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selections from the works listed:

Apocalypse: Good Taste. Copyright © 1976 by Isaac Asimov.

Atonic Energy Commission: Worlds Within Worlds.

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Copyright © 1972 by Isaac Asimov. The Tragedy of the Moon.

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Paradise Lost. Copyright © 1974 by Isaac Asimov. Before the

Golden Age. Copyright © 1974 by Doubleday & Company, Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Tales of the Black Widowers. Copyright © 1974 by Isaac Asimov.

By Jupiter and Other Stories. Copyright © 1973 by Saturday

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© 1974 by Mercury Press, Inc. The Bicentennial Man and Other

Stories. Copyright © 1976 by Random House, Inc. More Tales of

the Black Widowers. Copyright © 1976 by Isaac Asimov. Murder

at the ABA. Copyright © 1976 by Isaac Asimov. The Beginning

and the End. Copyright © 1974 by Triangle Publications. Inc.

Familiar Poems Annotated. Copyright © 1977 by Isaac Asimov.

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Houghton Mifflin Company: Isaac Asimov's Treasury of Hu-

mor. Copyright © 1971 by Isaac Asimov. The Land of Canaan.

Copyright © 1971 by Isaac Asimov. More Words of 'Science.

Copyright © 1972 by Isaac Asimov. The Shaping of France.

Copyright © 1972 by Isaac Asimov. Please Explain. Copyright ©

1966, 1969, 1972 by the Hearst Corporation. Eyes on the Uni-

verse. Copyright © 1975 by Isaac Asimov. T/ie Golden Door.

Copyright © 1977 by Isaac Asimov. Reprinted by permission.

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mission of William Morrow & Company, Inc.

Mysterious Press: Asimoo's Sherlockian Limericks. Copyright

© 1978 by Isaac Asimov.

The Saturday Evening Post Company; "The Dream"; "Ben-

jamin's Dream"; and "Benjamin's Bicentennial Blast." Copyright

© 1973 by the Saturday Evening Post Company. Reprinted by

permission of The Saturday Evening Post Company.

Walker and Company: ABC's of Space. Copyright © 1969 by

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thirteenth Day of Christmas." First published in Ellery Queen's

Mystery Magazine and reprinted from The Key -Word and Other

Mysteries by Isaac Asimov, published by Walker and Company,

1977. Copyright © 1977 by Isaac Asimov.

DEDICATION

To fanet

Who saw me through the second hundred

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ASTRONOMY

ROBOTS

MATHEMATICS

PHYSICS

CHEMISTRY

BIOLOGY

WORDS

HISTORY

THE BIBLE

SHORT-SHORTS

HUMOB

SOCIAL SCIENCES

LITERATURE

MYSTERIES

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

MY SECOND HUNDRED BOOKS

INTRODUCTION

In October 1969, Houghton Mifflin published my

book Opus 100. It wasn't named at random. It was the

hundredth book of mine to be published.

That hundredth book took its time coming, of

course. It wasn't till I was eighteen, after all, that I

became a professional writer. (To be specific, my

first sale took place on October 21, 1938.) Then, for

eleven years after that, my only sales were to the sci-

ence fiction magazines, so. that I became a well-

known and successful writer (within the highly spe-

cialized and non-numerous ranks of the science fiction

world, anyway) without having a single book to my

name."

Then, on January 19, 1950, just after I had turned

thirty, I finally published my first book. Pebble in the

Sky. It was a science fiction novel.

After that, first slowly (two books in 1950 and two

more in 1951) and then more rapidly (eight books in

1960 and twelve books in 1966), I began to pile them

up.

What with one thing and another, I finally managed

to reach the hundredth book not quite twenty years

* In later years, these early stories were included in various

books, so they didn't go to waste forever, you may be sure.

12

ISAAC ASIMOV

after I had published the first one. That's an average

of five books a vear, wliich isn't bad, at least as far as

quantity is concerned.

With regard to quality, it is perhaps harder to judge,

but even if we disregard my own personal opinion

that my books are great, it remains fair to assume that,

publishers are reasonably sane and would not have

published so many of my books if they didn't think

they were good.

Once a hundred books had come boiling out of my

typewriter ribbons, I could have been forgiven if I

had then retired. I might have considered a hundred

books a reasonable life's work and spent the rest of

my existence doing other things—having a good time,

for instance.

There was a catch, though; two catches, in fact.

In the first place, when mv hundredth book came

out I was still ten weeks on the sunny side of fifty

(which mav not be much of a sunnv side, but where

age is concerned, 1*11 snatch at a hair's breadth), and I

didn't feel old enough to retire.

In the second place, I was already having a good

time and, if I retired, the only thing I would really

want to do in retirement would be to write. So why

retire only to do what I was already doing?

So I kept on working; and to such good effect—for

one gets better (or at least faster) with practice—that

in a surprisingly brief period of time I found I was

reaching my two hundredth book.

The second hundred was completed by 1979, so

that it had only taken me ten years to turn them out,

which is an average of ten books a year.

Naturally, Hougliton Mifflin (stifling who-knows-

how-many-sighs) feels honor-bound to publish Opus

200 now, and I'm perfectly content to let them do so.

OPUS 200                  13

Let me emphasize now that, in publishing first

Opus 100 and then Opus 200, neither I nor Houghton

Mifflin is in any way celebrating the matter of quan-

tity. My two hundred books are far from being a

record.

According to The Guinness Book of World Records,

an Englishman named Charles Hamilton and an

American named Charles Andrews each published

about 100,000,000 words in their lifetimes, whereas

mv published output so far comes to perhaps 15,000,000

words. Even supposing I live out a reasonably long life

and continue writing at a reasonably fast clip, 1 don't

think I can possibly surpass 25,000,000 published

words at most.

Furthermore, Charles Andrews, according to the

Book of Records, wrote 100,000 words a week when at

his peak, and I think I do well if I manage a measly

15,000 words of finished material in one week.

Then, too, the British novelist John Creasey and the

Belgian novelist Georges Simenon each published

over 500 books in the course of their careers, and I

don't see that it is at all likely that even a long and

continually busy life is going to lift me past the 400

mark.

Nevertheless, I do not labor under any sense of fail-

ure because of this. Those authors who surpass me in

quantity have (as far as I know) an only limited

range. Their domain is fiction, and usually but one or

two kinds of fiction, so that they attain speed by roll-

ing down well-oiled tracks.

I, on the other hand, write not only fiction but

nonfiction. I write different kinds of nonfictlon for

different kinds of audiences, and that is the purpose

of my Opus books—to celebrate that variety.

14                    ISAAC ASIMOV

For Opus 100 I took passages from my first

hundred books and carefully divided them into cate-

gories. For Opus 200 I've taken passages from my sec-

ond hundred books and divided them into the same

categories—plus several additional ones.

Nobody who reads my writings, after all, is very

likely to have read all my books, or even most of

them, and many people who do read and are, presum-

ably, fond of some of my books are not aware of some

of the other kinds of writing I do.

In these Opus books, then, the average reader will

get a chance to sample the variety to a fuller extent

than he would otherwise have a chance to do. If he

already likes part of what I write, he may find he also

likes, or is at least curious about, some other parts of

what I write. It might give him additional pleasure to

read those other parts in toto, and that would then

certainly please me.

And if he doesn't already like part of what I write

. . . then he might not buy this book in the first place,

which would be a shame, but there's no law against it.

PART1

ASTRONOMY

To anyone who got his start writing science fiction in

the days before World War II, astronomy was the sci-

ence. No one envisioned space travel outside science

fiction (except for a very few people working on rock-

ets, who were considered 1»f all the "hardheaded"

people around them to he but a half-step removed

from science fiction writers). That meant that some

facets of astronomy used to he the exclusive domain

of those who wrote and read science fiction. For in-

stance, where hut in science fiction could one de-

scribe the surface of the Moon as seen from the sur-

face of the Moon? Astronomy lost some of its

„ exclusivity, where science fiction writers were con-

cerned, by the time my second hundred hooks began

to be written in the late 1960s. Astronauts strove to

- reach the Moon, and in 1969, the year in which Opus

100 was Jmblished, they succeeded. We know the sur-

face of the Moon in great detail now and science fic-

tion has had to come to terms with that.

But we have only reached the Moon; no one has yet

actually lived on it. Therefore, the description of a

. working and viable settlement on the Moon still lies

^y within the province of fiction.

it    For instance, in 1972 (for/ which time several space-

If ships had landed on the Moon and returned safely),

18

ISAAC ASIMOV

my science fiction novel The Gods Themselves (Book

121) was published by Doul)leday. It won both the

Nebula (the award of the Science Fiction Writers of

America) and the Hugo (the award of the fans gath-

ered in a world convention)." The third part of the

novel is set on the Moon, which is pictured as an elab-

orate human settlement. Here is a passage in which

Selene, the young woman Iwrn and bred on the Moon,

teaches Ben, who arrived from Earth but a month be-

fore, how to maneuver on the Moon's surface.

from THE GODS THEMSELVES (1972)

Selene laughed, and the sound was metallic in Deni-

son's earpiece. Her Bgure was lost in the spacesuit she

wore.

She said, "Now come, Ben, there's no reason to be

afraid. You're an old hand by now—you've been here a

month."

"Twenty-eight days," mumbled Denison. He felt

smothered in his own suit.

"A month," insisted Selene. "It was well past half-

Earth when you came; it is well past half-Earth now."

She pointed to the brilliant curve of the Earth in the

southern sky.

"Well, but wait. I'm not as brave out here as I am

underground. What if I fall?"

"What if you do? The gravity is weak by your stan-

dards, the slope is gentle, your suit is strong. If you fall,

just let yourself slide and roll. It's almost as much fun

that way, anyhow."

* I mention this for no reason other than that it gives me

pleasure to do so.

OPUS 200                  19

Dension looked about doubtfully. The Moon lay

beautiful in the cold light of the Earth. It was black

and white; a mild and delicate white as compared

with the sunlit views he had seen when he had taken

a trip a week before to inspect the solar batteries that

stretched from horizon to horizon along the floor of

Mare Imbrium. And the black was somehow sorter,

too, through lack of the blazing contrast of true day.

The stars were supemally bright and the Earth—the

Earth was infinitely inviting with its swirls of white

on blue, and its peeping glimpse of tan.

"Well," he said. "do vou mind if I hang on to you?"

"Of course not. And we won't go all the way up. It

will be the beginners' slope for you. Just try to keep in

time with me. I'll move slowly."

Her steps were long, slow, and swinging, and he

tried to keep in synchronization. The up-sloping

ground beneath them was dustv and with each step

he kicked up a fine powder that settled quickly in the

airlessness. He matched her stride for stride, but with

an effort.

"Good," said Selene, her arm locked in his, steady-

ing him. "You're very good for an Earthie—no, I ought

to say Immie."

"Thank you."

"That's not much better, I suppose. Immie for Im-

migrant is as insulting as Earthie for Earthman. Shall

I Just say you're simply very good for a man your

age?"

"No! That's much worse." Denison was gasping a

little and he could feel his forehead moistening.

Selene said, "Each time you reach the point where

you're about to put your foot down, give a little push

with your other foot. That will lengthen your stride

and make it all the easier. No, no—watch me."

20

ISAAC ASIMOV

Dension paused thankfully and watched Selene take

off with low, effortless leaps Somehow, despite the

grotesquery of the suit, she appeared slim and grace-

ful when she moved. She returned and knelt at his

feet.

"Now you take a slow step, Ben, and I'll hit your

foot when I want it to shove."

They tried several times, and Denison said, "That's

worse than running on Earth. I better rest."

"All right. It's just that your muscles aren't used to

the proper coordination. It's yourself you're fighting,

you know, not gravity . . . Well, sit down and catch

your breath. I won't take you up much farther."

Dension said, "Will I do any damage to the pack if I

lie down on my back?"

"No, of course not, but ifs not a good idea. Not on the

bare ground. It's only at 120 degrees absolute—ISO de-

grees below zero, if you prefer—and the smaller the

area of contact the better. I'd sit down."

"All right." Gingerly, Denison sat down with a

grunt. Deliberately, he faced northward, away from

the Earth. "Look at those stars!"

Selene sat perpendicular to him. He could see her

face dimly through the faceplate now and then when

the Earthlight caught it at the proper angle.

She said, "Don't you see the stars on Earth?"

"Not like this. Even when there are no clouds, the

air on Earth absorbs some of the light. Temperature

differences in the atmosphere make them twinkle, and

city lights, even distant city lights, wash them out."

"Sounds disgusting,"

"Do you like it out here, Selene? On the surface?"

'I'm not crazy about it really, but I don't mind it too

much, now and then. It's part of my job to bring tour-

ists out here, of course."

OPUS 200                 21

"And now you have to do it for me."

"Can't I convince you it's not tlie same thing at all,

Ben? We've got a set route for the tourists. It's very

-tame, very uninteresting. You don't think we'd take

them out here to the slide, do you? This is for Lunar-

ites—and Immies. Mostly Immies, actually."

"It can't be very popular. There's no one here but

ourselves."

"Oh, well, there are particular days for this sort of

thing. You should see this place on race days. You

wouldn't like it then, though."

"I'm not sure I like it now. Is gliding a sport for

Immies in particular^"

"Rather. Lunarites don't like the surface generally."

"How about Dr. Neville?"

"You mean. how he feels about the surface?"

"Yes."

"Frankly, I don't think he's ever been up here. He's

a real city boy. Why do you ask?"

"Well, when I asked permissioir to go along on the

routine servicing of the solar batteries, he was per-

fectly willing to have me go, but he wouldn't go him-

self- I rather asked him to, I think, so I could have

someone answer my questions, if there were any, but

his refusal was rather strong."

"1 hope there was someone else to answer your

questions."

"Oh, ves. He was an Immie, too, come to think of it.

Maybe that explains Dr. Neville's attitude toward the

electron pump."

"What do you mean?"

"Well—" Denison leaned back and kicked his legs up

alternately, watching them rise and fall slowly with a

certain lazy pleasure. "Hev, that's not bad. Look, Se-

lene, what I mean is that Neville is so intent on devel-

22

ISAAC ASIMOV

oping a pump station on the Moon when the solar bat-

teries are perfectly adequate for the job. We couldn't

use solar batteries on Earth, where the Sun is never as

unfailing, as prolonged, as bright, as radiant in all

wave lengths. There's not a single planetary body in

the solar system, no body of any size, that is 'more

suitable for the use of the batteries than the Moon is.

Even Mercury is too hot. But the use does tie you to

the surface, and if you don't like the surface—"

Selene rose to her feet suddenly and said, "All right,

Ben, you've rested enough. Up! Up!"

He struggled to his feet and said, "A pump station,

however, would mean that no Lunarite would ever

have to come out on the surface if he didn't want to."

"Uphill we go, Ben. We'll go to that ridge up ahead.

See it, where the Earthlight cuts off in a horizontal

line?"

They made their way up the final stretch silently.

Denison was aware of the smoother area at their

side—a wide swath of slope from which most of the

dust had been brushed.

"That's too smooth for a beginner to work up," Se-

lene said, answering his thoughts. "Don't get too am-

bitious or you'll want me to teach you the kangaroo-

hop next."

She made a kangaroo-hop as she spoke, turned

about-face almost before landing, and said, "Right

here. Sit down and I'll adjust—"

Denison did, facing downhill. He looked down the

slope uncertainly. "Can you really glide on it?"

"Of course. The gravity is weaker on the Moon than

on Earth, so you press against the ground much less

strongly, and that means there is much less friction.

Everything is more slippery on the Moon than on the

Earth. That's why the floors in our corridors and

OPUS 200                  23

^ apartments seemed unfinished to you. Would you like

to hear me give my little lecture on the subject? The

one I give the tourists?"

"No, Selene."

"Besides, we're going to use gliders, of course." She

'.had a small cartridge in her hand. Clamps and a pair

of thin tubes were attached to it.

"What is that?" asked Ben.

"Just a small liquid-gas reservior. It will emit a jet

-^of vapor just under vour boots. The thin gas layer be-

tween boots and ground will reduce friction virtually

to zero. You'll move as though you were in clear

' space."

4  Dension said uneasily, "I disapprove. Surely it's

. wasteful to use t^as in this fashion on the Moon."

"Oh, now. What gas do you think we use in these

gliders? Carbon dioxide? Oxygen? This is waste gas to

jpbegin with. It's argon. It comes out of the Moon's soil

||in ton lots, formed by billions of years of the break-

|sdown of potassium-40 . . . That's-part of my lecture,

^too, Ben . . . The argon has only a few specialized

H.uses on the Moon. We could use it for gliding for a

^million years without exhausting the supply ... All

IJright. Your gliders are on. Now wait till I put mine

ton."

^ "How do they work?"

fef "It's quite automatic. You just start sliding and that

•will trip the contact and start the vapor. You've only

,got a few minutes' supply, but that's all you'll need."

| She stood up and helped him to his feet. "Face

downhill . . . Come^u^ Ben, this is a gentle slope.

Look at it. It looks perrectly level."

"No, it doesn't," said Denison sulkily. "It looks like a

cliff to me."

"Nonsense. Now listen to me and remember what I

24

ISAAC ASIMOV

told you. Keep your feet about six inches apart and

one just a few inches ahead of the other. It doesn't

matter which one is ahead. Keep your knees bent.

Don't lean into the wind because there isn't any. Don't

try to look up or back, but you can look from side to

side if you have to. Most of all, when you finally hit

level, don't try to stop too soon; you'll be going faster

than you think. Just let the glider expire and then fric-

tion will bring you to a slow halt."

"I'll never remember all that."

"Yes, you will. And I'll be right at your side to help.

And if you do fall and I don't catch you, don't try to

do anything. Just relax and let yourself tumble or

slide. There are no boulders anywhere that you can

collide with."

Denison swallowed and looked ahead. The south-

ward slide was gleaming in Earthlight. Minute un-

evennesses caught more than their share of light, leav-

ing tiny uphill patches in darkness so that there was a

vague mottling of the surface. The bulging half-circle

of Earth rode the black sky almost directly ahead.

"Ready?" said Selene. Her gauntfeted hand was be-

tween his shoulders.

"Ready," said Denison faintly.

*Then off you go," she said. She pushed and Deni-

son felt himself begin to move- He moved quite

slowly at first. He turned toward her, wobbling, and

she said, "Don't worry. I'm right at your side."

He could feel the ground beneath his feet—and then

he couldn't. The glider had been activated.

For a moment he felt as though he were standing

still. There was no push of air against his body, no

feel of anything sliding past his feet. But when he

turned toward Selene again, he noticed that the lights

OPUS 200                  25

and shadows to one side were moving backward at a

slowly increasing speed-

"Keep your eyes on the Earth," Selene's voice said

in his ear, "till you build up speed. The faster you go,

the more stable you 11 be. Keep your knees bent . . .

You're doing very well, Ben."

"For an Immie," gasped Denison.

"How does it feel?*'

"Like flying," he said. The pattern of light and dark

on either side was moving backward in a blur. He

looked briefly to one side, then the other, trying to

convert the sensation of a backward flight of the sur-

roundings into one of a forward flight of his own.

Then, as soon as he succeeded, he found he had to

look forward hastily at the Earth to regain his sense of

balance. "I suppose that's not a good comparison to

use to you. You have no experience of flying on the

Moon."

"Now I know, though. Flying must be like gliding—

I know what that is."

She was keeping up with him easily.

Denison was going fast enough now so that he got

the sensation of motion even when he looked ahead.

The Moonscape ahead was opening before him and

flowing past on either side. He said, "How fast do you

get to go in a glide?"

"A good Moon-race," said Selene, "has been clocked

at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour—on

steeper slopes than this one, of course. You'll probably

reach a top of thirty-five."

"It feels a lot faster than that somehow."

"Well, it isn't. We're leveling off now, Ben, and you

haven't fallen. Now Just hang on; the glider will die

off and you'll feel friction. Don't do anything to help

it. Just keep going."

26

ISAAC ASIMOV

Selene had barely completed her remarks when Den-

ison felt the beginning of pressure under his boots.

There was at once an overwhelming sensation of

speed and he clenched his fists hard to keep from

throwing his arms up in an almost reHex gesture

against the collision that wasn't going to happen. He

knew that if he threw up his arms, he would go over

backward.

He narrowed his eyes, held his breath till he

thought his lungs would explode, and then Selene

said, "Perfect, Ben, perfect. I've never known an Im-

mie to go through his first slide without a fall, so if

you do fall, there'll be nothing wrong. No disgrace."

"I don't intend to fall," whispered Denison. He

caught a large, ragged breath, and opened his eyes

wide. The Earth was as serene as ever, as uncaring.

He was moving more slowly now—more slowly—more

slowly—

"Am I standing still now, Selene?" he asked. "I'm

not sure."

"You're standing still. Now don't move. You've got

to rest before we make the trip back to town . . .

Damn it. I left it somewhere around here when we

came up."

Denison watched her with' disbelief. She had

climbed up with him, had glided down with him. Yet

he was half-dead with weariness and tension, and she

was in the air with long kangaroo-leaps. She seemed a

hundred yards away when she said, "Here it isl" and

her voice was as loud in his ears as when she was

next to him.

She was back in a moment with a folded, paunchy

sheet of plastic under her arm.

"Remember," she said cheerily, "when you asked on

our way up what it was, and I said we'd be using it

OPUS 200

27

before we came down?" She unfolded it and spread it

on the dusty surface of the Moon.

"A lunar lounge is its full name," she said, "but we

just call it a lounge. We take the adjective for granted

here on this world." She inserted a cartridge and

tripped a lever.

It began to fill. Somehow Denison had expected a

hissing noise, but of course there was no air to carry

sound.

"Before you question our conservation policies

again," said Selene, "this is argon also."

It blossomed into a mattress on six stubby legs. "It

will hold you," she said. "It makes very little actual

contact with the ground and the vacuum all around

will conserve its heat."

"Don't tell me it's hot," said Denison, amazed.

"The argon is heated as it pours in, but only rela-

tively. It ends up at 270 degrees absolute, almost

warm enough to melt ice, and quite warm enough to

keep your insulated suit from losing heat faster than

you can manufacture it. Co ahead. Lie down."

Denison did so, with a sensation of enormous lux-

ury.

"Great!" he said with a long sigh.

"Mama Selene thinks of everything," she said.

She came from behind him now, gliding around

him, her feet placed heel to heel as though she were

on skates, and then let them fiy out from under her, as

she came down gracefully on hip and elbow on the

ground just beside him.

Denison whistled. "How did you do that?"

"Lots of practicel And don't you try it. You'll break

your elbow."

28

ISAAC ASIMOV

Some of the real findings on the Moon tended to de-

stroy a few of the more interesting science fictional

notions. For instance, to the best of our knowledge,

there have always been not more than small traces of

water on the Moon, and even these are vanishing. Our

study of the Moon rocks has shown that. Yet, in the

science fiction written before we reached the Moon, it

was often assumed that there was some water on the

Moon that might be frozen under the soil or chemi-

cally combined with the molecules of the crustal rock.

