my partner were married for seven

years and it seemed a comfortable marriage, but who

can tell in affairs of this sort?

"There was another man. He is older than Howard

and to my eyes not as good-looking—but again, who

can tell in affairs of this sort? What she found in him

is not likely to be there on the surface, for all to see."

Halsted said, "How did your partner take that?'

Servais looked up and flushed distinctly. "He never

knew. Surelv, you are not of the opinion that I told

him this? I am not the type, I assure you. It is not for

396

ISAAC ASIMOV

me to interfere between husband and wife. And

frankly, if I had told Howard, he would not have be-

lieved me. It is more likelv he would have attempted

to strike me. And then what was I to do? Present

proof? Was I to arrange matters so as to have them

caught under conditions that could not be mistaken?

No, I said nothing."

"And he really didn't know?" asked Avalon, clearly

embarrassed.

"He did not. It had not been going on long. The

pair were excessively cautious. The husband was

blindly devoted. What can I say?"

"The husband is always the last to know," said Gon-

zaio sententiously.

Drake said, "If the affair was so well hidden, how

did you find out, Mr. Servais?"

"Purest accident, I assure vou," said Servais. "An in-

credible stroke of misfortune for her, in a way. I had a

date for die evening. I did not know the girl well and

it did not, after all, work out. I was anxious to be rid

of her, but first—what would you have, it would not

be gentlemanly to abandon her—I took her home in an

odd comer of the city. And, having said good-by in a

most perfunctory manner, I went into a nearby diner

to have a cup of coffee and recover somewhat And

there I saw Mary Kaufman and a man.

"Alas, it jumped to the eye. It was late; her hus-

band, I remembered at once, was out of town, her at-

titude toward the man—Accept my assurances that

there is a way a woman has of looking at a man that is

completely unmistakable, and I saw it then. And if I

were at all unsure, the expression on her face, when

she looked up and saw me frozen in surprise, gave it

all away.

"I left at once, of course, with no greeting of any

OPUS 200 397

kind, but the damage was done. She called me the

next day, in agony of mind, the fool, fearful that I

would carry stories to her husband, and gave me a

totally unconvincing explanation. I assured her that it

was a matter in which I did not interest myself in the

least, that it was something so unimportant that I had

already forgotten it. I am glad, however, I did not

have to face the man. Him, I would have knocked

down."

Drake said, "Did you know the man?"

"Slightly," said Servais. "He moved in our circles in

a very distant way. I knew his name; I could recog-

nize him. It didn't matter, for I never saw him after

that. He was wise to stay away."

Avalon said, "But why did she commit suicide? Was

she afraid her husband would find out?"

"Is one ever afraid of that in such a case?" de-

manded Servais, with a slight lifting of his lip. "And if

she were, surely she would engi the affair. No, no, it

was something far more common than that. Something

inevitable. In such an affair, gentlemen, there are

strains and risks which are great and which actually

add an element of romance. I am not entirely unaware

of such things, I assure you.

"But the romance does not continue forever, what-

ever the story books may say, and is is bound to fade

for one faster than for the other. Well, then, it faded

for the man in this case before it did for the woman,

and the man took the kind of action one sometimes

does in such affairs. He left—went—disappeared. And

so the lady killed herself."

Trumbull drew himself up and frowned ferociously.

"For what reason?"

"I assume for that reason, sir. It has been known to

happen. I did not know of the man's disappearance,

398

ISAAC ASIMOV

you understand, till aftenvard. After the suicide I went

in search of him, feeling he was in some way responsi-

ble, and rather promising myself to relieve my feel-

ings by bloodying his nose—I have a strong affection

for my partner, you understand, and I felt his suffer-

ings—but I discovered the fine lover had left tw6

weeks before and left no forwarding address. He had

no family and it was easy for him to leave, that black-

guard. I could have tracked him down, I suppose, but

my feelings were not strong enough to push me that

far. And yet, I feel the guilt—"

"What guilt?" asked Avalon.

"It occurred to me that when I surprised them—

quite unintentionally, of course—the element of risk to

the man became unacceptablv high. He knew I knew

him. He may have felt that sooner or later it would

come out and he did not wish to await results. If I had

not stumbled into that diner they might still be to-

gether, she might still be alive, who knows?"

Rubin said, 'That is far-fetched, Jean. You can't

deal rationally with the ifs of history. But I have a

thought—"

"Yes, Manny?"

"After the suicide your partner was very quiet,

nothing was important to him. I think you said that.

But now he's quarreling with you violently, though he

has never done that before, I gather. Something may

have happened in addition to the suicide. Perhaps

now he has discovered hs wife's infidelity and the

thought drives him mad."

Servais shook his head. "No, no. If you think I have

told him, you are quite wrong. I admit I think of tell-

ing him now and then. It is difficult to see him, my

dear friend, wasting away over a woman who, after

all, was not worthy of him. It is not proper to pine

OPUS 200

399

away for one who was not faithful to him in life.

Ought I not tell him this? Frequently, it seems to me

that I should and even must. He will face the truth

and begin life anew. But then I think and even know

that he will not believe me, that our friendship will be

broken, and he will be worse off than before."

Rubin said, "You don't understand me. Might it not

be that someone else has told him? How do you know

you were the only one who knew?"

Servais seemed a bit startled. He considered it and

said, "No. He would, in that case, certainly have told

me the news. And I assure you, he would have told it

to me with the highest degree of indignation and in-

formed me that he at once attempted to strike the vil-

lain who would so malign his dead angel."

"Not," said Rubin, "if he had been told that you

were his wife's lover. Even if he refused to believe it,

even if he beat the informant to the ground, could he

tell you the tale under such circumstances? And could

he be entirely certain? Would he not Snd it impossi-

ble to avoid picking fights with you in such a case?"

Servais seemed still more startled. He said slowly,

"It was, of course, not I. No one could possibly have

thought so. Howard's wife did not in the least appeal

to me, you understand." He looked up and said

fiercely, "You must accept the fact that I am telling

you the truth about this. It was not I, and I will not

be suspected. If anyone had said it was I, it could only

be out of deliberate malice."

"Maybe it was," said Rubin. "Might it not be the

real lover who would make the accusation—out of fear

you would give him away? By getting in his story

first-"

"Why should he do this? He is away. No one sus-

pects him. No one pursues him."

400

ISAAC ASIMOV

"He might not know that," said Rubin.

"Pardon me." Henry's voice sounded softly from the

direction of the sideboard. "May I ask a question?"

"Certainly," said Rubin, and the odd silence fell

that always did when the quiet waiter, whose pres-

ence rarely obtruded on the festivities, made himself

heard. "

Servais looked startled, but his politeness held. He

said, "Can I do anything for you, waiter?"

Henry said, "I'm not sure, sir, that I quite under-

stand the nature of the quarrel between yourself and

your partner. Surely there must have been decisions of

enormous complexity to make as far as the technical

details of the colony were concerned."

"You don't know even a small part of it," said Ser-

vais indulgently.

"Did your partner and you quarrel over all those

details, sir?"

"N-no," said Servais. "We did not quarrel. There

were discussions, of course. It is useless to believe that

twotoen, each with a strong will and pronounced opin-

ions, will agree everywhere, or even anywhere, but it

all worked out reasonably. We discussed, and eventu-

ally we came to some conclusion. Sometimes I had the

better of it, sometimes he, sometimes neither or both."

"But then," said Henry, "there was this one argu-

ment over the actual location of the colony, over the

crater, and there it was all different He attacked even

the name of the crater fiercely and, in this one case,

left no room for the slightest compromise."

"No room at all. And you are right. Only in this one

case."

Henry said. Then I am to understand that at this

time, when Mr. Rubin suspects that your partner is

being irritated by suspicion of you, he was completely

OPUS 200 401

reasonable and civilized over every delicate point of

lunar engineering and was wildly and unbearably

stubborn only over the single matter of the site—over

whether Copernicus or the other crater was to be the

place where the colony was to be built?"

"Yes," said Servais with satisfaction. "That is pre-

cisely how it was and I see the point you are making,

waiter. It is quite unbelievable to suppose that he

would quairel with me over the site out of ill humor

over suspicion that 1 have placed homs on him, when

he does not quarrel with me on any other point. As-

suredly, he does not suspect me of ill dealing. I thank

you, waiter."

Henry said, "May I go a little further, sir?"

"By all means," said Servais,

"Earlier in the evening," said Henry, "Mr. Kubin

was kind enough to ask my opinion over the tech-

niques of his profession. There was the question of de-

liberate omission of details by witnesses."

"Yes," said Servais, "I remember the discussion. But

I did not deliberately omit any details."

"You did not mention the name of Mrs. Kaufman's

lover."

Servais frowned. "I suppose I didn't, but it wasn't

deliberate. It is entirely irrelevant."

"Perhaps it is," said Henry, "unless his name hap-

pens to be Bailey."

Servais froze in his chair. Then he said anxiously, "I

don't recall mentioning it, Sacred-I see your point

again, waiter. If it slips out now without my remem-

bering it, it is possible to suppose that, without quite

realizing it, I may have said something that led How-

ard to suspect—"

Gonzalo said, "Hey, Henry, I don't recall Jean giv-

ing us any name."

402 ISAAC ASIMOV

"Nor I," said Henry. "You did not give the name,

sir."

Servais relaxed slowly and then said, frowning,

"Then how did you know? Do you know these peo-

ple?"

Henry shook his head. "No, sir, it was just a notion'

of mine that arose out of the story you told. From

your reaction, I take it his name is Bailey?"

"Martin Bailey," said Servais. "How did vou know?"

"The name of the crater in which you wished to

place the site is Bahyee; the name of the city would

be Camp Bahyee."

"Yes."

"But that is the French pronounciation of the name

of a French astronomer. How is it spelled?"

Servais said, "B-a-M-I-y. Great Cod, Bailly!"

Henry said, "In English pronunciation, pronounced

like the not uncommon surname Bailey. I am quite

certain American astronomers use the English pro-

nunciation, and that Mr. Kaufman does too. You hid

that piece of information from us, Mr. Servais. because

you never thought of the crater in any other way than

Bahyee. Even looking at it, you would hear the French

sound in your mind and make no connection with

Bailey, the American surname."

Servais said, "But I still don't understand."

"Would your partner wish to publicize the name,

and place the site of a lunar colony in Bailly? Would

he want to have the colony called Camp Bailly, after

what a Bailey had done to him?"

"But he didn't know what Bailey had done to him,"

said Servais.

"How do you know that? Because there's an old saw

that says the husband is always the last to know? How

else can you explain his utterly irrational opposition to

OPUS 200 403

this one point, even his insistence that the name itself

is horrible? It is too much to expect of coincidence,"

"But if he knew—if he knew—he didn't tell me. Why

fight over it? Why not explain?"

"I assume," said Henry, "he didn't know you knew.

Would he shame his dead wife by telling you?"

Servais clutched at his hair. "I never thought—Not

for a moment."

'There is more to think," said Henry sadly.

"What?"

"One might wonder how Bailey came to disappear,

if your partner knew the tale. One might wonder if

Bailev is alive. Is it not conceivable that Mr. Kauf-

man, placing all the blame on the other man, con-

fronted his wife to tell her he had driven her lover

away, even killed him, perhaps, and asked her to

come back to him—and the response was suicide?"

"No," said Servais- 'That is impossible."

"It would be best, then, to find Mr. Bailey and

make sure he is alive. It is the one way of proving

your partner's innocence. It may be a task for the po-

lice."