Even as late as 1972 1 held on to the hope that this

might be so despite the negative findings of the first

astronauts on the Moon. Thus, here is another scene

from The Gods Themselves. This time Selene and Ben

are inside the settlement.

Denison tried to beat down his self-consciousness.

Time and again, he made a groping motion as though         i,

to hitch upward the pants he wasn't wearing. He wore         :•

only sandals and the barest of briefs, which were un-

comfortably tight. And, of course, he carried the blan-        ^

ket.                                                      1

Selene, who was similarly accoutered, laughed.         H

"Now, Ben, there's nothing wrong with your bare        H

body, barring a certain flabbiness. It's perfectly in        ^

fashion here. In fact, take off your briefs if they're

binding you."

"Nol" muttered Denison. He shifted the blanket so

that it draped over his abdomen and she snatched it

from him.

She said, "Now give me that thing. What kind of a

Lunarite will you make if you bring your Earth puri-

tanism here? You know that prudery is only the other

OPUS 200                  29

side of prurience. The words are even on the same

page in the dictionary."

"I have to get used to it, Selene."

"You might start by looking at me once in a while

without having your glance slide off me as though I

were coated with oil. You look at other women quite

efficiently, I notice."

"If I look at you—"

Then you'll seem too interested and you'll be em-

barrassed. But if vou look hard, you'll get used to it,

and you'll stop noticing. Look, I'll stand still and you

stare. I'll take off my briefs."

Denison groaned, "Selene, there are people all

around and you're making intolerable fun of me.

Please keep walking and let me get used to the situa-

tion."

"All right, but I hope you notice the people who

pass us don't look at us."

"They don't look at you. They look at me all right.

They've probably never seen so old-looking and ill-

shaped a person."

"They probably haven't," agreed Selene cheerfully,

"but they'll just have to get used to it."

Denison walked on in misery, conscious of every

gray hair on his chest and of every quiver of his

paunch. It was only when the passageway thinned out

and the people passing them were fewer in number

that he began to feel a certain relief.

He looked about him curiously now, not as aware of

Selene's conical breasts as he had been, nor of her

smooth thighs. The corridor seemed endless.

"How far have we come?" he asked.

"Are you tired?" Selene was contrite. "We could

have taken a scooter. I forget you're from Earth."

30

ISAAC ASIMOV

"I should hope you do. Isn't that the ideal for an

immigrant? I'm not the least bit tired. Hardly the least

bit tired at anv rate. What I am is a little cold."

"Purely your imagination, Ben," said Selene firmly.

"You just think you ought to feel cold because so

much of vou is bare. Put it out of vour head."

"Easv to sav," he sighed. "I'm walking well, I hope."

"Very well. I'll have vou kangarooing yet."

"And participating in glider races down the surface

slopes. Remember, I'm moderately advanced in years.

But really, how far have we come?"

"Two miles, I should judge."

"Good Lord! How many miles of corridors are there

altogether?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. The residential corridors

make up comparatively little of the total. There are

the mining corridors, the geological ones, the in-

dustrial, the mvcological . . . I'm sure there must be

several hundred miles altogether."

"Do you have maps?"

"Of course there are maps. We can't work blind."*

1 mean you, personally."

"Well, no, not with me, but I don't need maps for

this area; it's quite familiar to me. I used to wander

about here as a child. These are old corridors. Most of

the new corridors—and we average two or three miles

of new corridors a-year, I think—are in the north. I

couldn't work my wav through them, without a map,

for untold sums. Mavbe not even with a map."

"Where are we heading?"

"I promised you an unusual sight—no, not me, so

don't say it—and you'll have it. It's the Moon's most

unusual mine and it's completely off the ordinary

tourist trails."

"Don't tell me you've got diamonds on the Moon?"

OPUS 200                 31

''Better than that."

The corridor walls were unfinished here—gray rock,

dimly but adequately lit by patches of electrolumi-

nescence. The temperature was comfortable and at a

steady mildness, with ventilation so gently effective

there was no sensation of wind. It was hard to tell

here that a couple of hundred feet above was a sur-

face subjected to alternate trying and freezing as the

Sun came and went on its grand biweekly swing from

horizon to horizon and then underneath and back.

"Is all this airtight?" asked Denison, suddenly un-

comfortably aware that he was not far below the bot-

tom of an ocean of vacuum that extended upward

through infinity.

"Oh, yes. Those walls are impervious. They're all

booby-trapped, too. If the air pressure drops as much

as ten percent in any section of the corridors there is a

hooting and howling from sirens such as you've never

heard and a flashing of arrows and blazing signs di-

recting you to safety such as you've never seen."

"How often does this happen?"

"Not often. I don't think anyone has been killed

through air-lack in at least five years." Then, with sud-

den defensiveness, "You have natural catastrophes on

Earth. A big quake or a tidal wave can kill thou-

sands."

"No argument, Selene." He threw up his hands. "I

surrender."

"All right," she said. "I didn't mean to get excited

. . . Do you hear that?"

She stopped in an attitude of listening.

Denison listened, too, and shook his head. Sud-

denly, he looked around. "It's so quiet. Where is every-

body? Are you sure we're not lost?"

"This isn't a natural cavern with unknown passage-

32

ISAAC AS1MOV

ways. You have those on Earth, haven't you? I've seen

photographs."

"Yes, most of them are limestone caves formed by

water. That certainly can't be the case on the Moon,

can it?"

"So we can't be lost," said Selene, smiling. "If we're

alone, put it down to superstition."

To what?" Denison looked startled and his face

creased in an expression of disbelief.

"Don't do that." she said. "You get all lined. That's

right- Smooth out. You look much better than you did

when you first arrived, you know. That's low gravity

and exercise."

"And trying to keep up with nude young ladies who

have an uncommon amount of time off and an un-

common lack of better things to do than to go on bus-

men's holidays."

"Now you're treating me like a tourist guide again,

and I'm not nude," Selene retorted.

"At that, even nudity is less frightening than Intui-

tionism . . . But what's this about superstitition?"

"Not really superstition, I suppose, but most of the

people of the city tend to stay away from this part of

the corridor complex."

"But why?"

"Because of what I'm going to show you." They

were walking again. "Hear it now?"

She stopped and Denison listened anxiously. He

said, "You mean that small tapping sound? Tap—tap.

Is that what you mean?"

She loped ahead with the slow-motion movement of

the Lunarite in unhurried flight. He followed her, at-

tempting to ape the gait.

"Here—here—"

Denison's eye followed Selene's eagerly pointing fin-

OPUS 200                  33

ger. "Good Lord," he said. "Where's it coming from?"

There was a drip of what was clearly water; a slow

dripping, with each drip striking a small ceramic

trough that led into the rock wall.

"From the rocks. We do have water on the moon,

you know. Most of it we can bake out of gvpsum;

enough for our purposes, since we conserve it pretty

well."

"I know- I know. I've never yet been able to man-

age one complete shower. How you people manage to

stay clean I don't know."

"I told you. First, wet yourself- Then turn off the

water and smear just a little detergent on you. You

rub it— Oh, Ben, I'm not going through it yet again.

And there's nothing on the Moon to get you all that

dirty anyway . . . But that's not what we're talking

about. In one or two places there are actually water

deposits, usually in the form of ice near the surface in

the shadow of a mountain. If we locate it, it drips out.

This one has been dripping since the corridor was

first driven through, and that was eight years ago."

"But why the superstition?"

"Well, obviously, water is the great material re-

source on which the Moon depends. We drink it, wash

with it, grow our food with it, make our oxygen with

it, keep everything going with it. Free water can't

help but get a lot of respect. Once this drip was dis-

covered, plans to extend the tunnels in this direction

were abandoned till it stopped. The corridor walls

were even left unfinished."

"That sounds like superstition right there."

"Well—a kind of awe, maybe. It wasn't expected to

last for more than a few months; such drips never do.

But after this one had passed its first anniversary, it

began to seem eternal. In fact, that's what it's called:

34

ISAAC ASIMOV

The Eternal. You'll even find it marked that way on

the maps. Naturally people have come to attach im-

portance to it, a feeling that if it stops it will mean

some sort of bad fortune."

Denison laughed.

Selene said warmly, "No one really believes it, but

.everyone part-believes it. You see, it's not really eter-

nal; it must stop sometime. As a matter of fact, the

rate of drip is only about a third of what it was when

it was first discovered, so that it is slowly drying. I

imagine people feel that if it happened to stop when

they were actually here, they would share in the bad

fortune. At least, that's the rational way of explaining

their reluctance to come here."

"I take it that you don't believe this."

"Whether I believe it or not isn't the point. You see,

I'm quite certain that it won't stop sharply enough for

anyone to be able to take the blame. It will just drip

slower and slower and slower and no one will ever be

able to pinpoint the exact time when it stopped. So

why worry?"

"I agree with you."

At the start, my writing consisted almost entirely of

science fiction. Of my first hundred books, nearly one

third is science fiction. That fell off with time, how-

ever. Of my second hundred books, only thirteen can

be considered science fiction under even the most lib-

eral interpretation.

That did not end my concern with astronomy, how-

ever, for 1 continued to deal with it in my nonfiction

and for every age level.

I wrote some picture books for Walker 6- Company,

for instance, at the suggestion of Beth Walker. They

OPUS 200

35

were ABC hooks, actually, in which two words were

defined for each letter of the alphabet. The idea was

that an ei^ht-year'old could read the definitions {or,

at least, have an adult read it to him) and then be

fascinated by the pictures.

The first and mo-vt successful of these was ABC's of

Space (Book 10J), which was published in 1969.

Here, for instance, are the definitions of the two

words under 0:

from ABC's OF SPACE (1969)

0 is for Ocean of Storms

a dark, smooth area on the Moon where the first

unmanned spaceship landed in 1966. It is not

really an ocean, because tliere is probablv no wa-

ter on the Moon. There are no storms either, but

we still use the name.

o is for orbit

the path a small world takes around a larger one.

The Moon moves in an orbit around the Earth.

The Earth moves in an orbit around the Sun.

Both orbits are almost like circles. An orbit is also

the path a spaceship takes around the Earth or

Moon.

I was not particularly fond of the ABC books, of

which three others were ]mblished by Walker by 1972.

These wereABC's of the Ocean (Book 107), ABC's of

the Earth (Book 117), and ABC's of Ecology (Book

124). The ABC format didn't leave me enough scope.

36

ISAAC ASIMOV

I did, however, start another series of books for

Walker is- Company with which I had a good deal

more fun.

The title of each book in the series, which was orig-

inally suggested by mi/ editor, Millicent Selsam, was

to begin How Did We Find Out. They were to deal

with science history on a Junior high school level.

The first one of these was How Did We Find Out

the Earth Is Round? (Book 133), which Walker pub-

lished in 1973. Writing the book was sheer pleasure,

and I knew I had something I would continue. In-

deed, of my second hundred hooks, no fewer than

thirteen are members of fhe How Did We Find Out

series.

One of the things that made the series pleasurable

for me was that the books varied widely in subject

matter_Three of them dealt with astronomy, four with

physics, two with biology, one with mathematics, one

with chemistry, one with geology, and one with an-

thropology.

One of the "astronomicaU" was How Did We Find

Out About Comets? {Book 162}, which was pub-

lished in 1975. Millie requested that topic during the

hullabaloo concerning the then forthcoming comet

Kohoutek. Though, alas, the comet fizzled, the book

certainly remained valid. Here's how I handled the

way in which cometary orbits were finally worked

out.

from How Dro WE FIND Our ABOUT COMETS (1975}

A German astronomer, Johannes Kepler, who had

been one of Tycho's assistants, disagreed with part of

Copemicus's theory. After studying the motions of the

OPUS 200                 37

planets in the sky, Kepler said, in 1609, that the plan-

ets moved around the sun in orbits that were not

circles. Each planet moved around the sun in an

"ellipse."

An ellipse looks like a flattened circle. It can be so

slightly flattened that you cannot tell it from a circle.

It can be more flattened, so that you can see at a

glance that it is not a circle. Or it can be very flat-

tened, so that it looks long and thin, something like a

cigar.

The orbit of the earth around the sun is an ellipse

that is only very slightly flattened. It is almost circu-

lar. The moon's orbit around the earth is more flat-

tened, and Mercury's orbit around the sun is still more

flattened. Even Mercury's orbit, which is more flat-

tened than that of any other planet known in Kepler's

time, is not very flattened. Its orbit still looks like a

circle.

The sun is not at the very center of the elliptical

orbits of the planets around it. The flatter the ellipse,

the closer one end of it is to the sun.

When the earth moves around the sun, it is only

91,500,000 miles from the sun at one end of its orbit, but

94,500,000 miles from the sun at the other end. The

farther distance is less than 4 percent greater than the

nearer distance.

Mercury's orbit around the sun is more elliptical, so

there is a bigger difference. When Mercury is at the

end of the ellipse nearer the sun, it is only 28,000,000

miles away. At the other end, it is 44,000,000 miles

from the sun. The farther distance is about 50 percent

greater than the nearer distance.

Kepler was able to work out elliptical orbits for all

the planets, but what about the comets? If thev were

heavenly bodies, did that mean they had orbits, too?

38 ISAAC ASIMOV

Kepler carefully studied the reports he had about

the changing positions of comets in the sky. Finally,

he decided that comets must move in straight lines.

He thought they came from far out in space, passed

near the sun, then traveled onward far out in space in

the other direction.

They could only be seen when they were close to

the sun and reflected its light. Before they came close

enough to the sun, they could not be seen. After they

moved far enough from the sun, they again could not

be seen. According to Kepler's view, comets were not

part of the solar system. Each comet just passed

tlirough the solar system once and was never seen

again.

An Italian astronomer, Giovanni Alfonso Borelli,

carefully studied the positions of a comet that ap-

peared in the sky in 1664. He found he had to dis-

agree with Kepler.

The only way to make sense out of the path the

comet took across the sky, Borelli said, was to suppose

that it changed direction as it passed the sun. It came

closer and closer to the sun, along a line that was

nearly straight. Then it moved around the sun, and

left along a line that was again nearly straight but had

changed direction.

The way Borelli explained this was to point out that

ellipses could be very flattened indeed. They could be

so flattened that they would resemble a very long,

thin cigar. In fact. if you imagined an ellipse that was

more and more flattened, and longer and longer, you

could eventually imagine one that was so flattened it

Just went on and on forever. Such an ellipse would be

closed only at one end. In the other direction, it would

never be closed, but would just go on and on. A one-

OPUS 200                  39

ended ellipse that goes on and on forever is called a

"parabola."

Borelli decided that a comet's orbit was a para-

bola, with the sun very near the closed end. The com-

et came in at one side of the parabola, went whizz-

ing around the sun, and theu moved outward along

the other side of the parabola.

Borelli's view was like that of Kepler, except that

the orbit he conceived was not a straight line. Like

Kepler, Borelli thought a comet was originally so far

away it could not be seen. As it came closer and closer

to the sun, it grew bright enough to be seen, and then

as it went farther and farther from the sun, it once

more became too dim to be seen. In Borelli's view, as

in Kepler's, the comets were not members of the solar

system. Each comet just passed through the solar sys-

tem once and never returned.

Kepler's notion of elliptical orbits worked very well

for the planets, but there were fots of questions left.

Why did the planets go around the sun in ellipses in-

stead of circles (or some other curve)? Why did plan-

ets move faster when they were nearer the sun than

when they were farther away?

These questions and many others were answered by

the English scientist Isaac Newton. In 1687, he pub-

lished a book in which he described his theory of uni-

versal gravitation. According to this theory, every

body in the universe attracted every other body. The

strength of the attraction between two particular bod-

ies depended on. the "mass" or each body (how much

matter it contained) and on how far apart the two

bodies were. The strength of the attraction could be

calculated by a simple mathematical equation.

Newton showed how to use the equation to work

40

ISAAC ASIMOV

out the exact orbit of the moon around the earth and

of the planets around the sun.

The same equation explained why each planet

moved quickly at some times and slowly at other

times, and why some planets moved faster than oth-

ers. It explained little changes in the motion of tne

planets that were produced by the tiny pulls of one

planet on another even as all were caught in the gi-

gantic pull of the much larger sun. It explained the

tides on the earth and many other things, too.

But comets were the one set of heavenly bodies that

remained puzzling. If comets traveled in orbits that

were parabolas, Newton's theory could account for

that fact Suppose, though, the orbits were not quite

parabolas. Suppose the orbits were Just very long

ellipses and were closed at the other end.

We can only observe the comet at the end of the

orbit near the sun. The shape of that small part of the

enormous orbit would be a narrow curve if the ellipse

were very long. The shape would be slightly wider, if

the ellipse were even longer, and still wider if the el-

lipse never closed at all and were a parabola.

The differences in the shapes of the small bit of

orbit we could see, as predicted by Newton's theory,

were so tiny that astronomers in Newton's time could

not tell them apart. They couldn't really say whether

the orbit or a comet was a very long ellipse or

whether it was a parabola,

It made a difference. If a comet's orbit were a para-

bola, it would visit the solar system once and would

never be seen again. If the orbit were a very, very

long ellipse, then eventually the comet would come to

the other end of the ellipse, turn around, and begin to

approach the sun again. The comet would return.

In fact, if astronomers could calculate the exact

OPUS 200

41

length of the orbit, they could even predict when the

comet would return. That would be a big victory for

Newton's theory.

Newton had a young friend, Edmund Halley, who

had helped Newton publish his book and who was in-

terested in the comet problem.

In 1682, a comet appeared and Halley very care-

fully studied its positions and the way it moved across

the sky. From the part of the orbit he could see, he

couldn't tell whether it would ever return.

It seemed to him, though, that if a comet did return

it should do so at regular periods—every so many

years—and that it should always trace the same curve

across the sky. He therefore began to collect all the

reports on the positions of earlier comets that he could

find- By 1705, he had collected good reports on two

dozen comets of the past and began to compare them.

He noticed that the comet of 1682, which he had

himself observed, followed the -same curve across the

sky that the comet of 1607 had. The same curve had

also been followed by the comet of 1532 (which Fra-

castoro and Apian had studied) and the comet of

1456.

These comets had come at seventy-Hve- or seventy-

six-year periods. Could it be that it was a single comet

that returned every seventy-five years or so? Could it

be that it was a "periodic comet"?

Halley worked out the orbit for a comet that re-

turned every seventy-five years and followed the same

curve in the sky that the comet of 1682 had followed.

The results were quite amazing. Saturn, the planet

farthest from the sun (as far as was known in Halley's

time) was never farther from the sun than 930,000,000

miles. The comet of 1682, however, moved out as far

42

ISAAC ASIMOV

as 3,200,000,000 miles from the sun before it reached

the other end of its ellintical orbit and began moving

inward again. The comet moved over three times as

far awav from the sun as Saturn ever moved.

On the other hand, when the comet passed along

the end of the ellipse that was near the sun, it came as

close as 54,000,000 miles from the sun. This was only

about half of earth's distance from the sun.

After Halley had calculated the orbit, he announced

that the comet of 1682 would return some time in 1758

and would follow a particular path across the sky.

Halley did not live long enough to see the comet's

return. He was eightv-six years old when he died in

1742, but that was much too soon to see the return.

There were. however, others who were watching for

it. A French astronomer, Alexis Claude Clairault, con-

sidered the orbit as outlined bv Hallev. He realized

that the gravitational pull of the large planets, Jupiter

and Saturn, would delav the comet a little bit. It

would not pass around the sun till some time in 1759.

In 1758, astronomers eagerly watched that part of

the sky in which Hallev had said the comet should

appear. They did not have to depend only on their

eyes as Tycho and earlier astronomers had done. The

telescope had been invented in 1609.

On December 25, 1758, Christmas Day, a German

farmer named Johann Georg Palitzch, who was an

amateur astronomer, spotted the comet. The comet of

1682 appeared in the sky where Halley had said it

would and proceeded to move along the path Halley

had predicted for it. It moved around the sun quite

close to the time Clairaulrtiad predicted.

There was no question that it was the comet of 1682

and that it had returned. That meant that some of the

OPUS 200                 43

mystery of comets was cleared up. They followed the

same rules -as the other bodies of the solar system ex-

cept that their oibits were more elliptical.

Naturally, the comet of 1682 that returned and

passed around the sun in 1759 came to be called "Hal-

ley's comet."

Halley's comet is the most famous comet there is.

It happens to be the one that was in the sky in 1066

when William of Normandy was preparing to invade

England. It was also in the sky in 11 B.C., about the

time when Jesus may have been born. Some people

think it may have been the Star of Bethlehem.

Halley's comet has returned twice since Palitzch

saw it. It came back in 1835 and was glowing in the

sky when Mark Twain was born. Then it came back

in 1910 and Mark Twain died when it was glowing in

the sky. It will come back yet again in 1986.

Writing for different age levels has its problems, of

course, .-since the boundaries (ire not clear. I let myself

be guided by instinct, and if I must err, I prefer to err

on the side of difficulty. I like to think that the kind of

youngster who is interested in my books would rather

stretch a little and stand on his mental tiptoes than

stoop to something he might consider babyish.

Thus, for Follett Publishing Company, I did a series

of eight books on science that were intended for an

age level higher than that .of my ABC books and

lower than that of my How Did We Find Out books.

The first four of the Follett series were published

among my first hundred books, but the second four,

including three on astronomy, were in my second

hundred books. They are Comets and Meteors (Book

44

ISAAC ASIMOV

134), The Sun {Book 735), and The Solar System

{Book 160). Here is how I handled the matter of com-

etary orbits in Comets and Meteors:

from COMETS AND METEOBS (1873)

Comets go around the sun the way planets do, but with

a difference. Planets move in paths, called "orbits,"

that are nearly circles. Thev stav almost the same dis-

tance from the sun all the time. Comets move in orbits

that are long and narrow. Both comets and planet or-

bits are "ellipses."

At one end of the orbit, comets pass near the sun,

perhaps only a few million miles away. At the other

end, they are much farther awav, sometimes farther

than any planet. At this point, they are billions of

miles away from the sun.

A comet has no light of its own. To be seen, it must

be near a large bright object, like the sun. Sunlight

makes a comet shine.

Comets get very little sunlight at the far end of

their orbits. They are small and dim then. They can-

not be seen even with a telescope- As they move

closer to the sun, they get more sunlight. They be-

come bright enough to be seen.

People see comets only at the end of their orbits

close to the sun. Tlien thev are close to the earth, too.

Centuries ago, people believed that comets came

from nowhere. They couldn't tell when another comet

might come.

About three hundred years ago, an English astrono-

mer, Edmund Hallev, studied records of comets that

had been seen. He found that every seventy-six years

OPUS 200                 45

or so, a comet crossed a certain part of the sky. He

decided it must be a single comet that came close to

the sun every seventv-six vears.

Hallev said the comet would come back in 1758 and

cross the same part of the skv- Bv then, Halley was

dead. But the comet returned just as he said it would.

It is known as Halley's comet tor that reason.