Servais had turned very pale. "I can't go to the po-

lice with a story like that."

"If you do not," said Henry, "it may be that your

partner, brooding over what he has done—if indeed he

has done it—will eventually take justice into his own

hands."

"You mean kill himself?" whispered Servais. "Is that

the choice you are facing me with: accuse him to the

police or wait for him to kill himself?"

"Or both," said Henry. "Life is cruel."

I have also been writing mystery stories for the junior

high school age level at the instigation, originally, of

404

ISAAC ASIMOV

an editor at Boys* Life. Naturally, 1 made a junior

high school boy the detective, and when I had written

five of them, I put them together as a collection enti-

tled The Key Word and Other Mysteries {Book 190).

It was published by Walker and Company in 1977.

The story I choose for inclusion here was rejected'

by Boys' Life but was snapped up at once by EQMM.

I cant explain these things.

"The Thirteenth Day of Christmas" (J977) ,

This was one year we were glad when Christmas Day

was over.

It had been a grim Christmas Eve and I had stayed

awake as long as I could, half listening for bombs.

And Mom and I stayed up until midnight on Christmas

Day, too. Then Dad called and said, "Okay, it's over.

Nothing's happened. I'll be home as soon as I can."

Mom and I danced around as if Santa Claus had

just come and then, after about an hour. Dad came

home and I went to bed and slept fine.

You see, it's special in our house. Dad's a detective

on the force and these days, with terrorists and bomb-

ings, it can get pretty hairy. So, when on December

20, warning reached headquarters that there would be

a Christmas Day bombing at the Soviet offices in the

United Nations, it had to be taken seriously.

The entire force was put on the alert and the FBI

came in, too. The Soviets had their own security, I

guess, but none of it satisfied Dad.

The day before Christmas was the worst.

"If someone is crazy enough to want to plant a

bomb and if he's not too worried about getting caught

afterward, he's likely to be able to do it no matter

OPUS 200 405

what precautions we take." Dad's voice had a grim-

ness we rarelv heard.

"I suppos,e there's no way of knowing who it is,"

Mom said.

Dad shook his head. "Letters from newspapers

pasted on paper; no fingerprints; onlv smudges. Com-

mon stuff we can't trace and a threat that it would be

the only warning we'd get. What can we do?"

"Well, it must be someone who doesn't like the Rus-

sians, I guess," Mom said.

Dad said, "That doesn't narrow it much. Of course,

the Soviets say it's a Zionist threat, and we've got to

keep an eye on the Jewish Defense League."

"Gee, Dad," I said. "That doesn't make much sense.

The Jewish people wouldn't pick Christmas to do it,

would they? It doesn't mean anything to them; and it

doesn't mean anything to the Soviet Union, either.

They're officially atheistic."

"You can't reason that out with the Russians," Dad

said. "Now why don't you turn in, because tomorrow

may be a bad day all round, Christmas or not"

Then he left. He was out all Christmas, and it was

pretty rotten. We didn't even open any presents—just

sat listening to the radio, which was tuned to the news

station.

Then at midnight when Dad called and nothing had

happened, we could breathe again, but I still forgot to

open my presents.

That didn't come till the morning of the twenty-

sixth. We made that day Christmas. Dad had a day oft

and Mom baked a turkey a day late. It wasn't till after

dinner that we talked about it at all.

Mom said, "I suppose the person, whoever it was,

couldn't find any way of planting the bomb once the

Department drew the security strings tight"

406

ISAAC ASIMOV

Dad smiled, as if he appreciated Mom's loyalty. "I

don't think you can make security that tight," he said,

"but what's the difference? There was no bomb.

Maybe it was a bluff. After all, it did disrupt the city

a bit and it gave the Soviet people at the United Na-

tions some sleepless nights. 111 bet. That might have

been almost as good for the bomber as letting the

bomb go off."

"If he couldn't do it on Christmas," I said, "maybe

he'll do it another time. Maybe he just said Christmas

to get everyone keyed up and then, after they relax,

he'll . . ."

Dad gave me one of his little pushes on the side of

my head- "You're a cheerful one, Larry . . . No, I

don't think so. Real bombers value the sense of power.

When they say something is going up at a certain time,

it's got to be that tune or it's no fun for them."

I was still suspicious, but the days passed and there

was no bombing and the Department gradually went

back to normal. The FBI left and even the Soviet peo-

ple seemed to forget about it, according to Dad.

On January 2, the Christmas-New Year's vacation

was over and I went back to school. We started re-

hearsing our Christmas pageant. We didn't call it that,

of course, because we're not supposed to have reli-

gious celebrations at school, what with the separation

of church and state. We Just made an elaborate show

out of the song 'The Twelve Days of Christmas,"

which doesn't have any religion to it—Just presents.

There were twelve of us kids, each one singing a par-

ticular line every time it came up and then coming in

all together on the partridge in a pear tree. I was

number five, singing "five gold rings" because I was

still a boy soprano and could still hit that high note

pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.

OPUS 200 407

Some kids didn't know why Christmas had twelve

davs. but I exniained that if we count Christmas Day

as one, the twelfth dav is Januarv 6. when the Three

Wise Men arrived with sifts for the Christ child. Natu-

rallv. it was on January 6 that we put on the show in

the auditorium, with as many parents there as wanted

to come.

Dad "ot a few hours off and was sitting in the audi-

ence with Mom. I could see him getting set to hear his

son's high note for the last time because by next year

mv voice would have changed.

Did vou ever get an idea in the middle of a stage

show and have to continue, no matter what?

We were onlv on the second day with its "two

turtle-doves" when I thought, "Oh my, it's the thir-

teenth dav of Christmas." The whole world was shak-

ing about me and I couldn't do a thing but stay on the

stage and sing about five gold rings.

I didn't think they'd ever get to those stupid "twelve

drummers drumming." It waslike having itching pow-

der on instead of underwear. I couldn't stand still.

Then, when the last note was out, while they were

still applauding, I broke away, went jumping down

the steps from the platform and up the aisle calling,

"Dad!"

He looked startled, but I grabbed him, and I think I

was babbling so fast, he could hardiv understand.

I said, "Dad, Christmas isn't the same day every-

where. It could be one of the Soviet's own people.

They're officially atheist, but maybe one of them is

religious and he wants to place the bomb for that

reason. Onlv he would be a member of the Russian

Orthodox Church. Thev don't go by our calendar."

"What?" said Dad. looking as if he didn't under-

stand a word I was saying.

408

ISAAC ASIMOV

"It's so. Dad. I read about it. The Russian Orthodox

Church is still on the Julian calendar, which the West

gave up for the Gregorian calendar centuries ago. The

Julian calendar is thirteen days behind ours. The Or-

thodox Christinas is on their December 25, which is

our January 7. It's tomorrow."

He didn't believe me just like that. He looked it up

in the almanac; then he called up someone in the De-

partment who was Russian Orthodox.

He was able to get the Department moving again.

Thev talked to the Soviets, and once the Soviets

stopped talking about Zionists and looked at them-

selves, they got the man. I don't know what they did

with him, but there was no bombing on the thirteenth

day of Christmas, either.

The Department wanted to give me a new bicycle

for Christmas after that, but I turned it down. I was

just doing my duty.

Which brings me to my favorite book of all two

hundred I have written so far.

In April 1975, Lorry Ashmead, then at Doubleday,

suggested I attend the seventh-fifth annual meeting of

the American Booksellers Association (ABA), which

was to be held in New Yorfe over the Memorial Day

weekend. 1 said I had to be there in any case since 1

had agreed to autograph books there for Fawcett

Books.

Lorry said he wanted me to attend all the sessions

so that I might gather background information for a

mystery he wanted me to write that was to be entitled

Murder at the ABA.

I attended, and when it was over. Lorry asked me if

OPUS 200 409

•I could write the book. I said, yes, I already had a

:. plot in mind.

"Good," said Larry. "We need it by next year's con-

vention."

"foull have the manuscript by then," I said.

"Not the manuscript," he said. "The finished

^book."

" I said, horrified, "Then when do you want the man-

, uscript?"

"By August."

"But it's June 1 already."

"By early August, if possible."

Fortunately, the hook went with incredible ease

and rapidity and I finished it on August 3. It was

published in 1976 as Book 172.

One of the reasons I loved the book was this:

Though it was told in the first person by my character

Darius Just (based distantly on my good friend Har-

lan Elliwn), I introduced myself as a character in the

third person, describing myself Quite accurately, I

think, through the not entirely sympathetic eyes of

Darius (pronounced "duh-RY-us"),

Here is how I enter the story:

from MURDER AT THE ABA (1976)

I found myself a table that had not yet collected any-

one at any of its four chairs and sat down with a little

sigh. If I were left alone, if I were allowed to eat in

peace, I might yet brush away all the implacably hu-

miliating events of the day. Some people dissolve their

woes in wine; I'm quite likely to assuage my sadness

in spiced sausage.

410

ISAAC ASIMOV

It wasn't to be. Nothing broke right that Sunday. I

hadn't completed my first mouthful when a cheerful

voice boomed out, "Good old Darius Dust Mind if I

join you?"

I've got to explain about the name Darius. It was

wished upon me by a self-educated father. You oan't

trust self-education—it goes too far, gets too bloated,

knows no moderation. My father's name was Alexan-

der and he knew that Alexander the Great had de-

feated Darius III of Persia, and that was it. Perhaps

he had the feeling that even though he would see to it

I had a thorough education (he did) I would never

be able to surpass him. Since he was five feet ten, I

guess I never did.

My mother, a very little woman whose genes, in

that respect, I inherited, went along with it. She had

no choice. No one ever had a choice within hearing

distance of my father.

To be the smallest kid in class is not exactly a pass-

port to happiness. To be any kid named Darius, sur-

rounded by Jims, Toms, and Bills, produces little |oy.

To be the smallest kid in class and named Darius, too,

is something like sitting under a neon sign that flashes

on and off with the message, "Kick me!"

It wasn't until I was in college that my name

stopped serving as an insult to everyone my age I ever

me(, an insult to be personally avenged at once.

I hated that name at first, but held on to it with a

wretched obstinacy. No one was going to force me out

of it. By the time I acquired a coterie of friends old

enough and sophisticated enough to be able to pro-

nounce it and feel at home with it, I began to like it.

Correct pronunciation helps. Even among relatively

sophisticated adults, it isn't a familiar name. Outside

Herodotus, one is only likely to come across it in an

OPUS 200 411

\, old chestnut of a poem called "Darius Green and His

.Flying Machine," by John Townsend Trowbridge,

written a little over a hundred years ago. I hated that

poem. Naturally the onlv Darius in popular literature

^was served up as comic relief.

; I'm not sure what proportion of the general popula-

Ition knows how to pronounce the name, but even in

^•the rarefied circles within which I have my being

(God help me), I hear it more often mispronounced

than pronounced. The first impulse is to pronounce

the name so as to rhyme it with "various," but that's

not right. The accent is on the second syllable, with a

long i, so that it rhymes with "pious" and "bias."

That has its disadvantages, too, for once you leam

to say Darius properly, vou are bound to notice that it

sounds something like "dry as." Then, if you have a

particularly feeble mind, it occurs to you that if you

change Just to Dust, the name becomes "Dry as

Dust," which is not exactly ideal for a writer.

Actually, only one person I know has the kind of

perverted sense of humor that thinks this is funny.

When I heard someone say "Good old Dry as Dust.