This business of aiming high for each age group

means that almost no effort is involved if I aim for the

teenage market. I always assume that a teenager is as

intelligent as an adult and has the vocabulary of one.

What he lacks is merely the opportunity to have read

as widely as an adult. {Naturally, I am talking of an

intelligent, well-read adult.)

Consequently, in writing for teenagers, I take par-

ticular care to make no assumptions of precious

knowledge and to explain everything that doesn't

come within the range of common experience—hut I

make sure I use a full vocabulary to do so. Teenagers

are sensitive {and rightly so) to any hint of conde-

scension.

Included among my second hundred books are

three on astronomy for teenagers, which I wrote at the

suggestion of Chaucy Bennetts of I^othrop, Lee 6-

Shepard Company. She is a very capable editor who,

coincidentally, became my cousin by marriage after

the series started. The three books are Jupiter, the

Largest Planet {Book 139); Alpha Centauri, the Near-

est Star {Book 179); and Mars, the Red Planet {Book

188). Here are two excerpts from Alpha Centauri:

46                   ISAAC ASIMOV

from ALPHA CENTAUM, THE NEAREST STAB (1976)

In the case of the Alpha Centauri system, the average

separation of the two stars Alpha Centauri A and Al-

pha Centauri li is greater than that of Uranus and the

sun, and less than that of Neptune and the sun. If the

Alpha Centauri sv.stem were suoerimposed on the so-

lar system, however, with Alpha Centauri A in place

of our sun, Alpha Centauri B would not take up a cir-

cular orbit between those of Uranus and Neptune.

Things would be a little more complicated than that.

If the orbit of an object moving around a star were

an exact circle, the star would remain at the precise

center of the orbit and that would represent a very

simple situation. Actually, the orbit is always an el-

lipse, a kind of flattened circle. An ellipse has a major

axis (its longest diameter) and a minor axis (its short-

est diameter). The center of the ellipse is at the point

where the two axes cross.

There are two focus points, or foci, in the ellipse.

They are located on the major axis, one on each side

of the center and at an equal distance from it. The

more flattened the ellipse, the farther the foci are

from the center and the closer they are to the ends.

These foci are located in such a way that if a

straight line is drawn from one focus to any point on

the ellipse, and another straight line is drawn from

that point to the other focus, the sum of the lengths of

the two straight lines is always the same and always

equal in size to the major axis.

As it happens, when an object moves about a star in

an elliptical orbit, the star is always at one of the foci

and is, therefore, nearer to one end of the orbit than

to the other. If the ellipse is very flattened, the star is

OPUS 200                  47

far to one end and the orbiting object is very close to

tlie star at that end of the orbit and very far from it at

the other end.

The point of closest approach is called the "peri-

astron," from Greek words meaning "near the star." The

farthest point is the "apastron," from Greek words

meaning "awav from the star."

In a binary system both stars, under the pull of

gravity, move in orbits around a point between them

called the "center of gravity." As they move, both

stars always remain on opposite sides of the center

of gravity, and the larger star is always closer to it

This means tliat although both stars have orbits that

are ellipses of the same shape, the larger star always

moves through the smaller orbit

When one object in a binary system is very much

larger than the other, it makes such a small ellipse

about the center of gravity that it is practically sta-

tionary. This is true of the sun and Earth, for instance,

where the sun scarcely moves at'all while tiny Earth

moves in a large ellipse.

It is always possible, however, to suppose that the

larger of two obiects in a binarv system is standing

still and to calculate the orbit of the smaller about it.

This distorts the situation relative to observers in

other planetary systems—relative to us, for instance.

However, if we could imagine ourselves observing the

binary system from the larger of the two stars, what

we would observe would be the smaller star moving

about a motionless larger one.

When astronomers observe a binary system, they

are not at all likely to be viewing it from directly

above, so to speak, so as to see the elliptical orbits

marked out exactly as they are. They usually view the

48

ISAAC ASIMOV

orbits from a tilted position, so that the ellipses they

see are not the ellipses marked out bv the orbiting

stars. What thev see are ellipses that are more flat-

tened, sometimes verv much more flattened. In these

distorted ellipses, however, the larger star, which is

supposed to be stationary, is not at the focus of the

smaller star's orbit. If astronomers tilt the orbit, in imag-

ination, until the star moves into the focus, they get

the true ellipse.

The degree of flattening of an ellipse is measured as

its "eccentricity" (from Greek words meaning "out of

center"), since the greater the eccentricity, the farther

the foci are from the center. The eccentricity of a cir-

cle, which is not flattened at all, is 0. For an ellipse,

the eccentricity is alwavs between 0 and 1. If an el-

lipse has a low eccentricity, say, less than 0.1, it is so

slightly flattened that to the eye it looks very much

like a circle. The flatter an ellipse is, the more it ap-

proaches a value of 1. An orbit with an eccentricity of

0.9, then, looks quite cigar-shaped,

An example of a high degree of eccentricity in a

binary system is Gamma Virginis, where the eccen-

tricity is 0.88. This means that the distance from the

center of the ellipse to the focus is 0.88 times the dis-

tance from the center of the ellipse to the end. With

the larger star at one focus, the end of the orbit of the

other star in the direction of that. focus (the peri-

astron) is only 0.12 times the distance from the center

and only 0.06 times the entire width of the ellipse

from end to end. The other end of the ellipse (the

apastron) is distant from the larger star by an amount

equal to 0.94 times the entire width of the ellipse.

In the case of Gamma Virginis, then, although the

average distance separating the two stars of the

OPUS 200                  49

binary is 6,800,000,000 kilometers (4,200,000,000

miles), at periastron the distance of separation is onlv

810,000,000 kilometers (500,000,000 miles) while at

apastron it is 12,800,000,000 kilometers (7,900,000,000

miles).

In other words, the two stars of Gamma Virginis, as

they circle each other, swoop together to a separating

distance equal to that of Jupiter and the sun, and then

move apart to a distance more than twice that be-

tween Pluto and the sun. (The system was at apastron

in 1920 and the two stars have been moving closer

ever since. Thev will be at periastron in 2006.)

In general, stars separated by quite a large average

distance are likely to have large eccentricities, A bi-

nary like Caoella with an average separation of only

84,000,000 kilometers (52,000,000 miles) has quite a

low eccentricity, one of only 0.0086. This means that

the distance between the two stars of the Capella svs-

tem varies from 83,300,000 , kilometers (51,600,000

miles) at periastron to 84,700,000 kilometers (52,400,000

miles) at apastron.

This is so small a change that from the standpoint

of one of the stars of the Capella system, the other

would scarcely seem to change in brightness during

the 104-day period of revolution. In the case of

Gamma Virginis, on the other hand, an observer near

one of the stars would see the other as 250 times

brighter at periastron than at apastron.

The eccentricities of the planetary orbits of the so-

lar system, by the way, are much more like those of

the Capella stars than those of the Gamma Virginis

stars. -The eccentricities of the orbits of Venus and

Neptune are just about those of the Capella system,

while that of Earth (0.017) is only a little higher. This

15 a good thing, too, for a highly eccentric orbit would

50

ISAAC ASIMOV

introduce such changes in temperature in the course

of the vear that a planet with even a suitable average

distance from its sun might prove uninhabitable.

Let us take, now, a group of binaries that have av-

erage separations of about 3.0 to 3.5 billion kilometers

(1.9 to 2.2 billion miles), a group that includes the

Alpha Centauri system. In the table below, the eccen-

tricity and the distances at periastron and apastron are

given tor this group.

Eccentricities of Binary Systems

            KILO- OF    KILO- OF

            METERS      MILES METERS      MILES

70 Ophiuchi Zeta Sagittarii Alpha Centauri Eta Ophiuchi Zeta Cancri     0.50 0.2 0.521 0.90 0.31  1750 2700 1700 320 2200 11001700 1000200 1350   52504300 53006080 4100  3300 2700 34003800 2570

Sinus 0.575 1280  800   4720  3000

Xi Scorpii  0.74  780   500   5200  3300

As you see, the apastrons are not extraordinarily dif-

ferent, varying from 4100 to 6080 million kilometers

(2570 to 3800 million miles), a difference of only

about 50 percent. The periastrons differ, however,

from 320 to 2700 million kilometers (200 to 1700

miles), a difference of 800 percent.

The Alpha Centauri system is rather intermediate

OPUS 200                 51

with respect to eccentricity. The orbits of the two

stars Alpha Centauri A and B are more eccentric than

those or the planets of our solar system, but less ec-

centric than those of some of the comets, asteroids,

and satellites of our solar system.

If Alpha Centauri A were in the place of our

sun, then Alpha Centauri B at its farthest would be

5,300.000,000 kilometers (3,400,000,000 miles) away,

or just about at the average distance of Pluto from our

sun. From Earth's position -near Alpha Centauri A,

Alpha Centauri B would seem a starhke point, but it

would be far brighter than anv star we see in our own

sky. It would shine with a brilliance about 100 times

greater than our full moon, though it would still be only

1/4500 as bright as Alpha Centauri A or our sun.

From its farthest point, however, Alpha Centauri B

would slowly decrease its distance to Alpha Centauri

A (and ourselves) as it moved along its orbit, until

after forty years it would be at periastron and only

1,700,000,000 kilometers (1,000;000,000 miles) from

Alpha Centauri A. At that point it would be a little

farther from Alpha Centauri A than Saturn is from the

sun. And when Earth would be on the side of its orbit

toward Alpha Centauri B, th6 companion star would

be only 1,550,000,000 kilometers (900,000,000 miles)

from us.

At that distance. Alpha Centauri B would be a little

over 14 times as bright as at apastron. It would be

1400 times as bright as the full moon, but still only

1/326 as bright as Alpha Centauri A.

Suppose Alpha Centauri B were in place of our sun,

and that we calculated the orbit of Alpha Centauri A

on the assumption that Alpha Centauri B was motion-

less. Alpha Centauri A would then seem to move in

52

ISAAC ASIMOV

the same orbit that Alpha, Centauri B had in the other

case."

Viewed from an Earth that was circling Alpha Cen-

tauri B instead of our own sun, Alpha Centauri A

would go through the same period of brightening as it

moved from apastron to periastron, and the same pe-'

riod of dimming as it moved back to apastron. How-

ever, since Alpha Centauri A is 3)1 times as bright as

Alpha Centauri B, Alpha Centauri A would seem that

much brighter at everv point in its orbit. At its bright-

est, it would be 5000 times brighter than our full

moon now, and 1/100 as bright as our sun appears to

us. Since Alpha Centauri B would appear dimmer

than the sun, if we imagined the former in the latter's

place, Alpha Centauri A at its closest approach would

appear 1/30 as bright as Alpha Centauri B.

* Because Alpha Centauri B is the smaller of the two stars,

it seems to move in the larger orbit of the two when viewed

from outside the system. When viewed from inside the sys-

tem, however, an observer on each star would see the other

moving in the same orbit. Thus, on Earth, if we pretend that

the Earth is motionless, the sun moves in an orbit about the

Earth that is just like the orbit that the Earth (in reality)

moves in as it circles the sun.

OPUS 200                  53

The Orbit of Alpha Centauri B

superimposed on our solar system

If we were circling Alpha Centauri A instead of the

sun, the presence of Alphil Centauri B would cause us

no trouble. Despite the eccentricity of its orbit, which

allows Alpha Centauri B to swoop in and pull out in

forty-year alternations, it would remain so far away at

all times that its gravitational pull would never be

strong enough to affect Earth's orbit seriously. What's

more, its addition to the light and heat delivered by

Alpha Centauri A would never be more than a third

of 1 percent. And think of what a marvelous spectacle

it would make in the sky.

54

ISAAC ASIMOV

If we were circling Aipha Centauri B, the superior

brightness of Alpha Centauri A would be more dis-

turbing. but if we imagined Eaith pulled in closer to

Alpha Centauri B in order to receive as much heat and

light from that smaller sun as we receive from our own

sun, the interference of Alpha Centauri A would net

be too disturbing.

And what about Alpha Centauri C—Proximo Cen-

tauri—which is the distant companion of the Alpha

Centauri A/B binary? Even though it would be far

nearer to us, if Earth were circling either Alpha Cen-

tauri A or Alpha Centauri B, than any star is to us in

our own solar system, it would not be at all bright. It

would be a fairly dim star of magnitude 3.7. What's

more, its proper motion, as a result of its 1,300,000-

year-long revolution around the center of gravity of

the system, would be just about exactly 1 second o£

arc per year.

Neither its brightness nor its proper motion would

attract much attention, and stargazers might look at

the sky forever and not suspect this dim star of be-

longing to their own system. The only giveaway

would come when astronomers decided to make a rou-

tine check of the parallaxes of the various visible stars

in the sky. After a month or so, they would begin to

get a hint of an extraordinarily large parallax and in

the end they would measure one of 20 seconds of arc,

which would be so much higher than that of any other

star that they would at once suspect it of being a

member of their own system.

Can there be a dim star somewhere out there that

belongs to our own solar system? Can it be that we

remain unaware of it because astronomers haven't

happened to study it closely enough to detect an un-

OPUS 200                  55

usually high parallax? It isn't very likely—but it is con-

ceivable.

In general, the hotter a star is, the brighter it is. It's no

surprise, therefore, that so manv of the bright stars in

the sky are hotter than the sun is, or that so many of

the dim stars we see are cooler than the sun is.

What is surprising is that some stars are cool and yet

are very bright. The two prime examples of this are

Antares and Betelgeuse. Both are in spectral class M

and are therefore possessed of a surface temperature

of only 3000° C or so and, what's more, neither one is

particularly close to us—and yet each is among the

brightest stars in the sky.

In 1905 a Danish astronomer, Ejnar Hertzsprung,

reasoned that a cool star must have a dim surface, but

if it had a very large surface, the dimness of each bit

would add up to a great total brightness. In other

words, a bright star that was cool and red had to be a

very large star indeed in order to be bright.

Hertzsprung published this idea in a Journal of pho-

tography, and astronomers didn't notice it. Then, in

1914, the American astronomer Henry Norris Russell

had the same idea independently, and this time the

idea stuck. Both astronomers are usually given credit.

The Hertzsp rung-Russell reasoning led to the con-

cept of "red giants" among the stars. When attempts

were made to calculate hov^ large these red giants

would have to be in order to be as bright as they were

despite their low surface temperature, the results

seemed almost unbelievable. In 1920, however, the

German-American physicist Albert Abraham Michel-

son was able to check the matter directly.

To do this, he made use of an instrument he had

56

ISAAC ASIMOV

invented twenty years earlier, an instrument he called

an interferometer. It was capable of measuring, with

great delicacy, the manner in which two trains of light

waves, which were not quite parallel to each other,

interfered with each other. When such trains of light

waves were not quite parallel, the waves as they

merged sometimes reinforced each other and some-

times canceled each other, setting up patterns of alter-

nate light and dark. From the details of such an inter-

ference pattern, the exact angle at which the light

waves met could be deduced.

Such an instrument can be applied to the stars. A

star is so small, as seen from Earth, that it is virtually

a dot of light. The light rays coming from the two

opposite edges of so tiny a dot seem to come to us

almost from the same direction, and are therefore al-

most parallel—almost, but not quite. The light rays

come from very slightly different directions as they

reach us from opposite sides of a star; they converge

just a tiny bit, enough to produce an interference pat-

tern if the interferometer is large enough.

Michelson made use of a twenty-foot interferome-

ter, the largest he had constructed up to that time. He

attached it to the new hundred-inch telescope that

had just been put into use at Mount Wilson in Califor-

nia, and which was then the largest telescope in the

world. He turned this instrument on the star Betel-

geuse.

From the nature of the interference pattern, Michel-

son could determine the apparent diameter of Betel-

geuse. It turned out to be 0.045 seconds of arc. This is

a very small width, for it would take 41,500 little dots

of reddish light |ust like Betelgeuse, placed side by

side, to stretch across the width of the moon.

OPUS 200                  57

Yet, Betelgeuse has the largest apparent diameter of

any star. Anv star that has a true size greater than

Betelgeuse is so far away as to have a smaller appar-

ent size. Then, too, any star that is closer than Betel-

geuse is so much smaller in true size that its apparent

size never comes up to the Betelgeuse mark.

To be even 0.045 seconds in diameter—tiny though

that angle is—at the vast distance of Betelgeuse, the

star must have an enormous real diameter. In fact, it

turns out that the diameter of Betelgeuse is at least

800 times that of the sun-

The interferometer result showed that the reasoning

of Hertzsprung and Russell was correct and there

really were red giant stars, with Betelgeuse, large as it

is, not the largest in actual size. In the table on the next

page, the diameters of some of the giant stars are given.

The large red giants would seem to be impressive

objects indeed. Imagine Betelgeuse in place of our

sun. We could not see it from Earth, because there

would be no Earth. The place where Earth would be,

if it existed, would be within Betelgeuse. The diame-

ter of Betelgeuse is so large that, if substituted for the

sun, it would include the orbits of Mercury, Venus,

Earth, Mars, and Jupiter.

Epsilon Aurigae B would do better than that. It

would swallow up the orbit of Satum as well, and its

surface would be nearly at the orbit of Uranus. What's

more, that supergiant Epsilon Aurigae B is part of a

binary system, with the other star, Epsilon Aurigae A,

considerably smaller but still large enough to swallow

up the orbit of Mars. What a view those stars must be

from not too nearby.

58

ISAAC ASIMOV

Giant Stars

DIAMETER

STAB

MILLIONS OF MILLIONS OF

KILOMETEBS    MILES    SUN = 1

Epsilon Aurigae B 2800  1700  2000

W Cephei A  1700  1200  1400

Betelgeuse  1100  700   800

Mira (Oinicron Ceti)    550   350   400

Antares     550   350   400

Xi Aurigae A      420   260   300

Epsilon Aurigae A 280   170   200

Beta Pegasi 150   95    110

Aldebaran   61    38    44

Arctums     37    23    27

Another way of emphasizing the size of the red

giants is to imagine a hollow sphere the size of Beta

Pegasi, which is only a moderate-sized giant. It would

still be large enough to hold 1,300,000 objects the size

of our sun. A hollow sphere the size of Betelgeuse

would hold nearly 43,000,000 objects the size of our

sun, and one the size of Epsiloq Aurigae B would hold

8,000,000,000 suns.

And yet, for all that, the, red giants are perhaps not

as impressive as they seem from their size alone. They

are more massive than the sun, but not very much

more massive. Betelgeuse might take up 43,000,000

times as much space as the sun does, but the red giant

is only about 20 times as massive as the sun; it con-

tains only 20 times as much matter.

If the mass of Betelgeuse (not so very great) is

spread over the enormous volume taken up by Betel-

geuse that mass must be spread very, very thin.

The sun's average density is 1.41 grams per

OPUS 200                  59

cubic centimeter, but Betelgeuse's average density is

1/10,000,000 of that. If the sun were only as dense,

on the average, as Betelgeuse is, it would have a mass

of not more than 1/30 that of the Earth, and only 2.7

times that of the moon.

Epsilon Aurigae B would be far less dense. The red

giants are thin collections of gas that stretch out over

enormous distances and glow red-hot, but on an

earthly scale they are almost vacuums. The average

density of Epsilon Aurigae B is only 1/1000 that of

Earth's atmosphere, and in its outer regions the dens-

ity is far less even than that. (Like all objects, red

giants get denser as one approaches their centers, and

in the core they can get very dense indeed. This must

be true of all stars, since only in a very dense core can

the nuclear conflagration that powers them be ig-

nited. )

A situation the reverse of the red giants' arose in

connection with Sirius B. That was known to be a

very dim star with a magnitude of 10 and a luminosity

only 1/130 that of our sun. It was taken for granted

that it had to be both small and cool to deliver only

1/130 as much light as our sun.

In 1915, however, the American astronomer Walter

Sydney Adams succeeded in taking the spectrum of

Sirius B and found it to be just as hot as Sirius A and,

therefore, considerably hotter than our sun.

Yet, if Sirius B were that hot, its surface should

blaze with white light, and the only way of explaining

its dimness was to suppose that it had very little sur-

face.

Sirius B had to have so little surface as to be a

dwarf star, far smaller than anyone then had believed

a star could be. Because of its white-hot temperature,

it was called a "white dwarf." To account for its dim-

60

ISAAC ASIMOV

ness, its diameter had to be only 30,000 kilometers

(19,000 miles) atross, so that it was about as targe as

a medium-sized planet and took up only about 13

times as much volume as the Earth. Sirius B has only

1/100 the volume of the laige planet Jupiter.

In the relatively small volume of Sirius B, however,

is packed |ust as much mass as in the sun—as we can

teli from the strength of its gravitational pull on Sirius

A, If red giants have very low densities, white dwarfs

have very high ones. The average density of Sirius B

is about 90,000 times that of the sun, or 6000 times

that of platinum.

This would have seemed ridiculous only a couple of

decades earlier, but by 1915 it had been discovered

that atoms were made up of still smaller "subatomic

particles," with almost all the mass concentrated in a

very tiny "atomic nucleus" at the center of the atom.

In white dwarfs, then, matter didn't exist as ordinary

atoms, but as a chaotic mixture of subatomic particles

squeezed much more closely together than they are in

atoms as we know them.

There are white dwarfs smaller and denser than Sir-

ius B, and in recent years astronomers have discov-

ered new types of stars that are much smaller than

white dwarfs and correspondingly more dense. These

are "neutron stars" in which the subatomic particles

are practically in contact, and in which the mass of a

star like our sun would be compacted into a tiny body

only a dozen kilometers across.

Then, of course, there is writing for the general

reader, or, if you choose, for "adults."

It does not seem to me that there is much differ-

ence between writing for adults and writing for teen-

OPUS 200                 61

agers. In my general hooks, I don't question the use of

an unusual word or of an extra convolution in a sen-

tence. I allow the syllables and clauses to lie as they

fall. Then, too, if there are literary allusions to make, I

make them and assume the general reader—or at least

anyone likely to read my books—is literate enough to

get them. And I suspect that the intelligent teenager

has no trouble following my "adult" books.

Among my second hundred books is one on astron-

omy for the general reader. It is called The Collapsing

Universe: The Story of Black Holes (Book 182}. Beth

Walker of Walker b- Company persistently urged me

to write the Iwok. She was almost a Cato the Elder

about it. (See what 1 mean by literary allusions?)

Whenever I visited Walker 6- Company, and whatever

the topic of conversation, she would always end by

saying "Think black holes, Isaac."

I had no real objection. In the first place, 1 was in-

terested in black holes and wanted to write about

them. In the second, it would' give me a chance to

update an earlier book. The Universe, which was

among nuf first hundred books and which was also

published by Walker. (My favorite method of updat-

ing a book is to write a new one centered upon a facet

of the subject which flowered only after the earlier

book was written.)

It was Just a matter of time, therefore, and finally I

got to it. In early 1977, The Collapsing Universe was

finally pul)lished, and it proved, at once, to be the

most popular astronomy book I had ever done. My

delight was second only to that of the Walkers.