Mind if I join you?" I knew, without looking up, that

it was Isaac Asimov. Word'play is his idea of the em-

pyrean heights of wisdom.

I didn't let it bother me. I Just said, "Hello, Ikey. Of

course I mind having you join me, but sit down any-

way."

As it happens, there's nothing that Asimov can pos-

sibly call me that I would hate as much as he hates

being called Ikey. So one of these times, when it fi-

nally dawns on him that every "Dry as Dust" will

elicit an "Ikey" without fail, he will quit. Anyone else

would quit after two tries. I give Asimov twenty

years.

412

ISAAC ASIMOV

Since this book is rather in the nature of a collabo-

ration, with his name on it as sole author, however, I

had better be particular about describing him.

He's five feet nine inches tall, rather fat, and more

than rather grinnin". I^e wears his hair long, and it's

clear he does it out of laziness rather than out of any

desire for a splendid leonine effect (which is how I've

heard him describe it), because it never seems more

than sketchily combed. The hair is somewhat gray

and the sideburns, which run down to the angle of his

jaw and which have been aptly described as looking

I&e Brillo, are nearlv white. He's got a bulbous nose,

blue eyes, a bolo tic, and glasses with black frames.

He has to remove his glasses to read or eat because he

won't admit his age long enough to get bifocals.

He's like me in some respects. He doesn't smoke or

drink any more than I do. Like me, he also likes to

eat, but I don't get fat on it and he does. He thinks

the difference is metabolism, which is funnv for a guy

who claims to be a biochemist. I know the difference

is exercise. I work out in a gym nearlv every day—but

once Asimov has managed to lift himself out of bed in

the morning, that is his exercise for the day. Except

for typing, of course. His fingers are in good shape.

He had his plate heaped much higher than mine,

but he couldn't stop himself from glancing anxiously

at what I had retrieved, as though J might perhaps

have found a goodie he had overlooked-

"What's the score now, Isaac?" No use calling him

Ikey except under provocation.

He knew what I meant. "A hundred sixty-three at

the moment," he said with his mouth full, "but who's

counting?"

"You are," I said.

He swallowed and said in an aggrieved tone, "I

OPUS 200

413

have to. That's my shtick. Everyone wants to know

how many books I've published, and if I don't tell

them they're disappointed. What's more, if they ask

me the question in two successive months and the fig-

ure doesn't go up by at least one, they feel cheated.

,Look, there's no need for you to be resentful. You've

had a movie made out of one of your books. I haven't."

I winced. The matter had been profitable, but it

was easily the worst movie ever made by the worst set

of idiots you could find even in Hollywood, I kept

hoping no one would see it.

A hundred sixty-three books is no record, of course,

but I never met anyone for whom writing is as pain-

less as it is for Asimov. And he's aware of it, and his

pleasure over it can be rather disgusting to see.

Once he crossed the room at a book-and-author

luncheon, and someone muttered in my ear, "There

goes Asimov pushing his self-assurance ahead of him

-like a wheelbarrow." (The same might be said of his

abdomen, of course.) Someone else once said that Asi-

mov walked as though he expected the air to part in

front of him.

Actually, my own theory is that he lives so much of

the time inside his own head that he is unaware of the

outside world. So when he seems to be utterly self-

possessed, it's just that he's unaware that there's any-

thing to be disturbed about.

I said to him, "What are you doing here, Isaac? Why

aren't you home writing a book?"

He groaned. "In a way that's what I'm doing here.

Doubleday wants me to write a mystery novel entitled

Murder at the ABA. I don't know what I was thinking

of when I signed up."

"Why did you sign?"

*"What did you expect me to do? I've signed so many

414

ISAAC ASIMOV

contracts, it's-a reflex action with me. And they want

a completed manuscript by August I've got three

months at the outside."

"That's all right It will only take you a weekend,

won't it?"

Asimov made himself a cold-cut sandwich on'a

giant scale and demolished half of it at a bite. With

most of the bite gone, he said, 'The worst of all my

literary troubles is the fact that I'm not allowed to

have any literary troubles. If you said you had to do a

book faster than you could do it, everyone would soak

your jacket with sympathetic tears. When I say it, I

get cheap jokes. The same cheap joke every time, I

might add."

This from a man who thinks Darius Dust is epi-

grammatic wit

I didn't break down in tears. "Just the same youTI

do it. You've done mysteries before, haven't you?"

It was a pretty safe assumption. The man has writ-

ten on every subject imaginable and if ever anyone

didn't look if it's Asimov. He looks stupid at first

sight. And when you hear him tell endless jokes, hug

every girl in reach, and never by any chance say any-

thing thoughtful, you're convinced of it. It takes con-

siderable time before you find out that the man is so

secure in his intelligence that he never troubles to dis-

play it

Which annoys the hell out of me, actually.

"Of course I've done mysteries before," he said in-

dignantly. "I've written straight mysteries and science

fiction mysteries; novels and short stories; for adults,

for teenagers, and for grade-schoolers."

"Then what's the trouble?"

"I've got to give this local color. I've got to hang

around here for four days and see what's happening."

OPUS 200 415

"You're doing it, aren't you?"

"But I can't see what's happening. In my whole life,

I've never seen anything that goes on around me."

"Then how have you written a hundred sixty-three

books."

"Published," he said. "I have eleven in press . . .

Because my books are without description. I have an

unomamented style."

"In that case, get someone to help you."

It was odd that I should say that, for at that mo-

ment I couldn't possibly have supposed that matters

would end up in such a way that / would help him.

After all, he did manage to do the book in time.

You're reading it—Murder at the ABA, by Isaac Asi-

mov.

It's fust that it's my story and I am first-person

while he is third-person. And since I've left the writ-

ing entirely in his hands and don't entirely trust him,

the agreement is that I am to be allowed to add any

comments of my own (within reason) in the form of

footnotes where I consider him too far off base.*

He had finished his platter, and by that time the

room was considerably more crowded than it had

B For instance, I can point out that while Asimov is sticking

to the outline, he's dramatizing me into total distortion. I

am five feet five and not five feet two. The subtle (or not so

subtle) saturation of the story with my supposed pygmy

complex is Just designed to make him shine by contrast.— D.J.

Just is five feet five if you count his platform shoes! I'm

not supposed to be literal here anyway. This is a work of fic-

tion and I will take any liberties I choose with the facts. And

as for making myself shine, I ask anyone who knows me to

read these last few pages, in which I figure, and testify that

I am sticking to Just's ridiculous attitudes vis-a-vis myself

at some considerable cost to my self-respect.— I.A.

416 ISAAC ASIMOV

been when we had entered. It was quite hopeless to

expect to see Giles in that mess. The noise level had

become uncomfortable and the Eith of cigarette

smoke hung in the air. There was still time to leave,

and then Asimov would have had to make up his own

story—but I didn't budge because I hadn't had my

coffee yet. There was always something to prevent

the evasion of fate.

I said, "Do vou want some coffee, Isaac?"

"Sure, but let me go get it. I need the exercise."

That wasn't it at all, of course. He-came back with

coffee for both of us and five assorted cookies for

himself. At least he didn't offer me any of them.

He dipped the chocolate-covered one in the coffee,

transferred it expertly to his mouth without losing a

drop, and said, "And what are you doing here, Dar-

ius? You don't look particularly ecstatic."

"I've no reason to look ecstatic," I said, "I've had a

hell of a day and I don't intend to go into details."

"Considering that you have no family responsibili-

ties at all and write only -one book every three years,

what can possibly give you a hell of a day?"

I could almost believe he was serious in that ques-

tion, but I ignored it anyway and said, "You haven't

by any chance seen Giles Devore at the convention?"

"Yes, I have."

I was astonished. I was not expecting that answer.

"In here?"

"No, at the registration booth. He's autographing

books tomorrow morning. At the same time as I, in

fact."

"I know he's autographing boolcs," I said. I swear I

said it in the flattest possible way, without any hint of

hidden meanings. In fact, I was cooling down and—

who knows?—everything might have come to nothing,

OPUS 200 417

when Asimov stirred up mv resentment against Giles

for no reason I could see except to amuse himself, and

laid his flagstone.

His blue eyes glittered and his eyebrows lifted and

fell rapidly. (For someone who claims to see nothing

of the world outside himself, he can have an unerring

touch for the sore spot on the soul.)

He said, "I'm glad he's your protege and not mine. I

don't know about you, but I would find it sickening to

have a protege zoom past me."

"He's not my protege," I said.

"Listen, that first book of his was written out of

your vest pocket. Everyone knows it—and die more

fool, you."

"Why? For helping?"

"No, of course not. For expecting gratitude."

I shrugged but, inside, where he couldn't see, I

burned. Damn it, I htid expected gratitude, and

whether that made me a fool or not, the lack of it

made me furious.

I said, lying through my teeth, "I never expected

anything."

But Asimov's eyes were no longer on me. They were

straining across the room and I didn't have to follow

them to know he was looking at a girl. I forgot to say

that despite his general inability to see anything in the

outside world, he has an odd capacity to see every girl

within two hundred feet.

PART 15

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

The longer I ker>t writin" hooks, and the more hooks I

published, the more publishers were willing to let me do

as I pleased, even when what I pleased was unorthodox.

It has alwatfs pleased me to talk about myself, and

little by little I let that creep into my books—and my

publishers permitted it.

To begin with, my F & SF essays grew more and

more highly personal, and eventually I took to begin-

ning each with an autobiographical essay. Then I be-

gan to he highly personal in my introductions to sto-

ries in the anthologies I edited, then in the collections

of my own stories.

Inevitably, I thought of doing a collection of my

early stories against an autobiographical background

of my life in those years. Doubleday published it as

The Early Asimov (Book 125) in 1972.

When that did well, I was simply confirmed in this

tendency of mine and had Doubleday publish Before

the Golden Age (Book 151) in 1974. This was a long

book of nearly half a million words in which I anthol-

ogized my favorite stories from the 1930s against an

autobiographical background of my life before I be-

came a writer.

And, just to show you that this tendency toward auto-

biography is no recent phenomenon, let me quote a

422

ISAAC ASIMOV

passage from Before the Golden Age, in which I man-

aged to find and reprint my first published literary

production—and it was autobiographical.

from BEFORE THE GOLDEN AGE (1974)

In February 1934, I entered "sixth term" at Boys*

High. As a startling innovation, the school offered a

special course in creative writing for those who chose

to take it, and I Jumped at the chance, I had been

writing, on and off, ever since I had worked on the

Greenville Chums. I don't remember any of the de-

tails at all, except that I remember being occasionally

driven to attempt to write poetry.

Now there seemed a chance for me to demonstrate

my literary prowess. (Somehow I saw the class only as a

chance to shine. It never occurred to me that I might

leam something. I felt I already knew how to write.)

The result was a fiasco. Surely few young men have

had so marvelous a chance to make fools of them-

selves and then took advantage of the chance as liber-

ally as I did. Everything I wrote was laughable, and it

was all laughed at thoroughly, both by the teacher

and by the other students.

I mentioned this in The Early Asimov and men-

tioned further that the one useful result of the course

was that I wrote a humorous essay entitled "Little

Brothers," which was published in the Boys' High

School literary semiannual.

Until I mentioned the essay, I had never thought of

it particularly, but once The Early Asimov appeared,

I began to wonder if I ought to try to get a copy. In

February 1973, I gave a talk to a group of librarians

from the New York metropolitan area, and attending

was the present librarian of Boys' High School. When

OPUS 200 423

she introduced herself, I asked at once if there was

any chance she might perhaps locate a copy of the

literary semiannual in some of the dusty storage bins

of the school.