Here I would like to include the final pages of The

Collapsing Universe, in which the wildest speculations

are to be found. It is just possible that you cant get

their true flavor without having read the rest of the

62

ISAAC ASIMOV

book, but that's all right. Opus 200 is intended to give

you a potpourri of this book and that, which you may

then follow up at your leisure in whatever direction

pleases you.

from THE COLLAPSING UNIVERSE (1977)

In theory, up to 30 percent of the entire energy of a

rotating black hole can be milked out of it by care-

fully sending objects through the stationary limit and

collecting them on the way out, and this is another

way in which some advanced civilizations might use

black holes as an energy source." Once all the rota-

tional energy is gone, the black hole has only mass;

the stationary limit coincides, with the Schwarzschild

radius. The black hole is then said to be "dead," since

no further energy can be obtained from it directly

(though some can be obtained from matter as it spi-

rals into it).

Even stranger than the possibility of stripping rota-

tional energy from the black hole is that the Ken-

analysis offers a new kind of end for matter entering a

black hole. This new kind of end was foreshadowed

by Albert Einstein and a co-worker named Rosen

some thirty vears earlier.

The matter crowding into a rotating black hole

(and it is very likely that there is no other kind) can,

in theory, squeeze out again somewhere else, like

* Not all astronomers agree with this concept of stripping

the rotational energy of a black hole. In fact almost anything

some astronomers suggest about a black hole is denied by

other astronomers. We are here at the very edge of knowl-

edge, and everything, one way or the other, is very un-

certain and iffy.

OPUS 200                  63

toothpaste blasting out of a fine hole in a stiff tube

that is brought under the slow pressure of a steam-

roller^

The transfer of matter can apparently take place

over enormous distances—millions or billions of light-

years—in a trifling period of time. Such transfers can-

not take place in the ordinary way, since in space as

we know it the speed of light is the speed limit for

anv obJect with mass. To transfer mass for distances

of millions or billions of light-years in the ordinary

wav takes millions or billions of vears of time,

One must therefore assume that the transfer goes

through tunnels or across bridges that do not, strictly

speaking, have the time characteristics of our familiar

universe. The passageway is sometimes called an

"Einstein-Rosen bridge," or, more colorfully, a "worm-

hole."

If the mass passes through the wormhole and sud-

denly appears a billion light-years away in ordinary

space once more, something must balance that great

transfer in distance. Apparently this impossibly rapid

passage through space is balanced by a compensating

passage through time, so that it appears one billion

years ago.

Once the matter emerges at the other end of the

wormhole, it expands suddenly into ordinary matter

again and, in doing so, blazes with radiated energy—

the energy that had, so to speak, been trapped in the

black hole. What we have emerging, then, is a "white

hole," a concept first suggested in 1964.

If all this is really so, white holes, or at least some of

them, might conceivably be detected.

That would depend, of course, upon the size of the

a This suggestion, too, is denied by some astronomers.

64

ISAAC ASIMOV

white hole and upon its distance from us. Perhaps

mini-black holes form mini-white holes at a vast dis-

tance, and we would surelv never see them. Huge

black holes would form huge white holes, however,

and these we might see. Are there any signs of such

white holes?

There may be-

In the 1950s, sources of radio waves were detected

that on closer inspection seemed to be very compact,

emerging from mere pinpoint sections of the sky. Or-

dinarily, radio sources found in those early days of the

science were from dust clouds or from galaxies and

were therefore more or less spread out over a portion

of the sky.

Among the compact radio sources were those

known as 3C48, 3C147. 3C196, 3C273, and 3C286.

(Many more have been discovered since.) The 3C is

short for Third Cambridge Catalog of Radio Stars, a

list compiled bv the English astronomer Martin Ryle.

In 1960 the areas containing these compact radio

sources were investigated by the American astrono-

mer Allan Rex Sandage, and in each case something

that looked like a dim star seemed to be the source.

There was some indication that they might not be

normal stars, however. Several of them seemed to

have faint clouds of dust or gas about them, and one

of them, 3C273, showed signs of a tiny jet of matter

emerging from it. In fact there are two radio sources

in connection with 3C273, one from the star and one

from the jet-

There was some reluctance, therefore, to call these

objects stars, and they were instead described as

"quasi-stellar (starlike) radio sources." In 1964 Hong-

OPUS 200                 65

Yee Chiu shortened that to "quasar," and that name

has been kept ever since.

The spectra of these quasars were obtained in 1960,

but they had a pattern of lines that were completely

unrecognizable, as though they were made up of

substances utterly alien to the universe. In 1963, how-

ever, the Dutch-American astronomer Maarten

Schmidt solved that problem. The lines would have

been perfectly normal if they had existed far in the

ultraviolet range. Their appearance in the visible-light

range meant they had been shifted a great distance

toward the longer wavelengths.

The easiest explanation for this was that the quasars

are very far away. Since the universe is expanding,

galactic units are separating, and all seem to be reced-

ing from us. Therefore, all distant objects have their

spectral lines shifted toward the longer waves because

that is what is to be expected when a source of light is

receding from us. Furthermore, since the universe is

expanding, the farther an object, the faster it is reced-

ing from us and the greater the shift in spectral lines.

From the spectral shift, then, the distance of an object

can be calculated.

It turned out that the quasars were billions of light-

years away. One of them, OQ172, is about 12 billion

light-years away, and even the nearest, 3C273, is over

a billion light-years away and farther than any non-

quasar object we know about. There may be as many

as 15 million quasars in the universe.

A quasar is a very dim object, as we see it, but, for

it to be visible at all at those enormous distances, it

must be exceedingly luminous. The quasar 3C273 is

five times as luminous as our galaxy, and some quasars

may be up to 100 times as luminous as the average

galaxy.

66

ISAAC ASIMOV

Yet, this being so, if quasars were simply galaxies

with up to a hundred times as many stars as an aver-

age galaxy and therefore that much brighter, they

ought to have dimensions large enough to make tham

appear, even at their vast distances, as tiny patches of

light and not as starlike points. Thus, despite their

brightness, they must be more compact than ordinary

galaxies.

As early as 1963 the quasars were found to be varia-

ble in the energy they emitted, both in the visible-

light region and in the microwave region. Increases

and decreases of as much as three magnitudes were

recorded over the space of a few years.

For radiation to vary so markedly in so short a time,

a body must be small. Such variations must involve

the body as a whole, and, if that is so, some effect

must be felt across the full width of the body within

the time of variation. Since no effect can travel faster

than light, it means that if a quasar varies markedly

over a period of a few years, it cannot be more than a

light-year or so in diameter and may be considerably

smaller.

One quasar, 3C446, can double its brightness in a

couple of days, and it must therefore be not more

than 0.005 light-year (50 billion kilometers) in diame-

ter, or less than Hve times the width of Pluto's orbit

around the sun. Compare this with an ordinary gal-

axy, which may be 100,000 light-years across and in

which even the dense central core may be 15,000

light-years across.

This combination of tiny dimensions and enormous

luminosity makes the quasars seem like a class of ob-

jects entirely different from anything else we know.

Their discovery made astronomers aware of the possi-

bility of hitherto unknown large-scale phenomena in

OPUS 200                 67

the universe and spurred them on, for the first time,

to consider such phenomena, including the black hole.

And it is conceivable that there is a link between

black holes and quasars. The Soviet astronomer Igor

Novikov and the Israeli astronomer Yuval Ne'eman

have suggested that quasars are giant white holes at

the other end of a wormhole from a giant black hole

in some other part of the universe."

But let's take another look at quasars. Are they

really unique, as they seem to be, or are they merely

extreme examples of something more familiar?

In 1943 a graduate student in astronomy, Carl Sey-

fert, described a peculiar galaxy. It is one of a group

now termed Seyfert galaxies. These may make up 1

percent of all known galaxies (meaning as many as a

billion altogether), though actually only a dozen ex-

amples have been discovered.

In most respects Seyfert galaxies seem normal and

are not unusually distant from us. The cores of the

Seyfert galaxies, however, are very compact, very

bright, and seem unusually hot and active—rather

quasarlike, in fact. They show variations in radiation

that imply the radio-emitting centers at their core are

no larger tfaan quasars are thought to be. One Seyfert

galaxy, 3C120, has a core that makes up less than one-

eight the diameter of the galaxy as a whole but is

three times as luminous as the rest of the galaxy com-

bined.

The strongly active center would be visible at

greater distances than the outer layers of the Seyfert

galaxy would be, and if such a galaxy were far

enough, all we would see by either optical or radio

* This is purely speculative, of course. In fact, the remainder

of the book is almost entirely speculation, some of it my own.

68

ISAAC ASIMOV

telescopes would be the core. We would then consider

it a quasar, and the very distant quasars may simply

be the intensely luminous nuclei of very large, very ac-

tive Seyfert galaxies.

But then consider the core of a Sevfert galaxy—very

compact, very hot and active. One Seyfert galaxy,

NGC 4151, may have as many as ten billion stars in a

nucleus only twelve light-vears across.

These are precisely the conditions that would en-

courage the formation of black holes. Perhaps the

mere fact that a certain volume of space is subject to

black hole formation may also make it subject to the

blossoming out of a white hole.

We can imagine black holes forming here and there

in the universe, each producing an enormous strain in

the smooth fabric of space. Wormholes form between

them, and matter may leak across at a rate slow in

comparison with the total quantity in the black hole

serving as source but large enough to produce enor-

mous quantities of radiation in some cases. The rate of

matter flow may vary for reasons we do not as yet

understand, and this may bring about the variations

in the brightness of quasars.

There may be many white holes of all sizes, each

connected to its black hole (which itself may come in

any size), and we may be aware only of the giant-

sized ones. It may be that if all black holes/white

holes were taken into account, it would be seen that

the wormholes connecting them may crisscross the uni-

verse quite densely.

This thought has stimulated the imaginative facul-

ties of astronomers such as Carl Sagan. It is impossi-

ble to think of any way of keeping any sizable piece

of matter intact as it approaches a black hole, let

along having it pass intact through a wormhole and

OPUS 200                 69

out the white hole, yet Sagan does not allow that to

limit his speculations.   •

After all, we can do things that to our primitive fore-

bears would seem inconceivable, and Sagan wonders

if an advanced civilization miglit not devise ways of

blocking off gravitational' and tidal effects so that a

ship may make use of wormholes to travel vast dis-

tances in a moment of time.

Suppose there were an advanced civilization in the

universe right now that had developed a thorough

map on which the wormholes were plotted with their

black hole entrances and their white hole exits. The

smaller wormholes would be more numerous, of

course, and therefore more useful.

Imagine a cosmic empire threaded together through

a network of such wormholes, with civilized centers

located near the entrances and exits. It would be as

important, after all, for a world to be located near a

transportational crossing point of this sort as it is for

an Earth city to be built near an ocean harbor or a

river.

The planets nearest the tunnels might be a safe dis-

tance away, but nearer still would be enormous

space stations built as bases for the ships moving

through the tunnels and as power stations for the

home planets.

And how does the wormhole theory affect the past

and future of the universe? Even though the universe

is expanding, is it possible that the expansion is bal-

anced by matter being shifted into the past through

the wormholes?

Certainly the dozens of quasars we have detected

are all billions of light-years away from us, and we see

them, therefore, as they were billions of years ago.

Furthermore, they are heavily weighted toward the

70

ISAAC AStMOV

greater distances and more remote past. It is esti-

mated that if quasars were evenly spaced throughout

the universe, there would be several hundred of them

/nearer and brighter than 3C273, which is the nearest

and brightest now.

Well, then, do we have an eternal universe after all,'

a kind of continuous creation in another sense?

Has the universe been expanding for countless eons,

through all eternity in fact, without ever having ex-

panded beyond the present level because the worm-

holes create a closed circuit, sending matter back into

the more contracted past to begin expansion all over?

Has the universe never really been entirely con-

tracted, and has there never really been a big bang?

Do we think there was a big bang only because we

are more aware of the expansion half of the cycle in-

volving the galaxies and are not aware of matter

sweeping back through wormholes?

But if there was no big bang, how do we account

for the background radiation that is the echo of the

big bang? Can this radiation be the product of the

overall backward flow of matter into the far past?

Can the white holes or quasars be numerous "little

bangs" that add up to the big bang and produce the

background radiation?

And if all this is so, where does the energy come

from that keeps the universe endlessly recycling? If

the universe runs down as it expands (this is referred

to as an "increase of entropy" by physicists), does it

wind up again ("decreasing entropy") as .it moves

back in time through the wormholes?

There are no answers to any of these questions at

present. All is speculation, including the very exis-

tence of wormholes and white holes.

OPUS 200                 71

.It must be admitted that the notion that the universe

is continually recycling is a rather tenuous specula-

tion.

If we dismiss it, however, we are left with the big

bang—either as a one-time affair if we are living in an

open universe, or as an endlessly repeated phenome-

non if the universe is closed and oscillating. Either

way there is a problem. What is the nature of the

cosmic egg?

When the cosmic egg was first suggested, it was

viewed very much as we now view neutron stars. The

trouble is that a cosmic egg with all the mass of the

universe (equal to the mass of 100,000,000,000 galax-

ies, perhaps) is certainly too large to be a neutron

star. If it is true that anything with more than 3.2

times the mass of our sun must form a black hole

when it collapses, then the cosmic egg was the biggest

of all black holes.

How, then, could it have exploded and yielded the

big bang? Black holes do not explode.

Suppose we imagine a contracting universe, which

would form black holes of varying sizes as it con-

tracted. The individual black holes might bleed away

some of their mass through wormholes, counteracting

the overall contraction but not by enough to stop it

altogether (or neither the expanding universe DOT we

would-be here today).

As the universe compresses, the black holes grow at

the expense of non-black hole matter and, more and

more frequently, collide and coalesce. Eventually, of

course, all the black holes coalesce into the cosmic

egg. It loses matter through its wonnhole at an enor-

mous rate, producing the biggest conceivable white

hole at the other end. It is the white hole of the

cosmic egg. then, that was the big bang that created

72

ISAAC ASIMOV

our expanding universe. This would hold good

whether the universe is open or closed, whether the

cosmic egg formed only once or repeatedly.

Of course, this solution will only work if wormholes

and white holes truly exist, which is uncertain. And

even if they do exist, it will only work if the cosmic'

egg is rotating. But is it?

There is certainly angular momentum in the uni-

verse, but it could have been created, de-spite the con-

servation law, where none had earlier existed.

That is because there are two kinds of angular mo-

mentum, in opposite senses. An object can rotate ei-

ther clockwise or counter-clockwise (positively or neg-

atively, if you prefer). Two objects with equal

angular momentum, one positive and one negative,

will, if they collide and coalesce, end with zero angu-

lar momentum, the energy of the two rotatory motions

being converted into heat. In reverse, an object with

zero angular momentum can, with the addition of ap-

propriate energy, split to form two sub-objects, one

with positive angular momentum and the other with

negative angular momentum.

The objects in the universe may all have angular

momentum, but it is very likely that some of that

angular momentum is positive and some negative. We

have no way of knowing whether one kind is present in

greater quantities than the other. If such lopsidedness

does exist, then when all the matter of the universe col-

lapses into a cosmic egg, that cosmic egg will end up

with an amount of angular momentum equal to the

excess of one kind over the other.

It may be, however, that the amount of angular mo-

mentum of one kind in the universe is equal to the

amount of the other kind. In that case, the cosmic egg,

when it forms, will have no angular momentum and

OPUS 200

73

r

^

l^

+?

'''

a,

^

will be dead. We can't rely on wormholes and white

holes for the big bang, then.

What else?

Just as angular momentum of two opposite kinds

exist, so matter of two opposite kinds exists.

An electron is balanced by an antieiectron, or posi-

tron. When an electron and a positron combine, there

is a mutual annihilation of the two particles. No mass

at all is left. It is converted into energy in the form of

gamma rays. In the same way, a proton and an anti-

proton will combine to lose mass and form energy;

and so will a neutron and an antineutron.

We can have matter built up of protons, neutrons,

and electrons; antimatter built up of antiprotons.

antineutrons, and antielectrons. In that case, any mass

of matter combining with an equal mass of antimatter

will undergo mutual annihilation to form gamma rays.

In reverse, mass can be formed from energy, but

never as one kind of particle only. For every electron

that is formed an antieiectron must be formed, for ev-

ery proton an antiproton, for every neutron an anti-

neutron. In short, when energy is turned into matter,

an equal quantity of antimatter must also be formed.

But if that is so, where is the antimatter that must

have been formed at the same time that the matter of

the universe was formed?

The Earth is certainly entirely matter (except for

small traces of antimatter formed in the laboratory or

found among cosmic rays). In fact the whole solar

system is entirely matter, and, in all probability, so is

the entire galactic unit of which we are part.

Where is the antimatter? Perhaps there are also gal-

actic units that are entirely antimatter. There may be

galactic units and antigalactic units, which because of

the general expansion of die universe never come in

74

ISAAC ASIMOV

contact and never engage in mutual annihilation. Just

as matter forms black holes, antimatter will form an-

ti-black holes. These two kinds of black holes are in

all respects identical except for being made up of

opposite substances.

If the universe was ever, in the past, contracting,'

black holes and anti-black holes formed even more

easily; and as contraction continued, the chances of

collision between two black holes of opposite nature,

and a consequent enormous mutual annihilation, in-

creased. In the final coalescence there was the great-

est of all great mutual annihilations.

The total mass of the universe disappeared and

with it the gravitational field that keeps the black

hole, and the cosmic egg for that matter, in existence.

In its place was incredibly energetic radiation, which

expanded outward. That would be the big bang.

Some period after the big bang the energy, becom-

ing less intense through expansion, would be tame

enough to form matter and antimatter once more—the

two forming separate galactic units by some mecha-

nism that, it must be admitted, has not been worked

out—and the expanding universe would take shape.

From this view of the big bang as the mutual anni-

hilation of matter and antimatter, it doesn't matter

whether the cosmic egg is rotating or not, or whether

it is alive or dead.

Yet we have no evidence that there erist antigalac-

tic units. Can it be that for some reason we do not as

yet understand that the universe consists simply of

matter?

We might argue that this is impossible; the universe

cannot consist simply of matter, as that would make

the big bang impossible. Or we might think of a way

of accounting for the big bang even in a universe of

OPUS 200                 75

matter only, and even if, on contracting, that universe

forms a cosmic egg that is not rotating and is there-

fore a dead black hole.

Well, according to the equations used to explain the

formation of black holes, the size of the Schwarzschild

radius is proportional to the mass of the black hole.

A black hole the mass of the sun has a Schwarzschild

radius of 3 kilometers and is therefore 6 kilometers

across. A black hole that is twice the mass of the sun

is twice as large across—12 kilometers. However, a

sphere that is twice as large across as a smaller sphere

has eight times as much volume as the smaller sphere.

It follows that a black hole with twice the mass of the

sun has that twice the mass spread over eight times

the volume. The density of the larger black hole is

only one-fourth the density of the smaller black hole.

In other words, the more massive a black hole is,

the larger and the less dense it is.

Suppose our entire galaxy, which is about

100,000.000,000 times the mass of our sun, were

squeezed into a black hole. Its diameter would be

600.000,000,000 kilometers, and its average density

would be about 0.000001 gram per cubic centimeter.

The galactic black hole would be more than fifty times

as wide as Pluto's orbit and would be no more dense

than a gas.

Suppose that all the galaxies of the universe, possi-

bly 100,000,000,000 of them, collapsed into a black

hole. Such a black hole, containing all the matter of

the universe, would be 10,000,000,000 light-years

across, and its average density would be that of an

exceedingly thin gas.

Yet no matter how thin this gas, the structure is a

black hole.

Suppose the total mass of the universe is 2.5 times

76

ISAAC ASIMOV

as large as it seems to astronomers to be. In that case

the black hole formed by all the matter of the uni-

verse is 25,000,000,000 light-years across, and that

happens to be about the diameter of the actual uni-

verse we live in (as far as we know).

It is quite possible, then, that the entire universe is

itself a black hole (as has been suggested by the phy-

sicist Kip Thorne).

It is is, then very likely it has always been a black

hole and will always be a black hole. If that is so, we

live within a black hole, and if we want to know

what conditions are like in a black hole (provided it is

extremely massive), we have but to look around,

As the universe collapses, then, we might imagine

the formation of any number of relatively small black

holes (black holes within a black hole!) with very

limited diameters. In the last few seconds of final cat-

astrophic collapse, however, when all the black holes

coalesce into one cosmic black hole, the Schwarzschild

radius springs outward and outward to the extremity

of the known universe

And it may be that within the Schwaraschild radius

there is the possibility of explosion. It may be that as

the Schwarzschild radius recedes billions of light-

years in a flash, the cosmic egg at the very instant of

formation springs outward to follow, and that is the

big bang.

If that is so, we might argue that the universe can-

not be open whatever the present state of the evi-

dence, since the universe cannot expand beyond its

Schwarzschild radius. Somehow the expansion will

have to cease at that point, and then it must inevita-

bly begin to contract again and start the cycle over.

(Some argue that with each big bang, a totally differ-

OPUS 200                 77

ent expanding universe with different laws af nature

gets underway.)

Can it be, then that what we see all about us is the

unimaginably slow breathing cycle (tens of billions

years in and tens of billions of years out) of a

universe-sized black hole?

And can it be that, separated from our universe in

some fashion we cannot as yet grasp, there are many

other black holes of various sizes, perhaps an infinite

number of them, all expanding and contracting, each

at its own rate?

And we are in one of them—and through the won-

ders of thought and reason it may be that, from our

station on a less-than-dust speck lost deep within one

of these universes, we have drawn ourselves a picture

of the existence and behavior of them all.

PART 2

ROBOTS

7n the years in which science fiction was the major

part of my production, robot's were a favorite subject

of mine. In the first twenty years of my writing ca-

reer, I wrote seventeen short stories and three novels

in which robots were a key element in the plots, plus

a few other short stories that involved computers.

Since my hundredth book was pttblished, however,

my science fiction production has decreased a great

deal—yet it has not dwindled to^zero.

In 1976, for instance, Douhleday published The Bi-

centennial Man and Other Stories (Book 176), a col-

lection of eleven stories, three of which involved ro-

bots.

The first of these was "Feminine Intuition" which

first appeared in the October 1969 Fantasy and Sci-

ence Fiction (usually known as F & SF). Jn it, my

favorite psychologist, Susan Calvin, appears. Susan

first appeared in my story "Liar!" which was pub-

lished in the May 1941 issue of Astounding Science

Fiction (usually known as ASF). / fell in love with

her. I didn't portray her in any very attractive way-

she was frozen intellect, and only rarely and secretly

seemed to allow a touch of human feeling to show-

but I loved her anyway. Before "Feminine Intuition,"

she had appeared in nine of my robot stories, the last

82

ISAAC ASIMOV

feeing "Galley Slave" in the December 1957 issue of

Galaxy. Of these nine stories, five appear in I, Robot

and four in The Rest of the Robots, both of which are

among my first hundred books. I had not seriously

considered bringing her back until the managing edi-

tor of Galaxy, Judy-Lynn Benjamin {who later mar-

ried Lester del Rey), casually suggested I write a

story about a woman robot. It was that which led to

"Feminine Intuition," in which I brought back Susan

Calvin as an old woman but with her brain function-

ing as well as ever. It was the tenth story involving

her, and it appeared twenty-eight years after the first.

The second robot story in The Bicentennial Mao

and Other Stories was ". . . That Thou Art Mindful

of Him," which first appeared in the May 1974 issue

of F & SF. This arose because Ed Ferman of ¥ & SF

and Barry Malzberg, the science fiction writer,

wanted to put out an anthology of stories, each of

which would carry a particular category to its ulti-

mate end. They asked me to do a robot story that

would carry my three laws of robotics as far as possi-

ble—and I stretched them. to the point where they

subverted themselves out of their original purpose. In

a way that brought the whole robot saga to a fitting,

and ironic, conclusion—though, of course, it would not

and did not prevent me from writing additional robot

stories.

Finally, there was "The Bicentennial Man," the title

story of the book, which had its genesis in January

. 1975 when 'Naomi Cordon of Philadelphia visited and

urged me to write a story with that title and with any

plot I wished, as long as it was inspired by the title.

It would then be included in an anthology (also with

that title) to be published in the bicentennial year of

1976.

OPUS 200                 83

Alas, the anthology did not come to pass for various

reasons, and "The Bicentennial Man" was left home-

less. It was rescued fry Judy-Lynn del Key and ap-

peared in her anthology of original stories Stellar Sci-

ence Fiction Stories, No. 2, which was published in

February 1976.

And then in 1977, "The Bicentennial Man" won

both the Nebula and the Hugo awards as the best

novelette to appear in 1976. It was the first time any

of my stories shorter than a novel had won these

awards, and I was delighted to be able to demonstrate

that the old man still had it.

Each of the stories strongly appeals to me for one

reason or the other, but 1 only wanted to include one

of them in this book, and, after some hesitation, my

vanity over the awards won out. Here, then, is "The

Bicentennial Man" in fall:

*The Bicentennial Man" (1976)

The Three Laws of Robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or,

through inaction, allow a human being to

come to harm.

2. A robot must obey the orders given it by

human beings except where such orders

would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as

long as such protection does not conflict with

the First or Second Law.

Andrew Martin said. Thank yon,'* and took the seat

offered him. He didn't look driven to the last resort,

but he had been.

He didn't, actually, look anything, for there was a

smooth blankness to his face, except for the sadness

84

ISAAC ASIMOV

one imagined one saw in his eyes. His hair was

smooth, light brown, rather fine, and there was no fa-

cial hair. He looked freshly and cleanly shaved. His

clothes were distinctly old-fashioned, but neat and

predominantly a velvety red-purple in color.

Facing him from behind the desk was the surgeon,

and the nameplate on the desk included a full identi-

fvinc: series of letters and numbers, which Andrew

didn't bother with. To call him Doctor would be quite

enough.                             „.

"When can the operation be carried through. Doc-

tor?" he asked.

The surgeon said softly, with that certain inaliena-

ble note of respect that a robot always used to a hu-

man being, "I am not certain, sir, that I understand

how or upon whom such an operation could be per-

formed." There might have been a look of respectful

intransigence on the surgeon's face—if a robot of his

sort, in lightly bronzed stainless steel, could have such

an expression, or any expression.

Andrew Martin studied the robot's right hand, his

cutting hand, as it lay on the desk in utter tranquillity.

The fingers were long and shaped/ into artistically

metallic looping curves so graceful and appropriate

that one could imagine a scalpel fitting them and be-

coming, temporarily, one piece with them.

There would be no hesitation in his work, no stum-

bling, no quivering, no mistakes. That came with spe-

cialization, of course, a specialization so fiercely de-

sired by humanity that few robots were, any longer,

independently brained. A surgeon, of course, would

have to be. And this one, though brained, was so lim-

ited in his capacity that he did not recognize An-

drew—had probably never heard of him.

OPUS 200                  85

Andrew said, "Have you ever thought you would

like to be a man?"

The surgeon hesitated a moment as though the

question fitted nowhere in his allotted positronic

pathways. "But I am a robot, sir."

"Would it be better to be a man?"

"It would be better, sir, to be a better surgeon. I

could not be so if I were a man, but onlv if I were a

more advanced robot- I would be pleased to be a

more advanced robot."

"Tt does not offend vou that I can order you about?

That I can make you stand up, sit down, move right

or left. bv merelv telling vou to do so?"

"It is my pleasure to please you, sir. If your orders

were to interfere with my functioning with respect to

you or to any other human being, I would not obey

you. The First Law, concerning my duty to human

safety, wouid take precedence over the Second Law

relating to obedience. Otherwise, obedience is my

pleasure . . . But upon whom am I to perform this

operation?"

"Upon me," said Andrew.

"But that is impossible. It is patently a damaging

operation."

"That does not matter," said Andrew calmly.

"I must not inflict damage," said the surgeon.

"On a human being, you must not," said Andrew,

"but I, too, am a robot"

Andrew had appeared much more a robot when he

had first been manufactured. He had then been as

much a robot in aopearance as anv that had ever ex-

isted, smoothly designed and functional.

He had done well in the home to which he had

86

ISAAC ASIMOV

been brought in those davs when robots in house-

holds, or on the planet altogether, had been a rarity.

There had been four in the home: Sir and Ma'am

and Miss and Little Miss- He knew their names, of

course, but he never used them. Sir was Gerald Mar-

tin.

His own serial number was NDR—— He forgot the

numbers. It had been a long time, of course, but if he

had wanted to remember, he could not forget. He had

not wanted to remember-

Little Miss had been the first to call him Andrew

because she could not use the letters, and all the rest

followed her in this.

Little Miss . . . She had lived ninety years and was

long since dead. He had tried to call her Ma'am once,

but she would not allow it. Little Miss she had been

to her last day.

Andrew had been intended to perform the duties of

a valet, a butler, a lady's maid. Those were the experi-

mental days for him and, indeed, for all robots any-

where but in the industrial and exploratory factories

and stations off Earth.

The Martins enfoyed him, and half the time he was

prevented from doing his work because Miss and Lit-

tle Miss would rather play with him.

It was Miss who understood first how this might be

arranged. She said, "We order you to play with us and

you must follow orders."

Andrew said, "I am sorry. Miss, but a prior order

from Sir must surely take precedence."

But she said, "Daddy Just said he hoped you would

take care of the cleaning. That's not much of an order.

I order you."

Sir did not mind. Sir was fond of Miss and of Little

Miss, even more than Ma'am was, and Andrew was

OPUS 200                  87

fond of them, too. At least, the effect they had upon

his actions were those which in a human being would

have been called the result of fondness. Andrew

thought of it as fondness, for he did not know any

other word for it.

It was for Little Miss that Andrew had carved a

pendant out of wood. She had ordered him to. Miss, it

seemed, had received an ivorite pendant with scroll-

work for her birthday, and Little Miss was unhappy

over it. She had only a piece of wood, which she gave

Andrew together with a small kitchen knife.

He had done it quickly and Little Miss said, That's

nice, Andrew. I'll show it to Daddy."

Sir would not believe it. "Where did you really get

this, Mandy?" Mandy was what he called Little Miss.

When Little Miss assured him she was really telling

the truth, he turned to Andrew. "Did you do this, An-

drew?"

"Yes, Sir."                                            «

"The design, too?"

"Yes, Sir."

"From what did you copy the design?"

"It is a geometric representation, Sir, that fit the

grain of the wood."

The next day. Sir brought him another piece of

wood, a larger one, and an electric vibro-knife. He

said, "Make something out of this, Andrew. Anything

you want to."

Andrew did so and Sir watched, then looked at the

product a long time. After that, Andrew no longer

waited on tables. He was ordered to read books on

furniture design instead, and he learned to make cabi-

nets and desks.

Sir said, "These are amazing productions, Andrew."

Andrew said, "I enjoy doing them. Sir."

88                 BAAC ASIMOV

"Enjoy?"

"It makes the circuits of my brain somehow flow

more easily. I have heard you use the word 'enjoy and

the way you use it fits the way I feel. I enjoy doing

them. Sir."

Gerald Martin took Andrew to the regional offices of

United States Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. As a

member of the Regional Legislature he had no trouble

at all in gaining an interview with the chief robopsy-

chologist. In fact, it was only as a member of the Re-

gional Legislature that he qualified as a robot owner

in the first place—in those early days when robots

were rare.

Andrew did not understand any of this at the time,

but in later years, with greater learning, he could re-

view that early scene and understand it in its proper

light.

The robopsychologist, Merton Mansky, listened

with a gathering frown and more than once managed

to stop his fingers at the point beyond which they

would have irrepressibly drummed on the table. He

had drawn features and a lined forehead and looked

as though he might be younger than he looked.

He said, "Robotics is not an exact art, Mr. Martin. I

cannot explain it to you in detail, but the mathematics

governing the plotting of the positronic pathways is

far too complicated to permit of any but approximate

solutions. Naturally, since we build everything about

the Three Laws, those are incontrovertible. We will, of

course, replace your robot—"

"Not at all," said Sir. "There is no question of failure

on his part. He performs his assigned duties perfectly.

The point is, he also carves wood in exquisite fashion

and never the same twice. He produces works of art."

OPUS 200                  89

Mansky looked confused. "Strange. Of course, we're

attempting generalized pathways these days . . .

Really creative, you think?"

"See for yourself." Sir handed over a little sphere of

wood on which there was a playground scene in

which die boys and girls were almost too small to

make out, yet they were in perfect proportion and

blended so naturally with the grain that that, too,

,seemed to have been carved.

Mansky said, "He did that?" He handed it back

with a shake of his head. "The luck of the draw.

Something in the pathways."

"Can you do it again?"

"Probably not Nothing like this has ever been re-

ported."

"Goodi I don't in the least mind Andrew's being the

only one."

Mansky said, "I suspect that the company would

like to have your robot back for study."

Sir said with sudden grimness, "Not a chance. For-

get it." He turned to Andrew. "Let's go home now."

"As you wish. Sir," said Andrew.

Miss was dating boys and wasn't about the house

much. It was Little Miss, not as little as she once was,

who filled Andrew's horizon now. She never forgot

that the very first piece of wood carving he had done

had been for her. She kept it on a silver chain about

her neck.

It was she who first objected to Sir's habit of giving

away the productions. She said, "Come on. Dad, if any-

one wants one of them, let him pay for it. It's worth

it."

Sir said, "It isn't like you to be greedy, Mandy."

"Not for us. Dad. For the artist"

90

ISAAC ASIMOV

Andrew had never heard the word before and

when he had a moment to himself he looked it up in

the dictionary. Then there was another trip, this time

to Sir's lawyer. -.

Sir said to him, "What do you think of this, John?"

The lawyer was John Feingold. He had white harr

and a pudgy belly, and the rims of his contact lenses

were tinted a bright green. He looked at the small

plaque Sir had given him. "This is beautiful . . . But

I've heard the news. This is a carving made by your

robot. The one you've brought with you."

"Yes, Andrew does them. Don't you, Andrew?"

"Yes, Sir," said Andrew.

"How much would you pay for that, John?" asked

Sir.

"I can't say. I'm not a collector of such things."

"Would you believe I've been offered two hundred

Sfty dollars for that small thing? Andrew has made

chairs that have sold for Bve hundred dollars. There's

two hundred thousand dollars in the bank out of An-

drew's products."

"Good heavens, he's making you rich, Gerald."

"Half rich," said Sir. "Half of it is in an account in

tile name of Andrew Martin."

"The robot?"

"That's right, and I want to know if ifs legal."

"Legal?" Feingold's chair creaked as he leaned back

in it. "There are no precedents, Gerald. How did your

robot sign the necessary papers?"

"He can sign his name, and I brought in the signa-

ture. I didn't bring him in to the bank himself. Is

there anything further that ought to be done?"

"\Jm." Feingold's eyes seemed to turn inward for a

moment. Then he said, "Well, we can set up a trust to

handle all finances in his name, and that will place a

OPUS 200                 91

layer of insulation between him and the hostile world.

Further than that, my advice is you do nothing. No

one is stopping you so far. If anyone objects, let him

bring suit."

"And will you take the case if suit is brought?"

"For a retainer, certainly."

"How much^"

"Something like that," and Feingold pointed to the

wooden plaque.

"Fair enough," said Sir.

Feingold chuckled as he turned to the robot. "An-

drew, are you pleased that you have money?"

a-sr       • »

Yes, sir.

"What do you plan to do with it?"

"Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir would have

to pay for. It would save him expense, sir."

The occasions came. Repairs were expensive, and revi-

sions were even more so. Over the years, new models

of robots were produced, and Sir saw to it that An-

drew had the advantage of every new device, until he

was a paragon of metallic excellence. It was all at An-

drew's expense. Andrew insisted on that.

Only his positronic pathways were untouched. Sir

insisted on that.

"The new ones aren't as good as you are, Andrew,**

he said. "The new robots are worthless. The company

has learned to make the pathways more precise, more

closely on the nose, more deeply on the track. The

new robots don't shift They do what they're designed

for and never stray. I like you better."

"Thank you, Sir."

"And it's your doing, Andrew, don't you forget that

I am certain Mansky put an end to generalized path-

ways as soon as he had a good look at you. He didn't

92

ISAAC ASIMOV

like the unpredictability ... Do you know how

many times he asked for you so he could place you

under study? Nine timesi I never let him have you,

though, and now that he's retired, we may have some

peace."

So Sir's hair thinned and grayed and his face grew

pouchy, while Andrew looked rather better than he

had when he first joined the family.

Ma'am had joined an art colony somewhere in Eu-

rope and Miss was a poet in New York. They wrote

sometimes, but not often. Little Miss was married and

lived not far away. She said she did not want to leave

Andrew, and when her child. Little Sir, was born, she

let Andrew hold the bottle and feed him.

With the birth of a grandson, Andrew felt that Sir

had someone now to replace those who had gone. It

would not be so unfair to come to him with the re-

quest.

Andrew said, "Sir, it is kind of you to have allowed

me to spend my money as I wished."

"It was your money, Andrew."

"Only by your voluntary act. Sir. I do not believe

tile law would have stopped you from keeping it all."

The law won't persuade me to do wrong, Andrew."

"Despite all expenses, and despite taxes, too. Sir, I

have nearly six hundred thousand dollars."

"I know that, Andrew."

*'! want to give it to you. Sir."

**I won't take it, Andrew."

*'In exchange for something you can give me, Sir."

"Oh? What is that, Andrew?"

"My freedom. Sir."

"Your-"

"I wish to buy my freedom. Sir."

OPUS 200                 93

It wasn't that easy. Sir had flushed, had said, "For

God's sake!" had turned on his heel, and stalked away.

It was Little Miss who brought him around, de-

fiantly and harshly—and in front of Andrew. For

thirty years, no one had hesitated to talk in front of

Andrew, whether the matter involved Andrew or not.

He was only a robot.

She said, "Dad, why are you taking it as a personal

affront? He'll still be here. He'll still be loyal. He

can't help that. It's built in. All he wants is a form of

words. He wants to be called tree. Is that so terrible?

Hasn't he earned it? Heavens, he and I have been

talking about it for years."

"Talking about it for years, have you?"

"Yes, and over and over again, he postponed it for

fear he would hurt you. I made him put it up to you,"

"He doesn't know what freedom is. He's a robot."

"Dad, you don't know him. He's read everything in

the library. I don't know what^he feels inside but I

don't know what you feel inside- When you talk to him

you'll find he reacts to the various abstractions as you

and I do. and what else counts? If someone else's reac-

tions are like your own, what more can you ask

for?"

"The law won't take that attitude," Sir said angrily.

"See here, you!" He turned to Andrew with a deliber-

ate grate in his voice. "1 can't free you except by

doing it legally, and, if it gets into the courts, you not

only won't get your freedom, but the law will take

official cognizance of your money. They'll tell you

that a robot has no right to earn money. Is this rig-

marole worth losing your money?"

"Freedom is without price. Sir," said Andrew. "Even

the chance of freedom is worth the money."

94

ISAAC ASIMOV

The court might also take the attitude that freedom

was without price, and might decide that for no price,

however great, could a robot buy its freedom.

The simple statement of the regional attorney who

represented those who had brought a class action to

oppose the freedom was this: The word "freedom"

had no meaning when applied to a robot. Only a hu-

man being could be free.

He said it several times, when it seemed appropriate;

slowly, with his hand coming down rhythmically on

the desk before him to mark the words.

Little Miss asked permission to speak on behalf of

Andrew. She was recognized by her full name, some-

thing Andrew had never heard pronounced before:

"Amanda Laura Martin Chamey may approach the

bench."

She said, "Thank you, your honor. I am not a lawyer

and I don't know the proper way of phrasing things,

but I hope you will listen to my meaning and ignore

the words.

"Let's understand what it means to be free in An-

drew's case. In some ways, he is free. I think it's at

least twenty years since anyone in the Martin family

gave him an order to do something that we felt he

might not do of his own accord.

"But we can, if we wish, give him an order to do

anything, couch it as harshly as we wish, because he is

a machine that belongs to us. Why should we be in a

position to do so, when he has served us so long, so

faithfully, and earned so much money for us? He owes

us nothing more. The debt is entirely on the other

side.

"Even if we were legally forbidden to place Andrew

in involuntary servitude, he would still serve us volun-

opus 200                 95

tarily. Making him free would be a trick of words

only, but it would mean much to him. It would give

him everything and cost us nothing."

For a moment the Judge seemed to be suppressing a

smile. "I see your point, Mrs. Charney. The fact is that

there is no binding law in this respect and no prece-

dent. There is, however, the unspoken assumption that

only a human can enjoy freedom. I can make new law

here, subject to reversal in a higher court, but I can-

not lightly run counter to that assumption. Let me ad-

dress the robot. Andrewl"

"Yes, your honor."

It was the first time Andrew had spoken in court

and the judge seemed astonished for a moment at the

human timbre of the voice. He said, "Why do you

want to be free, Andrew? In what way will this matter

to you?"

Andrew said, "Would you wish to be a slave, your

honor?"

"But you are not a slave. You are a perfectly good

robot, a genius of a robot I am given to understand,

capable of an artistic expression that can be matched

nowhere. What more could you do if you were free?"

"Perhaps no more than I do now, your honor, but

with greater joy. It has been said in this courtroom

that only a human being can be free. It seems to me

that only someone who wishes for freedom can be

free. I wish for freedom."

And it was that that cued the judge. The crucial

sentence in his decision was: "There is no right to

deny freedom to any object with a mind advanced

enough to grasp the concept and desire the state."

It was eventually upheld by the World Court

96

ISAAC ASIMOV

Sir remained displeased, and his harsh voice made An-

drew feel almost as though he were being short-

circuited.

Sir said, "I don't want your damned money, An-

drew. HI take it only because you won't feel free oth-

erwise. From now on, you can select your own jobs

and do them as you please. I will give you no orders,

except this one—that you do as you please. But I am

still responsible for you; that's part of the court order.

I hope you understand that."

Little Miss interrupted. "Don't be irascible. Dad.

The responsibility is no great chore. You know you

won't have to do a thing. The Three Laws still hold."

Then how is he free?"

Andrew said, "Are not human beings bound T^y

their laws. Sir?"

Sir said, "I'm not going to argue." He left, and An-

drew saw him only infrequently after that.

Little Miss came to see him frequently in the small

house that had been built and made over for him. It

had no kitchen, of course, nor bathroom facilities. It

had just two rooms; one was a library and one was a

combination storeroom and workroom. Andrew ac-

cepted many commissions and worked harder as a

free robot than he ever had before, till the cost of the

house was paid for and the structure legally trans-

ferred to him.

One day Little Sir came . . . No, Georgel Little Sir

had insisted on that after the court decision. "A free

robot doesn't call anyone Little Sir," George had said.

"I call you Andrew. You must call me George."

It was phrased as an order, so Andrew called him

George—but Little Miss remained Little Miss.

The day George came alone, it was to say that Sir

OPUS 200                  97

was dying. Little Miss was at the bedside but Sir

wanted Andrew as well.

Sir's voice was quite strong, though he seemed un-

able to move much. He struggled to get his hand up.

"Andrew," he said, "Andrew—Don't help me, George.

I'm only dying; I'm not crippled . . . Andrew, I'm

glad you're free, I just wanted to tell you that."

Andrew did not know what to say. He had never

been at the side of someone dying before, but he

knew it was the human way of ceasing to function. It

was an involuntary and irreversible dismantling, and

Andrew did not know what to say that might be ap-

propriate. He could only remain standing, absolutely

silent, absolutely motionless.

When it was over, Little Miss said to him, "He may

not have seemed friendly to you toward the end, An-

drew, but he was old, you know, and it hurt him that

you should want to be free."

And then Andrew found the words to say. He said,

"I would never have been free without him. Little

Miss."

It was only after Sir's death that Andrew began to

wear clothes. He began with an old pair of trousers at

first, a pair that George had given him.

George was married now, and a lawyer. He had

joined Feingold's firm. Old Feingold was long since

dead, but his daughter had carried on and eventually

the firm's name became Feingold and Martin. It re-

mained so even when the daughter retired and no

Feingold took her place. At the time Andrew put on

clothes for the first time, the Martin name had just

been added to the firm.

George had tried not to smile the first time Andrew

98

ISAAC ASIMOV

put on the trousers, but to Andrew's eyes the smile

was clearly there.

George showed Andrew how to manipulate the

static charge so as to allow the trousers to open, wrap

about his lower body, and move shut. George demon-

strated on his own trousers, but Andrew was quite

aware that it would take him awhile to duplicate that

one flowing motion.

George said, "But why do you want trousers, An-

drew? Your body is so beautifully functional it's a

shame to cover it—especially when you needn't worry

about either temperature control or modesty. And it

doesn't cling properly, not on metal."

Andrew said, "Are not human bodies beautifully

functional, George? Yet you cover yourselves."

"For warmth, for cleanliness, for protection, for dec-

orativeness. None of that applies to you."

Andrew said, "I feel bare without clothes. I feel dif-

ferent, George."

"DifferentI Andrew, there are millions of robots on

Earth now. In this region, according to the last census,

there are almost as many robots as there are men."

"I know, George. There are robots doing every con-

ceivable type of work."

"And none of them wears clothes."

"But none of them is free, George."

Little by little, Andrew added to the wardrobe. He

was inhibited by George's smile and by the stares of

the people who commissioned work.

He might be free, but there was built into him a

carefully detailed program concerning his behavior to-

ward people, and it was only by the tiniest steps that

he dared advance. Open disapproval would set him

back months.

Not everyone accepted Andrew as free. He was in-

OPUS 200                  99

capable of resenting that, and yet there was a diffi-

culty about his thinking process when he thought of

it.

Most of all, he tended to avoid putting on clothes-

or too many of them-when he thought Little Miss

might come to visit him. She was old now and was

often away in some warmer climate, but when she re-

turned the first thing she did was visit him.