In June 1973, she succeeded, and sent me a copy.

This book had already been put together but was still

in an early stage of production, so I could make the

necessary revision.

When the magazine came—its name was Boys' High

Recorder, incidentally, and the issue was spring 1934—

I turned to "Little Brothers" at once and read it ea-

gerly. I was sure I would find in it the clear signs of

writing talent ,

Alas, I didn't It sounds exactly as any essay would

that was written by a precocious fourteen-year-old.

How disappointingi And yet, in order to keep the rec-

ord complete and to prevent myself from receiving a

horde of letters demanding to see it (presumably in

order that all my readers have the same chance to

laugh at me as the members'of the damnable writing

class did), here it is:

Little Brothers

My mission in life right now is to express the venom-

ous feelings that we "big" brothers have for the bane

of our lives, the "little" brothers.

When I first received the news that I Had a little

brother, on July 25, 1929, I felt slightly uncomfortable.

As for myself, I knew nothing about brothers, but

many of my friends had related at great length the

inconveniences (to say the least) of attending babies.

On August 3, my little brother came home. All I

could see was a little bundle of pink flesh, with ap-

parently no ability to do the slightest mischief.

424

ISAAC ASIMOV

That night, I suddenly sprang out of bed with goose

flesh all over me and my hair on end. I had heard a

shriek apparently made by no earthly being. In re-

sponse to my frenzied questions, my mother informed

me in a commonplace manner that it was just the

baby. Just the baby! I was almost knocked uncon-

scious. A puny, nine-pound baby, ten days old, to

make such a screami Why, I was convinced that no

less than three men together could have strained their

vocal cords to such an extent.

But this was only the beginning. When he began

teething, the real torture came. I did not sleep a wink

for two months. I only existed by sleeping with my

eyes open in school.

And still it wasn't all. Easter was coming, and I was

feeling Joyous at the prospect of a trip to Rhode Is-

land, when that kid brother of mine got the measles

and everything went up in smoke.

Soon he reached the age when his teeth had cut,

and I hoped to obtain a little peace, but no, that could

not be. I had yet to leam that when a child learns to

walk, and talk baby-language, he is rather more of an

inconvenience than a cyclone, with a hurricane

thrown in for good measure.

His favorite recreation was that of falling down the

stairs, hitting each step with a resounding bump. This

occurred on the average of once every other minute

and always brought on a scolding from my mother

(not for him, but for me for not taking care of him).

This "taking care" of him is not as easy as it sounds.

The baby usually shows his devotion by grabbing

generous Sstfuls of hair and pulling with a strength

that you would never have thought possible in a one-

year-old. When, after a few minutes of excruciating

torture, you persuade him to let go, he seeks diversion

OPUS 200 425

in hitting your shins with a heavy piece of iron, pref-

erably a sharp or pointed one.

Not only is a baby a pest when awake; it is doubly

so when taking its daily nap.

This is a typical scene I am sitting in a chair next to

the carriage, deeply immersed in The Three Muske-

teers, and my little brother is apparently sleeping

peacefully; but he really isn't. With an uncanny in-

stinct, in spite of his closed eyes and inability to read,

he knows exactly when I reach an exciting point and

with a malicious grin selects that very moment to

awake. With a groan I leave my book and rock him till

my arms feel as if they will fall off any minute. By the

time he does go back to sleep, I have lost interest in

the famous trio and my day is ruined.

Now my little brother is four and a half years old

and most of these aggravating habits have disap-

peared, but I feel in my bones that there is more to

come. I shudder to think of the_day when he'll enter

school and place a new burden upon my shoulders. I

feel absolutely sure that not only will I be afflicted with

the homework that my hardhearted teachers will give

me, but I will also be responsible for my little brother's.

I wish I were deadi

Needless to say, this essay is completely fictional ex-

cept that the dates of my little brother's birth and his

arrival home are correct. Actually, my brother Stan

was a model child, who gave me very little trouble. I

did wheel him about in his carriage an awful lot, but

that was always with a book open on the handlebar,

so it didn't matter to me. I also sat by the carriage

when he was sleeping, but again I invariably read—

and he rarely disturbed me. What's more, he always

did his own homework when it came time for that.

426

ISAAC ASIMOV

One fiwil comment concerning this tendency of

mine.

As the time approached for my two hundredth book

to appear, Douhleday let me know they would like to

do it. I explained that this was impossible since

Houghton Miff tin, having done Opus 100, was sure'to

feel condemned to do Opus 200 as well.

Doubleday, which understands the warmth of my

feeling for Houghton Mifflin (as Houghton Mifflin

understands the warmth of my feeling for Double-

day), argued no further but cast about for some other

project to mark this milestone.

We agreed that I would write an autobiography, a

formal autobiography of all aspects of my life and not

only of my literary productions. I pointed out that

nothing much had ever happened to me, but they said

they didn't care.

So I sat down, and between March 9 and December

31, 1977, I turned out 640,000 words of autobiogra-

phy. Poor Cathleen Jordan, who is now my editor at

Doubleday, turned pale when 1 brought in the manu-

script and muttered something about how much I

might have written if something ever had happened to

me. The only conclusion possible was to put it out in

two volumes.

The first volume is coming out simultaneously with

this book. I wouldn't dream of putting pressure on

any of my gentle readers, hut if you would like to buy

my autobiography and read it, you have my permis-

sion to do so.

Indeed, if this book has so fascinated you with its

samplings that you feel the urge to ^o out and buy all

two hundred books—do so with my blessings.