On one of her returns, George said ruefully, "She's

got me, Andrew. I'll be running for the Legislature

next vear. Like grandfather, she says, like grandson."

"Like grandfather—" Andrew stopped, uncertain.

"I mean that I, George, the grandson, will be like

Sir, the grandfather, who was in the Legislature once."

Andrew said, "It would be pleasant, George, if Sir

were still—" He paused, for he did not want to say, "in

working order." That seemed inappropriate.

"Alive," said George, "yes, I think of the old mon-

ster now and then, too."

It was a conversation Andrew thought about. He

had noticed his own incapacity in speech when talk-

ing with George. Somehow the language had changed

since Andrew had come into being with an innate vo-

cabulary. Then, too, George used a colloquial speech,

as Sir and Little Miss had not. Why should he have

called Sir a monster when surely that word was not

appropriate?

Nor could Andrew turn to his own books for guid-

ance. They were old and most dealt with woodwork-

ing, with art, with furniture design. There were none

on language, none on the way of human beings.

It was at that moment that it seemed to him he

must seek the proper books; and as a free robot, he

felt he must not ask George. He would go to town and

use the library. It was a triumphant decision, and he

100

ISAAC ASIMOV

felt his elech-opotential grow distinctly higher until he

had to throw in an impedance coil.

He put on a full costume, even including a shoulder

chain of wood. He would have preferred the slitter

plastic, but George had said that wood was much more

appropriate and that polished cedar was considerably

more valuable as well.

He had placed a hundred feet between himself and

the house before gathering resistance brought him to a

halt. He shifted the impedance coil out of circuit, and,

when that did not seem to help enough, he returned

to his home and on a piece of notepaper wrote neatly,

"I Have gone to the library," and placed it in clear

view on his worktable.

Andrew never quite got to the library. He had stud-

ied the map. He knew the route but not the appear-

ance of it. The actual landmarks did not resemble the

symbols on the map and he would hesitate. Eventu-

ally he thought he must have somehow gone wrong, for

everything looked strange.

He passed an occasional Beld robot, but at the time

he decided he should ask his way, there was none in

sight. A vehicle passed and did not stop. He stood ir-

resolute, which meant calmly motionless, and then

coming across the field toward him were two human

beings.

He turned to face them, and they altered their

course to meet him. A moment before, they had been

talking loudly; he had heard their voices; but now

they were silent. They had the look that Andrew asso-

ciated with human uncertainty, and they were young,

but not very young. Twenty perhaps? Andrew could

never judge human age.

OPUS 200                 101

He said, "Would you describe to me the route to the

town library, sirs?"

One of them, the taller of the two, whose tall hat

lengthened him still farther, almost grotesquely, said,

not to Andrew but to the other, "It's a robot."

The other had a bulbous nose and heavy eyelids.

He said, not to Andrew but to the first, "It's wearing

clothes."

The tall one snapped his fingers. "It's the free ro-

bot. They have a robot at Martins who isn't owned by

anybody. Why else would it be wearing clothes?"

"Ask it," said the one with the nose.

"Are you the Martin robot?" asked the tall one.

"I am Andrew Martin, sir." said Andrew.

"Good. Take off your clothes. Robots don't wear

clothes." He said to the other, "That's disgusting. Look

at him."

Andrew hesitated. He hadn't heard an order in that

tone of voice in so long that his Second Law circuits

had momentarily jammed.

The tall one said, "Take off your clothes. I order

you."

Slowly, Andrew began to remove them.

"Just drop them," said the tall one.

The nose said, "If it doesn't belong to anyone, he

could be ours as much as someone else's."

"Anyway," said the tall one, "who's to object to any-

thing we do? We're not damaging property . . .

Stand on your head." That was to Andrew.

"The head is not meant—" began Andrew.

"That's an order. If you don't know how, try any-

way."

Andrew hesitated again, then bent to put his head

on the ground. He tried to lift his legs and fell, heav-

ay.

102

XSAAC ASIMOV

The tall one said, "Just lie there." He said to the

other, "we can take him apart. Ever take a robot

apart?"

"Will he let us?"

"How can he stop us?"

There was no way Andrew could stop them if they

ordered him not to resist in a forceful enough manner.

The Second Law of obedience took precedence over

the Third Law of self-preservation. In any case, he

could not defend himself without possibly hurting

them and that would mean breaking the First Law. At

that thought, every motile unit contracted slightly and

he quivered as he lay there.

The tall one walked over and pushed him with his

foot. "He's heavy. I think we'll need tools to do the

job,"

The nose said, "We could order him to take himself

apart. It would be fun to watch him try."

"Yes," said the tall one thoughtfully, "but let's get

him off the road. If someone comes along—"

It was too late. Someone had indeed come along,

and it was George. From where he lay, Andrew had

seen him topping a small rise in the middle distance.

He would have liked to signal him in some way, but

the last order had been, "Just lie there!"

George was running now and he arrived somewhat

winded. The two young men stepped back a little and

then waited thoughtfully.

George said anxiously, "Andrew, has something

gone wrong?"

Andrew said, "I am well, George."

"Then stand up ... What 1' 'illWallJJl' your

clothes?"                                   '*!~"_

The tall young man said, "That your robot, mac?"

OPUS 200                103

George turned sharply. "He's no one's robot. What's

been, going on here?"

"We politely asked him to take his clothes off.

What's that to you if you don't own him?"

George said, "What were they doing, Andrew?"

Andrew said, "It was their intention in some way to

dismember me. They were about to move me to a

quiet spot and order me to dismember myself."

George looked at the two and his chin trembled.

The two young men retreated no further. They were

smiling. The tall one said lightly, "What are you going

to do, pudgy? Attack us?"

George said, "No. I don't have to. This robot has

been with my family for over seventy years. He knows

us and he values us more than he values anyone else.

I am going to tell him that you two are threatening my

life and that you plan to kill me-1 will ask him to defend

me. In choosing between me and you two, he will

choose me. Do you know what will happen to you

when he attacks you?"

The two were backing away slightly, looking un-

easy.

George said sharply, "Andrew, I am in danger and

about to come to harm from these young men. Move

toward theml"

Andrew did so, and the two young men did not

wait. They ran fleetly.

"All right, Andrew, relax," said George. He looked

unstrung. He was far past the age where he could face

the possibility of a dustup with one young man, let

.^..JkAJJ^>_———Jl^^m.Bmm__.

^^^^^^^^HBP't have hurt -them, George. I

!n^^^fl^^^^^enDc.attacking..you." _ ^

"I didn't order you to attack them; I only ,to)d you

104

ISAAC ASIMOV

to move toward them. Their own fears did the rest."

"How can they fear robots?"

"It's a disease of mankind, one of which it is not yet

cured. But never mind that What the devil are you

doing here, Andrew? I was on the point of turning

back and hiring a helicopter when I found you. How

did you get it into your head to go to the library? I

would have brought you any books you needed."

"I am a—" began Andrew.

"Free robot. Yes, yes. All right, what did you want

in the library?"

"I want to know more about human beings, about

the world, about everything. And about robots,

George. I want to write a history about robots."

George said, "Well, let's walk home . . . And pick

up your clothes first. Andrew, there are a million

books on robotics and all of them include histories of

the science. The world is growing saturated not only

with robots but with information about robots."

Andrew shook his head, a human gesture he had

lately begun to make. "Not a history of robotics,

George. A history of robots, by a robot. I want to ex-

plain how robots feel about what has happened since

the first ones were allowed to work and live on

Earth."

George's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing in di-

rect response.

Little Miss was fust past her eighty-third birthday,

but there was nothing about her that was lacking in

either energy or determination. Shfi flBShtftA^fife- "^

cane more often than she proppficl^BllHl^p^nHlF^

She listened to the story in a fury of indignation.

She said, "George, that's horrible. Who were those

young ruffians?"

OPUS 200                 105

"I don't know. What difference does it make? In the

end they did no damage."

"They might have. You're a lawyer, George, and if

you're well off, it's entirely due to the talent of An-

drew. It was the money he earned that is the founda-

tion of everything we have. He provides the continu-

ity for this family, and I will not have him treated as a

wind-up toy."

"What would you have me do. Mother?" asked

George.

"I said you're a lawyer. Don't you listen? You set up

a test case somehow, and you force the regional courts

to declare for robot rights and get the Legislature to

pass the necessary bills, and carry the whole thing to

the World Court, if you have to. I'll be watching,

George, and I'll tolerate no shirking."

She was serious, and what began as a way of sooth-

ing the fearsome old lady became an involved mat-

ter with enough legal entanglement to make it inter-

esting. As senior partner of Feingold and Martin,

George plotted strategy but left the actual work to his

Junior partners, with much of it a matter for his son,

Paul, who was also a member of die firm and who

reported dutifully nearly every day to his grand-

mother. She, in turn, discussed it every day with An-

drew.

Andrew was deeply involved. His work on his book

on robots was delayed again as he pored over the le-

gal arguments and even, at times, made very diffident

suggestions.

He said, "George told me that day that human

beings have always been afraid of robots. As long as

they are, the courts and the legislatures are not likely

to work hard on behalf of robots. Should there not be

something done about public opinion?"

106

ISAAC ASIMOV

So while Paul stayed in court, George took to the

public platform. It gave him the advantage of being

informal, and he sometimes even went so far as to

wear the new, loose style of clothing that he called

drapery. Paul said, "Just don't trip over it onstage,

Dad."

George said despondently, "I'll try not to."

He addressed the annual convention of holo-news

editors on one occasion and said, in part:

"If, by virtue of the Second Law, we can demand of

any robot unlimited obedience in all respects not in-

volving harm to a human being, then, any human

being, any human being, has a fearsome power over

any robot, any robot. In particular, since the Second

Law supersedes the Third Law. any human being can

use the law of obedience to overcome the law of self-

protection. He can order any robot to damage itself or

even destroy itself for any reason, or for no reason.

"Is this just? Would we treat an animal so? Even an

inanimate object that has given us good service has a

claim on our consideration. And a robot is not insensi-

ble; it is not an animal. It can think well enough to

enable it to talk to us, reason with us, joke with us.

Can we treat them as friends, can we work together

with them, and not give them some of the fruit of that

friendship, some of the benefit of co-working?

"If a man has the right to give a robot any order

that does not involve harm to a human being, he

should have the decency never to give a robot any

order that involves harm to a robot, unless human

safety absolutely requires it WU^i ^FWtJMweet goes

great responsibility, ^u^^^|IS^^p^ ^e^r^e

Laws to protect men, is it too much to ask that men

have a law or two to protect robots?"

Andrew was right It was the battle over public

OPUS 200                 107

opinion that held the key to courts and Legislature

and in the end a law passed which set up conditions

under which robot-harming orders were forbidden. It

was endlessly qualified and the punishments for vio-

lating the law were totally inadequate, but the princi-

ple was established. The final passage by the World

Legislature came through on the day of Little Miss's

death.

That was no coincidence. Little Miss held on to life

desperately during the last debate and let go only

when word of victory arrived. Her last smile was for

Andrew. Her last words were: "You have been good

to us, Andrew."

She died with her hand holding his, while her son

and his wife and children remained at a respectful dis-

tance from both.

Andrew waited patiently while the receptionist disap-

peared into the inner office. It might have used the

holographic chatterbox, but unquestionably it was un-

manned (or perhaps unroboted) by having to deal

with another robot rather than with a human being.

Andrew passed the time revolving the matter in his

mind. Could "unroboted" be used as an analogue of

"unmanned," or had "unmanned" become a meta-

phoric term sufficiently divorced from its original lit-

eral meaning to be applied to robots—or to women,

for that matter?

Such problems came up frequently as he worked on

his book on robots. The trick of thinking out sentences

to express all complexities had undoubtedly increased

his vocabulary.

Occasionally, someone came into the room to stare

at him and he did not try to avoid the glance. He

looked at each calmly, and each in turn looked away.

108

ISAAC ASIMOV

Paul Martin finally came out. He looked surprised,      £,

or he would have if Andrew could have made out his

expression with certainty. Paul had taken to wearing      —

the heavy makeup that fashion was dictating for both      '..

sexes, and though it made sharper and firmer the

somewhat bland lines of his face, Andrew disari-      ,

proved. He found that disapproving of human beings,

as long as he did not express it verbally, did not make      ^

him very uneasy. He could even write the disap-      ||

proval. He was sure it had not always been so.             ?

Paul said, "Come in, Andrew. I'm sorry I made you      ?

wait but there was something I had to finish. Come

in. You had said you wanted to talk to me, but I didn't

know you meant here in town."

"If you are busy, Paul. I am prepared to continue to

wait."

Paul glanced at the interplay of shifting shadows on

the dial on the wall that served as timepiece and said,

"I can make some time. Did you come alone?"

"I hired an automatobile."

"Any trouble?" Paul asked with more than a trace of

anxiety.

1 wasn't expecting any. My rights are protected."

Paul looked the more anxious for that. "Andrew,

I've explained that the law is unenforceable, at least

under most conditions . . , And if you insist on wear-

ing clothes, you'll run into trouble eventually—just like

that first time."

"And only time, Paul. I'm sorry you are displeased.**

"Well, look at it this way; you are virtually a living

legend, Andrew, and you are too valuable in many

different ways for you to have any right to take

chances with yourself . . . How's the book coming?"

"I am approaching th* end, Paul. The publisher is

quite pleased."

OPUS 200                 109

"Good!'

"I don't know that he's necessarily pleased with the

book as a book. I think he expects to sell many copies

because it's written by a robot and it's that that

pleases him."

"Only human, I'm afraid."

"I am not displeased. Let it sell for whatever reason

since it will mean money and I can use some."

"Grandmother left you—"

"Little Miss was crenerous, and I'm sure I can count

on the family to help me out further. But it is the roy-

alties from the book on which I am counting to help

me through the next step."

"What next ste^ is that?"

"I wish to see the head of U. S. Robots and Me-

chanical Men, Inc. I have tried to make an apnoint-

ment, but so far I have not been able to reach him.

The corporation did not cooperate with me in the

writing of the book, so I am not surprised, you under-

stand."

Paul was clearly amused. "Cooperation is the last

thing you can exoect They didn't cooperate with us in

our great fight for robot rights. Quite the reverse, and

you can see why. Give a robot rights and people may

not want to buy them."

"Nevertheless," said Andrew, "if you call them, you

may obtain an interview for me."

"I'm no more popular with them than you are, An-

drew."

"But perhaps you can hint that by seeing me they

may head off a campaign by Feingold and Martin to

strengthen the rights of robots further."

"Wouldn't that be a lie, Andrew?"

"Yes, Paul, and I can't tell one. That is why you

must call."

110

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Ah, you can't lie, but you can urge me to tell a lie,

is that it? You're getting more human all the time, An-

drew."

It was not easy to arrange, even with Paul's suppos-

edly weighted name.

But it was finally carried through and, when it was,

Harley Smythe-Robertson, who, on his mother's side,

was descended from the original founder of the corpo-

ration and who had adopted the hyphenation to indi-

cate it, looked remarkably unhappy. He was ap-

proaching retirement age and his entire tenure as

president had been devoted to the matter of robot

rights. His gray hair was plastered thinly over the top

of his scalp, his face was not made up, and he eyed

Andrew with brief hostility from time to time.

Andrew said, "Sir, nearly a century ago, I was told

by a Merton Mansky of this corporation that the

mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic

pathways was far too complicated to permit of any

but approximate solutions and that therefore my own

capacities were not fully predictable."

"That was a century ago." Smythe-Robertson hesi-

tated, then said icily, "Sir. It is true no longer. Our

robots are made with precision now and are trained

precisely to their jobs."

"Yes," said Paul, who had come along, as he said, to

make sure that the corporation played fair, "with the

result that my receptionist must be guided at every

point once events depart from the conventional, how-

ever slightly."

Smythe-Robertson said, "You would be much more

displeased if it were to improvise."

Andrew said, 'Then you no longer manufacture ro-

bots like myself that are flexible and adaptable."

OPUS 200                 111

"No longer."

"The research I have done in connection with my

book," said Andrew, "indicates that I am the oldest

robot presently in active operation."

"The oldest presently," said Smythe-Robertson,

"and the oldest ever. The oldest that will ever be. No

robot is useful after the twenty-fifth year. They are

called in and replaced with newer models."

"No robot as presently manufactured is useful after

the twenty-fifth year," said Paul pleasantly. "Andrew

is quite exceptional in this respect."

Andrew, adhering to the path he had marked out

for himself, said, "As the oldest robot in the world and

the most flexible, am I not unusual enough to merit

special treatment from the company?"

"Not at all," said Smythe-Robertson freezingly.

"Your unusualness is an embarrassment to the com-

pany. If you were on lease, instead of having been a

sale outright through some mischance, you would long

since have been replaced."

"But that is exactly the point," said Andrew. "I am a

free robot and I own myself. Therefore I come to you

and ask you to replace me. You cannot do this without

the owner's consent. Nowadays, that consent is ex-

torted as a condition of the lease, but in my time this

did not happen."

Smythe-Robertson was looking both startled and

puzzled, and for a moment there was silence. Andrew

found himself staring at the holograph on the wall. It

was a death mask of Susan Calvin, patron saint of all

roboticists. She was dead nearly two centuries now,

but as a result of writing his book Andrew knew her

so well he could half persuade himself that he had

met her in life.

Smythe-Robertson said, "How can I replace you for

112

ISAAC ASIMOV

you? If I replace you as a robot, how can I donate the

new robot to you as owner since in the very act of

replacement you cease to exist?" He smiled grimly.

"Not at all difficult," interposed Paul. "The seat of

Andrew's personality is his positronic brain, and it is

the one part that cannot be replaced without creating

a new robot. The positronic brain, therefore, is An-

drew the owner. Every other part of the robotic body

can be replaced without affecting the robot's person-

ality, and those other parts are the brain's possessions.

Andrew, I should say, wants to supply his brain with

a new robotic body."

That's right," said Andrew calmly. He turned to

Smythe-Bobertson. "You have manufactured androids,

haven't you? Robots that have the outward appear-

ance of humans complete to the texture of the skin?"

Smythe-Robertson said, "Yes, we have. They

worked perfectly well, with their synthetic fibrous

skins and tendons. There was virtually no metal any-

where except for the brain, yet they were nearly as

tough as metal robots. They were tougher, weight for

weight"

Paul looked interested. **I didn't know that How

many are on the market?"

"None," said Smythe-Robertson. They were much

more expensive than metal models and a market sur-

vey showed they would not be accepted. They looked

too human."

Andrew said, "But the corporation retains its exper-

tise, I assume. Since it does, I wish to request that I

be replaced by an organic robot, an android."

Paul looked surprised. "Good Lord," he said.

Smythe-Bobertson stiffened. "Quite impossiblel"

"Why is it impossible?" asked Andrew. "I will pay

any reasonable fee, of course."

OPUS 200                 113

Smythe-Robertson said, "We do not manufacture

androids."

"You do not choose to manufacture androids," inter-

posed Paul quickly. That is not the same as being

unable to manufacture them."

Smythe-Robertson said, "Nevertheless, the manu-

facture of androids is against public policy."

There is no law against it," said Paul.

"Nevertheless, we do not manufacture them, and we

will not."

Paul cleared his throat. "Mr. Smythe-Robertson," he

said, "Andrew is a free robot who is under the pur-

view of the law guaranteeing robots^ rights. You are

aware of this, I take it?"

"Only too well."

This robot, as a free robot, chooses to wear clothes.

This results in his being frequently humiliated by

thoughtless human beings despite the law against the

humiliation of robots. It is difficult to prosecute

vague offenses that don't meet with the general disap-

proval of those who must decide on guilt and inno-

cence."

"U. S. Robots understood that from the start. Your

father's firm unfortunately did not."

"My father is dead now," said Paul, "but what I see

is that we have here a clear offense with a clear tar-

get."

"What are you talking about?" said Smythe-

Robertson.

"My client. Andrew Martin—he has Just become my

client—is a free robot who is entitled to ask U. S. Ro-

bots and Mechanical Men, Inc., for the right of re-

placement, which the corporation supplies anyone

who owns a robot for more than twenty-five years. In

fact, the corporation insists on such replacement."

114

ISAAC ASIMOV

Paul was smiling and thoroughly at his ease. He

went on, 'The positronic brain of my client is the

owner of the body of my client—which is certainly

more than twenty-Bve years old. The positronic brain

demands the replacement of the body and offers to

pay any reasonable fee for an android body as that

replacement. If you-refuse the request, my client un-

dergoes humiliation and we will sue.

"While public opinion would not ordinarily support

the claim of a robot in such a case, may I remind you

that U. S. Robots is not popular with the public gen-

erally. Even those who most use and profit from ro-

bots are suspicious of the corporation. This may be a

hangover from the days when robots were widely

feared. It may be resentment against the power and

wealth of U. S. Robots, which has a worldwide mono-

poly. Whatever the cause may be, the resentment ex-

ists and I think you will find that you would prefer

not to withstand a lawsuit, particularly since my client

is wealthy and will live tor many more centuries and

will have no reason to refrain from fighting the battle

forever."

Smythe-Robertson had slowly reddened. "You are

trying to force me to—"

"I force you to do nothing," said Paul. "If you wish

to refuse to accede to my client's reasonable request,

you may by all means do so and we will leave without

another word . . . But we will sue, as is certainly our

right, and you will find that you will eventually

lose."

Smythe-Robertson said, "Well—" and paused.

"I see that you are going to accede," said Paul. "You

may hesitate but you will come to it in the end. Let

me assure you, then, of one further point. If, in the

process of transferring my client's positronic brain

OPUS 200

115

from his present body to an organic one, there is any

damage, however slight, then I will never rest till I've

nailed the corporation to the ground. I will, if neces-

sary, take every possible step to mobilize public opin-

ion against the coi-noration if one brain path of my

client's platinum-iridium essence is scrambled." He

turned to Andrew and said, "Do you agree to all this,

Andrew?"

Andrew hesitated a full minute. It amounted to the

approval of lying, of blackmail, of the badgering and

humiliation of a human bein^. But not physical harm,

he told himself, not physical harm.

He managed at last to come out with a rather faint

"Yes."

It was like being constructed again. For days, then for

weeks, finally for months, Andrew found himself not

himself somehow, and the simplest actions kept giving

rise to hesitation.

Paul was frantic. "They've damaged you, Andrew.

We'll have to institute suit."

Andrew spoke very slowly. "You mustn't. You'll

never be able to prove— something— m-m-m-m—"

"Malice?"

"Malice. Besides, I grow stronger, better. Ifs the tr-

tr-tr-"

Tremble?"

"Trauma. After all, there's never been such an op-

op-operation before."

Andrew could feel his brain from the inside. No one

else could. He knew he was well, and during the

months that it took him to learn full coordination and

full positronic interplay, he spent hours before the

mirror.

Not quite humani The face was stiff—too stiff—and

116

ISAAC ASIMOV

the motions were too deliberate. They lacked the care-

less free flow of the human being, but perhaps that

might come with time. At least he could wear clothes

without the ridiculous anomaly of a metal face going

along with it.

Eventually he said, "I will be going back to work."

Paul laughed and said, "That means you are well.

What will you be doing? Another book?"

"No," said Andrew seriously. "I live too long for any

one career to seize me by the throat and never let me

go. There was a time when I was primarily an artist

and I can still turn to that. And there was a time when

I was a historian and I can still turn to that. But now I

wish to be a robobiologist"

"A robopsychologist, you mean."

"No. That would imply the study of positronic

brains and at the moment I lack the desire to do that.

A robobiologist, it seems to me, would be concerned

with the working of the body attached to that brain."

"Wouldn't that be a roboticist?"

"A roboticist works with a metal body. I would be

studying an organic humanoid body, of which I have

the only one, as far as I know."

"You narrow your field," said Paul thoughtfully. "As

an artist, all conception was yours; as a historian, you

dealt chiefly with robots, as a robobiologist, you will

deal with yourself."

Andrew nodded. "It would seem so."

Andrew had to start from the very beginning, for he

knew nothing of ordinary biology, almost nothing of

science. He became a familiar sight in the libraries,

where he sat at the electronic indices for hours at a

time. looking perfectly normal in clothes. Those few

who knew he was a robot in no way interfered with

him.

OPUS 200

117

He built a laboratory in a room he had added to his

house, and his library grew, too.

Years passed, and Paul came to him one day and

said, "It's a pity you're no longer working on the his-

tory of robots. I understand U. S. Robots is adopting a

radically new policy,"

Paul had aged, and his deteriorating eyes had been

replaced with photoptic cells. In that respect, he had

drawn closer to Andrew. Andrew said, "What have

they done?"

"They are manufacturing central computers, gigan-

tic positronic brains, really, which communicate with

anywhere from a dozen to a thousand robots by mi-

crowave. The robots themselves have no brains at all.

They are the limbs of the gigantic brain, and the two

are physically separate.

"Is that more efficient?"

"U. S. Robots claims it is. Smythe-Robertson estab-

lished the new direction before he died, however, and

it's my notion that it's a backlash at you. U. S. Robots

is determined that they will make no robots that will

give them the type of trouble you have, and for that

reason they separate brain and body. The brain will

have no body to wish changed; the body will have no

brain to wish anything.

"It's amazing, Andrew," Paul went on, "the influ-

ence you have had on the history of robots. It was

your artistry that encouraged U. S. Robots to make

robots more precise and specialized; it was your freb-

dom that resulted in the establishment of the principle

of robotic rights; it was your insistence on an android

body that made U. S. Robots switch to brain-body

separation."

Andrew said, "I suppose in the end the corporation

will produce one vast brain controlling several billion

118

ISAAC ASIMOV

robotic bodies. All the eggs will be in one basket

Dangerous. Not proper at all."

"I think you're right," said Paul, "but I don't suspect

it will come to pass for a century at least, and I won't

live to see it. In fact, I may not live to see next year."

"Paul!" said Andrew in concern.

Paul shrugged. "We're mortal, Andrew. We're not

like you. It doesn't matter too much, but it does make

it important to assure you on one point. I'm the last ot

the human Martins. There are collaterals descended

from my great-aunt, but they don't count. The money

I control personally will be left to the trust in your

name, and, as far as anyone can foresee the future, you

will be economically secure."

"Unnecessary," said Andrew with difficulty. In all

this time, he could not get used to the deaths of the

Martins.

Paul said, "Let's not argue. That's the way it's going

to be. What are you working on?"

"I am designing a system for allowing androids—

myself—to gain energy from the combustion of hydro-

carbons, rather than from atomic cells."

Paul raised his eyebrows. "So that they will breathe

and eat?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been pushing in that direc-

tion?"

"For a long time now, but I think I have designed

an adequate combustion chamber for catalyzed con-

trolled breakdown."

"But why, Andrew? The atomic cell is surely infi-

nitely better."

"In some ways, perhaps, but the atomic cell is inhu-

man."

OPUS 200

119

It took time, but Andrew had time- In the first place,

he did not wish to do anything till Paul had died in

peace.

With the death of the great-grandson of Sir, Andrew

felt more nearly exposed to a hostile world, and for

that reason was the more determined to continue the

path he had long ago chosen.

Yet he was not really alone. If a man had died, the

firm of Feingold and Martin lived, for a corporation

does not die any more than a robot does. The firm

had its directions and it followed them soullessly. By

way of the trust and through the law firm, Andrew

continued to be wealthy. And in return for their own

large annual retainer, Feingold and Martin involved

themselves in the legal aspects of the new combustion

chamber.

When the time came for Andrew to visit U. S. Ro-

bots and Mechanical Men, Inc., he did it alone. Once

he had gone with Sir and once with Paul. This time,

the third tune, he was alone and manlike.

U. S. Robots had changed. The production plant

had been shifted to a large space station, as was the

case with more and more industries. With them had

gone many robots. The Earth itself was becoming

parktike, with its one-billion-person population stabi-

lized and perhaps not more than 30 percent of its at

least equally large robot population independently

brained.

The director of research was Alvin Magdescu, dark

of complexion and hair, with a little pointed beard

and wearing nothing above the waist but the breast-

band that fashion dictated. Andrew himself was well

covered in the older fashion of several decades back.

Magdescu said, "I know you, of course, and I'm

rather pleased to see you. You're our most notorious

120

ISAAC ASIMOV

product, and it's a pity old Smythe-Robertson was so

set against you. We could have done a great deal with

you."

"You still can," said Andrew.

"No, I don't think so. We're past the time. We*ve }iad

robots on Earth for over a century, but that's chang-

ing. It will be back to space with them and those that

stay here won't be brained."

"But there remains myself, and I stay on Earth."

'True, but there doesn't seem to be much of the ro-

bot about you. What new request have you?"

"To be still less a robot. Since I am so far organic, I

wish an organic source of energy. I have here the

plans—"

Magdescu did not hasten through them. He might

have intended to at Brst, but he stiffened and grew

intent. At one point he said, "This is remarkably ingeni-

ous. Who thought of all this?"

"I did." said Andrew.

Magdescu looked up at him sharply, then said, "It

would amount to a major overhaul of your body, and

an experimental one, since it has never been at-

tempted before. I advise against it Remain as you

are."

Andrew's face had limited means of expression, but

impatience showed plainly in his voice. "Dr. Mag-

descu, you miss the entire point. You have no choice

but to accede to my request. If such devices can be

built into my body, they can be built into human bod-

ies as well. The tendency to lengthen human life by

prosthetic devices has already been remarked on.

There are no devices better than the ones I have de-

signed and am designing.

"As it happens, I control the patents by way of the

6rm of Feingold and Martin. We are quite capable of

OPUS 200                 121

going into business for ourselves and developing the

kind of prosthetic devices that may end by producing

human beings with many of the properties of robots.

Your own business will then suffer.

"If, however, you operate on me now and agree to

do so under similar circumstances in the future, you

will receive permission to make use of the patents and

control the technology of both robots and the prosthe-

tization of human beings. The initial leasing will not

be granted, of course, until after the first operation is

completed successfully, and after enough time has

passed to demonstrate that it is indeed successful."

Andrew felt scarcely any First Law inhibition to the

stern conditions he was setting a human being. He

was learning to reason that what seemed like cruelty

might, in the long run, be kindness.

Magdescu looked stunned. He said, "I'm not the one

to decide something like this. That's a corporate deci-

sion that would take time."

T can wait a reasonable time," said Andrew, "but

only a reasonable time." And he thought with satisfac-

tion that Paul himself could not have done it better.

It took only a reasonable time, and the operation was

a success.

Magdescu said, "I was very much against the opera-

tion, Andrew, but not for the reasons you might think.

I was not in the least against the experiment, if it had

been on someone else. I hated risking your positronic

brain. Now that you have the positronic pathways in-

teracting with simulated nerve pathways, it might be

difficult to rescue the brain intact if the body went

bad."

"I had every faith in the skill of the staff at U. S.

Robots." said Andrew. "And I can eat now."

122

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Well, you can sip olive oil. It will mean occasional

cleanings of the combustion chamber, as we have ex-

plained to you. Rather an uncomfortable touch, I

should think."

"Perhaps, if I did not expect to go further. Self-

cleaning is not impossible. In fact, I am working on a'

device that will deal with solid food that may be ex-

pected to contain incombustible fractions—indigestible

matter, so to speak, that will have to be discarded."

"You would then have to develop an anus."

*The equivalent."

"What else, Andrew?"

"Everything else."

"Genitalia, too?"

"Insofar as they will fit my plans. My body is a can-

vas on which I intend to draw—"

Magdescu waited for the sentence to be completed,

and when it seemed that it would not be, he com-

pleted it himself. "A man?"

"We shall see," said Andrew.

Magdescu said, "It's a puny ambition, Andrew.

You're better than a man. You've gone downhill from

the moment you opted for organicism."

"My brain has not suffered."

"No, it hasn't. I'll grant you that. But, Andrew, the

whole new breakthrough in prosthetic devices made

possible by your patents is being marketed under

your name. You're recognized as the inventor and

you're honored for it—as you are. Why play further

games with your body?"

Andrew did not answer.

The honors came. He accepted membership in sev-

eral learned societies, including one that was devoted

to the uew science he had established; the one he had

i

OPUS 200                 123

called robobiology but which had come to be termed

prosthetology.

On the one hundred fiftieth anniversary of his con-

struction, there was a testimonial dinner given in his

honor at U. S. Robots. If Andrew saw irony in this, he

kept it to himself.

Alvm Magdescu came out of retirement to chair the

dinner. He was himself ninety-four years old and was

alive because he had prosthetized devices that, among

other things, fulfilled the function of liver and kid-

neys. The dinner reached its climax when Magdescu,

after a short and emotional talk, raised his glass to

toast "the Sesquicentennial Robot,"

Andrew had had the sinews of his face redesigned

to the point where he could show a range of emotions,

but he sat through all the ceremonies solemnly pas-

sive. He did not like to be a Sesquicentennial Robot.

It was prosthetology that finally took Andrew off the

Earth. In the decades that followed the celebration of

the Sesquicentennial, the Moon had come to be a

world more Earthlike than Earth in every respect but

its gravitational pull, and in its underground cities

there was a fairly dense population.

Prosthetized devices there had to take the lesser

gravity into account and Andrew spent five years on

the Moon working with local prosthetologists to make

the necessary adaptations. When not at his work, he

wandered among the robot population, every one of

which treated him with the robotic obsequiousness

due a man.

He came back to an Earth that was humdrum and

quiet by comparison and visited the offices of Fein-

gold and Martin to announce his return.

The current head of the firm, Simon DeLong, was

124

ISAAC ASIMOV

surprised. He said, "We had been told you were re-

turning, Andrew" (he had almost said "Mr. Martin"),

"but we were not expecting vou till next week."

"I grew impatient," said Andrew brusquely. He was

anxious to get to the point. "On the Moon, Simon, I

was in charge of a research team of twenty human

scientists. I gave orders that no one questioned. The

Lunar robots deferred td me as they would to a

human being. Why, then, am I not a human being?"

A wary look entered DeLong's eyes. He said, "My

dear Andrew, as you have just explained, you are

treated as a human being by both robots and human

beings. You are therefore a human being de facto."

"To be a human being de facto is not enough. I

want not only to be treated as one, but to be legally

identified as one. I want to be a human being de

jure."

"Now that is another matter," said DeLong. "There

we would run into human prejudice and into the un-

doubted fact that however much you may be like a

human being, you are not a human being."

"In what way not?" asked Andrew. "I have the

shape of a human being and organs equivalent to

those of a human being. My organs, in fact, are identi-

cal to some of those in a prosthetized human being. I

have contributed artistically, literarily, and scientifi-

cally to human culture as much as any human being

now alive. What more can one ask?"

"I myself would ask nothing more. The trouble is

that it would take an act of the World Legislature to

define you as a human being. Frankly, I wouldn't ex-

pect that to happen."

To whom on the Legislature could I speak?"

*To the chairman of the Science and Technology

Committee perhaps."

OPUS 200                 125

"Can you arrange a meeting?"

"But you scarcely need an intermediary. In your po-

sition, you can—"

"No. You arrange it." (It didn't even occur to An-

drew that he was giving a flat order to a human

being. He had grown accustomed to that on the

Moon.) "I want him to know that the firm of Fein-

gold and Martin is backing me in this to the hilt."

"Well, now—"

"To the hilt, Simon. In one hundred seventy-three

years I have in one fashion or another contributed

greatly to this firm. I have been under obligation to

individual members of the firm in times past. I am

not now. It is rather the other way around now and I

am calling in my debts."

DeLong said, "I will do what I can."

The chairman of the Science and Technology Com-

mittee was of the East Asian region and she was a

woman. Her name was Chee Li-Hsing and lipr trans-

parent garments (obscuring what she wanted ob-

scured only by their dazzle) made her look plastic-

wrapped.

She said, "I sympathize with your wish for full hu-

man rights. There have been times in history when

segments of the human population fought for full hu-

man rights. What rights, however, can you possibly

want that you do not have?"

"As simple a thing as my right to life. A robot can

be dismantled at any time."

"A human being can be executed at any time."

"Execution can only follow due process of law.

There is no trial needed for my dismantling. Only the

word of a human being in authority is needed to end

me. Besides—besides—" Andrew tried desperately to

126                ISAAC ASIMOV

allow no sign of pleading, but his carefully designed

tricks of human expression and tone of voice betrayed

him here. "The truth is, I want to be a man. I have       b,-

wanted it through six generations of human beings."

Li-Hsing looked up at him out of darkly sympa-

thetic eyes. "The Legislature can pass a law declaring'

you one—they could pass a law declaring a stone

statue to be defined as a man. Whether they will ac-

tually do so is, however, as likely in the first case as

the second. Congresspeople are as human as the rest

of the population, and there is always that element of

suspicion against robots."

"Even now?"

"Even now. We would all allow the fact that you

have earned the prize of humanity, and yet there

would remain the fear of setting an undesirable pre-

cedent."

"What precedent? I am the only free robot, the only

one of my type, and there will never be another. You

may consult U. S. Robots."

"'Never' is a long time, Andrew—or, if you prefer,

Mr. Martin—since I will gladiv give you my personal

accolade as man. You will find that most congress-

people will not be willing to set the precedent, no

matter how meaningless such a precedent might be.

Mr. Martin, you have my sympathy, but I cannot tell

you to hope. Indeed—"

She sat back and her forehead wrinkled. "Indeed, if

the issue grows too heated, there might well arise a

certain sentiment, both inside the Legislature and out-

side, for the dismantling you mentioned. Doing away

with you could turn out to be the easiest way of re-

solving the dilemma. Consider that before deciding to

push matters."

Andrew said, "Will no one remember the technique

OPUS 200                 127

of prosthetology, something that is almost entirely

mine?"

"It may seem cruel, but they won't. Or if they do, it

will be remembered against you. It will be said you

did it only for yourself. It will be said it was part of a

campaign to roboticize human beings, or to humanity

robots; and in either case evil and vicious. You have

never been part of a political hate campaign, Mr.

Martin, and I tell vou that you will be the object of

vilification of a kind neither you nor I would credit,

and there would be people who'll believe it all. Mr.

Martin, let your life be." She rose and, next to An-

drew's seated figure, she seemed small and almost

childlike.

Andrew said, "If I decide to fight for my humanity,

will you be on my side?"

She thought, then said, "I will be—insofar as I can

be. If at any time such a stand would appear to

threaten my political future,-1 may have to abandon

you, since it is not an issue I feel to be at the very root

of my beliefs. I am trying to be honest with you."

"Thank you, and I will ask no more. I intend to

fight this through whatever the consequences, and I

will ask you for your help only for as long as you can

give it."

It was not a direct fight. Feingold and Martin coun-

seled patience and Andrew muttered grimly that he

had an endless supply of that. Feingold and Martin

then entered on a campaign to narrow and restrict the

area of combat.

They instituted a lawsuit denying the obligation to

pay debts to an individual with a prosthetic heart on

the grounds that the possession of a robotic organ re-

128

ISAAC ASIMOV

moved humanity, and with it the constitutional rights

of human beings.

They fought the matter skillfully and tenaciously,

losing at every step but always in such a way that the

decision was forced to be as broad as possible, and

then carrying it by way of appeals to the World Court.

It took years, and millions of dollars.

When the final decision was handed down, DeLong

held what amounted to a victory celebration over the

legal loss. Andrew was, of course, present in the com-

pany offices on the occasion.

"We've done two things, Andrew," said DeLong,

"both of which are good. First of all, we have estab-

lished the fact that no number of artifacts in the hu-

man body causes it to cease being a human body. Sec-

ondly, we have engaged public opinion in the

question in such a way as to put it fiercely on the side

of a broad interpretation of humanity since there is

not a human being in existence who does not hope for

prosthetics if that will keep him alive."

"And do you think the Legislature will now grant

me my humanity?" asked Andrew.

DeLong looked faintly uncomfortable. "As to that, I

cannot be optimistic. There remains the one organ

that the World Court has used as the criterion of hu-

manity. Human beings have an organic cellular brain

and robots have a platinum-iridium positronic brain if

they have one at all—and you certainly have a posi-

tronic brain . . . No, Andrew, don't get that look in

your eye. We lack the knowledge to duplicate the

work of a cellular brain in artificial structures close

enough to the organic type to allow it to fall within

the Court's decision. Not even you could do it"

"What should we do, then?"

"Make the attempt, of course. Congresswoman U-

OPUS 200                 129

Hsing will be on our side and a growing number of

other congresspeople. The President will undoubtedly

go along with a majority of the Legislature m this

matter."

"Do we have a majority?"

"No, far from it. But we might get one if the public

will allow its desire for a broad interpretation of hu-

manity to extend to you. A small chance, I admit, but

if you do not wish to give up, we must gamble for it."

"I do not wish to give up."

Congresswoman Li-Hsing was considerably older

than she had been when Andrew had first met her.

Her transparent garments were long gone. Her hair

was now close-cropped and her coverings were tubu-

lar. Yet still Andrew clung, as closely as he could

within the limits of reasonable taste, to the style of

clothing that had prevailed when he had first adopted

clothing over a century before. ^

She said, "We've none as far as we can, Andrew.

We'll try once more after recess, but, to be honest, de-

feat is certain and the whole thing will have to be

given up. All mv most recent efforts have only earned

me a certain defeat in the coming congressional cam-

paign."

"I know," said Andrew, "and it distresses me. You

said once you would abandon me if it came to that.

Whv have you not done so?"

"One can change one's mind, you know. Somehow,

abandoning you became a higher price than I cared to

pav for just one more term. As it is, I've been in the

Legislature for over a quarter of a century. It's

enough."

"Is there no way we can change minds, Chee?"

"We've changed all that are amenable to reason.

130                 ISAAC ASIMOV

The rest—the majority—cannot be moved from their

emotional antipathies."

"Emotional antipathy is not a valid reason for vot-

ing one way or the other."

"I know that, Andrew, but they don't advance emo-

tional antipathy as their reason."

Andrew said cautiously, "It all comes down to the

brain, then, but must we leave it at the level of cells

versus positrons? Is there no way of forcing a func-

tional definition? Must we say that a brain is made of

this or that? May we not say that a brain is something—

anything—capable of a certain level of thought?"

"Won't work," said Li-Hsing. "Your brain is man-

made, the human brain is not. Your brain is con-

structed, theirs developed. To any human being who is

intent on keeping up the barrier between himself and

a robot, those differences are a steel wall a mile high

and a mile thick."

"If we could get at the source of their antipathy—

the very source of—"

"After all your years," said Li-Hsing sadly, "you are

still trying to reason out the human being. Poor An-

drew, don't be angry, but it's the robot in you that

drives you in that direction."

"1 don't know," said Andrew. "If I could bring my-

self-"

If he could bring himself—

He had known for a long time it might come to

that. and in the end he was at the surgeon's. He found

one, skillful enough for the job at hand, which meant

a robot surgeon, for no human surgeon could be

trusted in this connection, either in ability or in inten-

tion,

The surgeon could not have performed the opera-

OPUS 200                131

tion on a human being, so Andrew, after putting off

the moment of decision with a sad line of questioning

that reflected the turmoil within himself, put the First

Law to one side by saying, "I, too, am a robot."

He then said, as firmly as he had learned to form

the words even at human beings over these past dec-

ades, "I order you to carry through the operation on

me."

In the absence of the First Law, an order so firmly

given from one who looked so much like a man acti-

vated the Second Law sufficiently to carry the day.

Andrew's feeling of weakness was, he was sure, quite

imaginary. He had recovered from the operation. Nev-

ertheless, he leaned, as unobtrusively as he could

manage, against the wall. It would be entirely too re-

vealing to sit.

Li-Hsing said, "The final vote will come this week,

Andrew. I've been able to delay it no longer, and we

must lose . . . And that will be it, Andrew."

Andrew said, "I am grateful for your skill at delay.

It gave me the time I needed, and I took the gamble I

had to."

"What gamble is this?*' asked Li-Hsing with open

concern.

"I couldn't tell you, or the people at Feingold and

Martin. I was sure I would be stopped. See here, if it

is the brain that is at issue, isn't the greatest differ-

ence of all the matter of immortality? Who really cares

what a brain looks like or is built of or how it was

formed? What matters is that brain cells die; must die.

Even if every other organ in the body is maintained or

replaced, the brain cells, which cannot be replaced

without changing and therefore killing the personal-

ity, must eventually die.

132

ISAAC ASIMOV

"My own positronic pathways have lasted nearly

two centuries without perceptible change and can last

for centuries more. Isn't that the fundamental bar-

rier? Human beings can tolerate an immortal robot,

for it doesn't matter how long a machine lasts. They

cannot tolerate an immortal human being, since their

own mortality is endurable only so long as it is univer-

sal. And for that reason they won't make me a human

being."

Li-Hsing said, "What is it you're leading up to, An-

drew ?"

"I have removed that problem. Decades ago, my

positronic brain was connected to organic nerves.

Now, one last operation has arranged that connection

in such a way that slowly—quite slowly—the potential

is being drained from my pathways."

Li-Hsing's finely wrinkled face showed no expres-

sion for a moment. Then her lips tightened. "Do you

mean you've arranged to die, Andrew? You can't have.

That violates the Third Law."

"No," said Andrew, "I have chosen between the

death of my body and the death of my aspirations and

desires. To have let my body live at the cost of the

greater death is what would have violated the Third

Law."

Li-Hsing seized his arm as though she were about

to shake him. She stopped herself. "Andrew, it won't

work. Change it back."

"It can't be. Too much damage was done. I have a

year to live—more or less. I will last through the hun-

dredth anniversay of my construction. I was weak

enough to arrange that."

"How can it be worth it? Andrew, you're a fool."

"If it brings me humanity, that will be worth it. If it

OPUS 200                 133

doesn't, it will bring an end to striving, and that will

be worth it, too."

And Li-Hsing did something that astonished her-

self. Quietly, she began to weep.