APPENDIX

i .*•

1 ^

MY SECOND

HUNDRED BOOKS

TITLE PUBLISHER DATE

101 ABC's of Space Walker 1969

102 Great Ideas of Science Houghton Munin 1969

103 The Solar System and Back Doubleday 1970

104 Asimov's Guide to

Shakespeare, Volume 1 Doubleday 1970

105 Asimov's Guide to

Shakespeare, Volume 2 Doubleday 1970

106 Constantinople Houghton Munin 1970

107 ABC's of the Ocean Walker 1970

108 Light Follett 1970

109 The Stars in Their Courses Doubleday 1971

110 Where Do We Go from Here? Doubleday 1971

111 What Makes the Sun Shine? Little, Brown 1971

112 The Sensuous Dirty Old Man Walker 1971

113 The Best New Thing World 1971

114 Isaac Asimov's Treasury of

Humor Houghton Mifflin 1971

115 The Hugo Winners,

Volume 2 Doubleday 1971

116 The Land of Canaan Houghton Mifflin 1971

117 ABC's of the Earth Walker 1971

118 Asimov's Biographical

Encyclopedia of Science

and Technology (revised)

119 The Left Hand of the

Electron

120 Asimov's Guide to Science

121 The Gods Themselves

122 More Words of Science

123 Electricity and Man

Doubleday

Basic Books

Doubleday

Houghton Mifflin

AEC

1972

430

ISAAC ASIMOV

124 ABCTs of Ecology

125 The Early Asimov

126 The Shaping of France

127 The Story of Ruth

128 Ginn Science Program-

Intermediate A

129 Ginn Science Program—

Intermediate C

180 Asimov's Annotated

"Don Juan"

131 Worlds Within Worlds

132 Ginn Science Program-

Intermediate B

133 How Did We Find Out the

Earth Is Round?

134 Comets and Meteors

135 The Sun

136 How Did We Find Out

About Electricity?

137 The Shaping of North

America-

138 Today and Tomorrow and—

139 Jupiter, the Largest Planet

140 Ginn Science Program-

Advanced A

141 Ginn Science Program-

Advanced B

142 How Did We Find Out

About Numbers?

143 Please Explain

144 The Tragedy of the Moon

145 How Did We Find Out

About Dinosaurs?

146 The Best of Isaac Asimov

147 Nebula Award Stories Eight

148 Asimov on Astronomy

149 The Birth of the United

States

150 Have You Seen These?

151 Before the Golden Age

152 Our World in Space

153 How Did We Find Out

About Germs?

154 Asimov's Annotated

"Paradise Lost"

Walker 1972

Doubleday 1972

Houghton Mifflin 1972

Doubleday 1972

Ginn 1972

Doubleday 1972

AEC 1972

Ginn 1972

Walker 1973

Follett 1973

FoUett 1973

Walker 1973

Houghton Mifflin 1973

Doubleday 1973

Lothrop 1973

Ginn 1973

Cinn 1973

Walker 1973

Houghton MiBUn 1973

Doubleday 1973

Walker 1973

Sphere 1973

Harper 1973

Doubleday 1974

Houghton Mifflin 1974

NESFA T 1974

Doubleday 1974

New York Graphic 1974

Walker 1974

Doubleday 1G74

OPUS 200 431

155 Tales of the Black Widowers Doubleday 1974

156 Earth: Our Crowded

Spaceship John Day 1974

157 Asimov on Chemistry Doubleday 1974

158 How Did We Find Out

About Vitamins? Walker 1974

159 Of Matters Great and SmaH

Doubleday 1975

Follett 1975

Houghton Mifflin 1975

Walker 1975

Doubleday 1975

Houghton Mifflin 1975

Walker 1975

Weybright & Talley 1975

160 The Solar System

161 Our Federal Union

162 How Did We Find Out

About Comets?

163 Science Past—Science Future

164 Buy Jupiter and Other Stories

165 Eyes on the Universe

166 Lecherous Limericks

167 The Heavenly Host

168 The Ends of the Earth

169 How Did We Find Out

About Energy? Walker 1975

170 The Dream; Benjamin's

Dream; and Benjamin's

Bicentennial Blast ———— 1976

171 Asimov on Physics Doubleday 1976

172 Murder at the ABA Doubleday 1976

173 How Did We Find Out

About Atoms? Walker 1978

174 Good Taste Apocalypse 1976

175 The Planet That Wasn't Doubleday 1976

176 The Bicentennial Man and

Other Stories Doubleday 1976

177 More Lecherous Limericks Walker 1976

178 More Tales of the Black

Widowers Doubleday 1976

179 Alpha Centauri, the Nearest

Star Lothrop 1976

180 How Did We Find Out

About Nuclear Power? Walker 1976

181 Familiar Poems Annotated Doubleday 1976

182 The Collapsing Universe Walker 1977

183 Asimov on Numbers Doubleday 1977

184 How Did We Find Out

About Outer Space? Walker 1977

185 Still More Lecherous

Limericks Walker 1977

432

ISAAC ASIMOV

186 Hugo Winners, Volume 3

187 The Beginning and the End

188 Mars, the Red Planet

189 The Golden Door

190 The Key Word and Other

Mysteries

191 Asimov's Sherlockian

Limericks

192 One Hundred Great Science

Fiction Short-Short Stories

193 Quasar, Quasar, Burning

Bright

194 How Did We Find Out

About Earthquakes?

195 Animals of the Bible

196 Limericks; Too Gross

197 How Did We Find Out

About Black Holes?

198 Life and Time

199 Saturn and Beyond

'Opus 200

J.a Memory Yet Green

Doubleday Doubleday Lothrop Houghton Mifflin 19771977 1977 1977

Walker 1977

Mysterious 1977

Doubleday 1978

Walker Doubleday Norton 1978 1978 1978

Walker Doubleday Lothrop Houghton MifiUn Doubleday 1978 1978 1979 1979 1979