It was odd how that last deed caught at the imagina-

tion of the world. All that Andrew had done before

had not swaved them. But he had finally accepted

even death in order to be human, and the sacrifice

was too great to be rejected.

The final ceremony was timed, quite deliberately,

for the two hundredth anniversary. The World Presi-

dent was to sign the act and make it law, and the cer-

emonv would be visible on a global network and

would be beamed to the Lunar state and even to the

Martian colon v.

Andrew was in a wheelchair. He could still walk,

but only shakily.

With mankind watching, the'Worid President said,

"Fifty years ago, vou were declared a Sesquicen-

tennial Robot, Andrew." After a pause, and in a more

solemn tone, he said, "Today we declare you a Bicen-

tennial Man, Mr. Martin."

And Andrew, smiling, held out his hand to shake

that of the President.

Andrew's thoughts were slowly fading as he lay in

bed.

Desperately he seized at them. Mani He was a man!

He wanted that to be his last thought. He wanted to

dissolve—die—with that.

He opened his eves one more time and for one last

time recognized Li-Hsing waiting solemnly. There were

others, but those were only shadows, unrecognizable

134

ISAAC ASIMOV

shadows. Only Li-Hsing stood out against the deepen-

ing gray. Slowly, inchingly, he held out his hand to her

and very dimly and faintly felt her take it.

She was fading in his eyes, as the last of his

thoughts trickled away.                          ,

But before she faded completely, one last fugitive

thought came to him and rested for a moment on his

mind before everything stopped.

"Little Miss," he whispered, too low to be heard.

PART 3

MATHEMATICS

It takes a lot of ingenuity for me to write about math-

ematics, since I know so little about it.

Why bother to write about it, then? Because I love

it, that's why. What I must do {and here is where the

ingenuity comes in) is find some portion of mathe-

matics so incredibly simple that I can understand it.

Once I've done that, all I have to do is write about it

in such a way (more ingenuity) that no one detects

my essential ignorance.

For children, I wrote How Did We Find Out About

Numbers? {Book 142), and in it I presented a section

on Roman numerals, which I had learned how to use

when I was seven or eight and which, fortunately, I

had never forgotten. Here it is:

from How DID WE FIND OUT ABOUT NUMBERS?

(1973)

About two thousand years ago, large sections of Eu-

rope, Asia, and Africa were ruled from the city of

Rome- The Roman Empire, as it was called, used a

system of numerals based on five.

The Romans used symbols taken from their alpha-

bet. Fortunately, the people of Europe and America

138

ISAAC ASIMOV

use the1 Roman alphabet so the Roman symbols are

familiar to us.

The Romans began by letting the number one be

written as I. For two, three, and four they had II, III,

and IIII. So far it looks like the Egyptian system, bilt

the Romans only allowed four of any symbol to be

used before inventing a new symbol. Instead of writ-

ing five as the Egyptian IIIII they wrote it as V.

Instead of writing six as IIIIII they wrote it VI.

Nine was VIIII. If they wrote ten as VIIIII, that

would mean five of the symbol I and they didn't al-

low that. They used a new symbol for ten, which was

X.

The list of symbols up to one thousand is as fol-

lows:

I == one

V = five

X == ten

L == fifty

C == one hundred

D = five hundred

M ^ one thousand

By using special symbols for five, fifty, and five

hundred, the Romans never had to use more than four

of any of the symbols for one. ten, or one hundred.

To write twenty-two they wrote XXII. Seventy-

three is LXXIII. Four hundred eighteen is

CCCCXVIII. One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine

IS MDCCCCLXXXXVIIII.

If you try to write one thousand nine hundred

ninety-nine by the Egyptian system, you would need

one symbol for thousand, and nine symbols each for

hundred, ten, and one. That would mean twenty-eight

OPUS 200                 139

symbols all together. In Roman numerals only sixteen

symbols are needed.

The Egyptian system uses only four different kinds

of symbols, while the Roman system uses seven. In

the Roman system you need less counting but more

memorizinff.

When these Roman numerals were first developed,

it didn't matter in what order the symbols were

placed. Whether you wrote XVI or XIV or IXV or

VIX, it all came to sixteen. No matter in what order

you add ten, five, and one, you end up with sixteen.

Of course, it is easier to add up a number if you

arrange the symbols according to some convenient

system. The usual way is to put all the symbols of the

same sort together. The largest symbol is on the left

and as you move to the right you write down smaller

and smaller symbols. Thus seventy-eight would al-

ways be written LXXVIII, working down from L to X

to V to I.

The later Romans thought of a way of still further

decreasing the number of a particular symbol that

had to be written down. As long as symbols were al-

ways written from left to right and from large to

small, why not sometimes reverse the order?

When you put the smaller symbol after the larger

one in the usual way you add the two. Therefore, VI

is "five plus one," or six. If on the other hand you put

the smaller symbol before the larger one, you subtract

it from the larger. In this way IV is "five minus one,"

or four.

By writing four as IV instead of IIII you have to

write and read only two symbols instead of four, but

you have to notice the positions and remember to sub-

tract instead of add.

In the same way, XL is forty while LX is sixty and

140

ISAAC ASIMOV

XC is ninetv while CX is one hundred ten and CM is

nine hundred while MC is one thousand one hundred.

The vear nineteen seventy-three can be written

MCMLXXIII instead of MDCCCCLXXIII-eight

symbols instead of twelve. One thousand nine

hundred ninetv-nine can be written MCMXCIX in-

stead of MDCCCCLXXXXVIIH-seven symbols in-

stead of sixteen.

Of course, once vou start using the subtracting no-

tion, vou can't scramble the order of the symbols any-

more. It becomes important to place each symbol ex-

actly.

The western part of the Roman Empire broke up

|ust about one thousand five hundred years ago. The

people of western Europe kept on using Roman nu-

merals for more than seven hundred years after the

Roman Empire had come to an end.

If Roman numerals are easy to grasp and explain, Ara-

bic numerals are even easier, especially since every-

one in our culture over the age of six already knows

about them (or is supposed to}. That means I can un-

derstand them, too, and need only find some aspect of

them that isn't entirely familiar.

Suppose we let the Arabic numerals represent

larger and larger numbers. How can we represent

such very large numl}ers and where do we stop?

To answer questions like that, I have my F & SF

essays. My first F & SF essay appeared in the Novem-

ber 1958 issue, and since then I have continued them

at monthly intervals, without missing an issue, for

twenty years. Six collections of F & SF essays are in-

cluded among my first hundred books, but I did not

stop there. Among my second hundred books are

OPUS 200                 141

seven more collections (plus four additional collec-

tions that included older F & SF essays, rearranged

and updated, from my first hundred books).

One of these new collections. Of Matters Great and

Small (Book 159), which Doubleday published in

1975, contains the following essay on very much larger

numbers:

"Skewered!" (1974)

I don't write many mathematical articles in this series,

and for a very good reason. I don't have a mathemati-

cal mind and I am not one of those who, by mere

thought, finds himself illuminated by a mathematical

concept.

I have, however, a nephew, Daniel Asimov by

name, who does have a mathematical mind. He is the

other Ph.D. in the family and he is now an Assistant

Professor of Mathematics at the University of Minne-

sota.

Some years ago, when he was yet a student at

M.I.T., Danny had occasion to write to Martin Gard-

ner and point out a small error in Gardner's excellent

"Mathematical Recreations" column in Scientific

American. Gardner acknowledged the error and wrote

me to tell me about it and to ask a natural question.

"Am I correct in assuming," said he, "that Daniel Asi-

mov is your son?"

Well! As everyone who knows me knows, I am only

a little past thirty right now and was only a little past

thirty at the time, some years ago, when this was tak-

ing place. I therefore wrote a letter to Gardner and

told him, with some stiff ness: "I am not old enough,

142

ISAAC ASIMOV

Martin, to have a son who is old enough to be going

to M.I.T. Dannv is the son of mv vounger brother."

Friends of mine who have heard me tell this story

keep assuring me that my statement involves a logical

contradiction, hut, as I sav, I do not have a mathemat-

ical mind, and I just don't see that.

And yet I must write another mathematical article

now because over eleven vears ago I wrote one in

which I mentioned Skewe-s* number as the largest fi-

nite number that ever showed up in a mathematical

proof.w Ever since then, people have been asking me

to write an article on Skewes" number. The first re-

quest came on September 3, 1963, almost immediately

after the article appeared. On that date, Mr. R. P.

Boas of Evanston, Illinois, wrote me a long and fasci-

nating letter on Skewes' number, with the clear inten-

tion of helping me write such an article.

I resisted that, along with repeated nudges from

others in the vears that followed, until March 3, 1974,

when, at Boskone 11 (a Boston science fiction con-

vention at which I was guest of honor), I was cor-

nered by a fan and had Skewes' number requested of

me- So I gave in. Eleven years of chivvying is

enough.! I am Skewered.

First, what is Skewes' number? Not the numerical

* See "T-Formation," reprinted in Adding a Dimension

(New York: Doubleday, 1964).

f 111 admit that I've been chivvied longer than that in some

respects. For seventeen years I have been requested, with

varying degrees of impatience, to write another U)e Baley

novel; and for over twenty years to write another Foundation

novel. So please don't anybody write letters that begin with

"If eleven years of chivvying is enough, why don't you——."

Because I'm doing all I can, that's why.

OPUS 200                 143

expression, but the significance. Here's the story as I

got it from Mr. Boas (though I will paraphrase it, and

if I get anything wrong, it's my fault, not his).

It involves prime numbers, which are those num-

bers .that cannot be divided evenly by any number

other than themselves and one. The numbers 7 and 13

are examples.

There are an infinite number of prime numbers,

but as one goes up the list of numbers, the fraction of

these numbers that are prime decreases. There is a

formula that tells you the number of primes to be

found in the list of numbers up to a given number,

but like everything else about prime numbers, the for-

mula is not neat and definite. It only tells you approx-

imately how many primes there will be up to some

limiting number.

Up to the highest limit that has actually been

tested, it turns out that the actual number of primes

that exist is somewhat less than is predicted by the

formula.

In 1914, however, the British mathematician John

Edensor Littlewood demonstrated that if one length-

ened the string of numbers one investigated for

primes, one would find that up to some limits there

would indeed be less than the formula predicted, but

that up to other limits there would be more than the

formula predicted.

In fact. if one continued up the line of numbers for-

ever, the actual total number of primes would switch

from less than the formula prediction to more than the

formula prediction to less than the formula prediction,

and so on—and make the switch an infinite number of

times. If that were not so, Littlewood demonstrated,

there would be a contradiction in the mathematical

structure and that, of course, cannot be allowed.

144

ISAAC ASIMOV

The only trouble is that as far as we have actually

gone in the list of numbers, not even one shift has

taken place. The number of primes is always less than

the formula would indicate. Of course, mathemati-

cians might just go higher and higher up the list of

numbers to see what happens, but that isn't so easy.

The higher one goes, the longer it takes to test num-

bers for primehood.

However, it might be possible to do some theoreti-

cal work and determine some number below which

the first switch from less than the prediction to more

than the prediction must take place- That will at least

set a limit to the work required.

Littlewood set S. Skewes (pronounced in two sylla-

bles, by the way, Skew'ease) the task of finding that

number. Skewes found that number and it proved to

be enormously large; larger than any other number

that ever turned up in the course of a mathematical

proof up to that time, and it is this number that is

popularly known as "Skewes' number."

Mind you, the proof does not indicate that one must

reach Skewes' number before the number of primes

shifts from less than the prediction to more. The proof

merely says that some time before that number is

reached—perhaps long long before—the shift must

have occurred.

A number as large as Skewes' number is difficult to

write. Some shorthand device must be used and the

device used is the excellent one of exponential nota-

tion.

Thus, 1000 = 10 X 10 X 10, so 1000 can be written as

10s (ten to the third power), where the little 3 is

called an "exponent." The little 3 signifies that 1000

can be considered the product of three 10s, or that it

can be written as 1 followed by three zeros. In gen-

OPUS 200                 145

eral, 10s (ten to the xth power) is the product of x 10s

and can be written as a 1 followed bv x zeros.

Since 10,000,000,000 is written as a 1 followed by 10

zeros, it can be written exponentially as 101" (ten to

the tenth power). In the same way, a 1 followed by

ten billion zeros, something that would be imprac-

tical to write, can be expressed exponentially as

lO10-"00-000-"'10 (ten to the ten billionth power). But

since ten billion is itself 1010, lo10.000.000.0"0 can be

written, even more briefly, as 101010.

Writing exponentials is always a strain when an arti-

cle is being written for a nonspecialized outlet- This is

especially so when one is forced to place exponents on

exponents. To avoid driving the Noble Printer crazy

and to make the notation look prettier, I have in-

vented a notation of my own. I make the exponent a

figure of normal size and it is as though it is being

held up by a lever, and its added weight when its size

grows bends the lever down. Thus, instead of writing

ten to the third power as 103, I will write it as

10\3.

In the same way, ten to the ten billionth power can

be written as 10\ 10,000,000,000 or as l0\10^10.

Using this "Asimovian exponential notation,"

Skewes' number becomes 10\10\,10\34.

Now let's see what Skewes' number might be in or-

dinary nonexponential notation. To do that, we must

consider the components of the exponential notation

from right to left. Starting at the right, we know what

34 is, we move leftward and consider 10'\34. This is

ten to the thirty-fourth power and can be written as a 1

followed by 34 zeros thus: 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,-

000,000,000.000,000, or, in words, ten decillion (Ameri-

can style). This means that Skewes' number can

146                ISAAC ASIMOV

be written ten 10\10\10,000,000,000,000.000,000.000,-

000,000,000,000.

So far, so good, if a bit disconcertingly formidable.

The next step is to move one place to the left and ask

how we might write: 10\ 10.000,000,000,000.000,000,-

000,000,000,000,000. Easy. You just put down a 1 and

then follow it by ten million billion billion billion

(or ten decillion, if you prefer) zeros.

If vou were to try to write such a number by begin-

ning with a 1 and then writing ten decillion zeros,

each the size of a hydrogen atom, you would require

nearly exactly the entire surface of the Earth to write

the number. Furthermore, if you wrote each zero in a

trillionth of a second and kept it up at that rate with-

out cessation, it would take a thousand trillion years

to write the entire number.

Anyway, let's call this number the "Earth-number,"

because it takes the Earth as a blackboard to write it.

and imagine that we can write it. Now we can write

Skewes' number as 10\ Earth-number, and this means

we now know how to write Skewes' number in the

usual fashion. We start with a one and then follow it

with an Earth-number of zeros.

This is tremendously more than the ten decillion ze-

ros it took merely to write the Earth-number. A num-

ber itself is much greater than the number of zeros it

takes to write it. It takes only one zero to write 10, but

the result is a number that is ten times greater than

the number ^>f zeros required to write it. In the same

way it takes ten zeros to write 10,000,000,000, but the

number written is ten billion, which is a billion times

greater in size than the number of zeros used to write

it.

Similarly it takes only ten decillion zeros to write

OPUS 200                147

the Earth-number, but the Earth-number itself is

enormously greater than that number or zeros.

To write not ten decillion zeros, but an Earth-

number of zeros, would require far more than the sur-

faces of all the objects in the known universe, even

with each zero the size of a hydrogen atom. A trillion

such universes as ours might suffice, and that is just

to write the Earth-number in a one followed by zeros.

Skewes' number itself, written by a one followed by

an Earth-number of zeros, is enormousiy, ENORMOUSLY

greater than the Earth-number tliat suffices to count

those zeros.

So let's forget about counting zeros; that will get us

nowhere. And if we abandon counting zeros, we don't

need to have our exponents as integers. Every number

can be expressed as a power of ten if we allow deci-

mal exponents. For instance, by using a logarithm ta-

ble, we can see that 34=10\1.53. So instead of writ-

ing Skewes' number as 10^10^10^34, we can write

it as 10\10'\10\10\1.53. (Such fractional expo-

nents are almost always only approximate, however.)

There are some advantages to stretching out the

large numbers into as many tens as is required to

make the rightmost number fall below ten. Then we

can speak of a "single-ten number," a "double-ten

number," a "triple-ten number," and so on. Skewes'

number is a "quadrupie-ten number."

We can't count objects and reach Skewes' number in

any visualizable way. Counting zeros is no help either.

Let us instead try to count permutations and combi-

nations,

Let me give you an example. In the ordinary deck

of cards used to play bridge, there are fifty-two dif-

ferent cards. (The number 52 is itself a single-ten

148

ISAAC ASIMOV

number, as are all the numbers between 10 and

10,000,000,000; 52^10\1.716.)

In the game of bridge, each of four people is dealt

thirteen cards. A player can, with equal probability,

get any combination of thirteen cards, and tlie order

in which he gets them doesn't matter. He rearranges

that order to suit himself. The total number of differ-

ent hands lie can get by receiving anv thirteen cards

out of tlie fifty-two (and I won't bother vou with how

it i.s calculated) is about 635.000,000,000. Since this

number is higher than ten billion, we can be sure it is

beyond tlie single-ten-number stage. Exponentially, it

can lie expressed as 6.35X10\11. Logarithms can

help us remove that multiplier and put its value into

the exponent at the cost of making that exponent a

decimal. Thus 6.35 X10\.11= 10\11.80. Since 11.80 is

over ten, we can express that, exponentially, as

11.80 = 10'\1.07.

Consequently, we can sav that the total number of

different hands a single bridge plaver can hold is

10'\10\J..07. Using onlv thirteen cards, we have, in a

perfectly understandable way, reached a double-ten

number. We might almost feel that we were halfway

to the quadruple-ten number that is Skewes*.

So let's take all fifty-two cards and let's arrange to

have the order count as well as the nature of the

cards. You begin with a deck in which tlie cards are-in

a certain order. You shuffle it and end witli a differ-

ent order. You shuffle it again and end with yet an-

other order. How many different orders are there?

Remember that any difference in order, however

small, makes a different order. If two orders arc iden-

tical except for the interchange of two adjacent cards,

they are two different orders.

To answer that Question, we figure that the first

OPUS 200                149

card can be any of the fiftv-two, the second any of the

remaining fifty-one, the third any of the remaining

fifty, and so on. The total number of different orders

is52X51X50X . . . 4X3X2X1, In other words, the

number of different orders is equal to the product of

the first fifty-two numbers. This is called "factorial

fifty-two" and can be written "521"

The value of 52! is, roughly, a one followed by

sixty-eight zeros; in other words, a hundred decillion

deciltion. (You are welcome to work out the multipli-

cation if you doubt this, but if you try, please be pre-

pared for a long haul.) This is an absolutely terrific

number to get out of one ordinary deck of cards that

most of us use constantly without any feeling of being

overwhelmed. The number of different orders into

which that ordinary deck can be placed is about ten

times as great as all the subatomic particles in our en-

tire Milky Way galaxy.

It would certainly seem that'if making use of thir-

teen cards with order indifferent lifted us high up.

making use of all fifty-two and letting order count

"will do much better still—until we try our exponential

notation. The number of orders into which fifty-two

different cards can be placed is 10\68 == 10\10\1.83.

That may strike you as strange. The number of or-

ders of fifty-two cards is something like a trillion tril-

lion decillion times higher tlian the number of bridge

hands of thirteen cards; yet, while the latter is

10\10\1.07, the former is only 10\10\1.83. Were

still in the "double-ten numbers" and we haven't even

moved up much,

The trouble is that the more tens we add to such

exponential numbers, the harder it is to move that

rightmost component. For instance, a trillion is ten

times as great as a hundred billion, and counting a

150

ISAAC ASIMOV

trillion objects would be an enormously greater task

than counting a hundred billion. Write tliem exponen-

tially, however, and it is 10\.12 as compared with

10\11, and the rightmost components are only a unit

apart. Write the twelve and the eleven as powers of

ten so that vou can make use of double-ten numbers,

and a trillion becomes 10\10\1.08, while a hundred

billion is 10\10\1.04 and the difference is scarcely

noticeable.

Or put it another way. The number'10\3 (which is

1000) is ten times as high as 10\2 (which is 100),

but the degree to which 10\10\3 is greater than

10\10\2 would require a 1 followed by 900 zeros to

be expressed. As for comparing -10\10\10\3 and

10\10\10\2, I leave that to you.

This is disheartening. Perhaps reaching the

quadruple-ten numbers won't be that easy after all.

Let's try one more trick with fifty-two cards. Sup-

pose each of the cards can be any card at all. Suppose

the deck can have two tens of diamonds or three aces

of clubs, or, for that matter, fifty-two threes of hearts.

The total number of orders of such a chameleonic

deck could be calculated by imagining that the first

card could be any one of fifty-two, and the second

card could be any one of fifty-two, and so on for all

fifty-two. To calculate the number of different orders,

you  would  have  to  take  the  product  of

52 X 52 X 52 X ... 52 X 52 X 52; fifty-two 52s. This

product which could be written 52\52 I might call

"superfactorial fifty-two," but if so, I would be using

a term I have just made up, so don't blame the mathe-

maticians.

Superfactorials are immensely larger than factorials.

Factorial fifty-two can be expressed by a one fol-

lowed by sixty-eight zeros, but superfactorial fifty-

OPUS 200                151

two is one followed by ninety zeros—ten billion tril-

lion times higher. Yet express it exponentially and

superfactorial 52 == 10\90 = 10\10'\1.95.

No good. We're still in the double-ten numbers.

Well just have to forget playing cards. We must

have more than fifty-two units to play with, and we

had better go all the way up; all the way up.

A generation or so ago, the British astronomer Ar-

thur S, Eddington calculated that the total number of

electrons, protons, and neutrons in the universe was

10\79, or 10\10\1.90. This number is arrived at if

we suppose that the sun is an average star, that there

are about a hundred billion stars in the average gal-

axy, and that there are a hundred billion galaxies in

the universe.

In addition to electrons, protons, and neutrons, of

course, there are numbers of unstable particles un-

known to Eddington, but their numbers are compara-

tively few. There are, liowever, massless particles such

as neutrinos, photons, and gravitons, which do not gen-

erally behave like particles but which are very numer-

ous in the universe.

If we wisli, we can suppose that the number of

massless particles speeding through space at any time

is nine times the number of massed particles (proba-

bly a grievous overestimate) and make the total num-

ber of subatomic particles in the universe 10\80, or

10\IO\1.903.

Now, at least, we are starting with a double-ten

number and that ought to do it. Skewes' number, here

we come. All we have to do is take the superfactorial

of  ,10\.80,  something  we  can  express  as

(l0\80)\(10\80).

Working tliat out (and I hope I'm doing it cor-

rectly), we get 10\10\81.9, or 10\10\10\1.91.

152

ISAAC ASIMOV

And that lifts us into the "triple-ten numbers" for

the first time. In fact, if we compare the superfac-

torial of the total number of subatomic particles in the

universe (which is IO'VIO'YIO^I.91) -with Skewes*

number  (which,  as  a triple-ten number, ' is

IOVIO^JOV.34), we might think we were almost

there.

We need to begin with something more than the

number of subatomic particles in the universe—how

about the amount of space in the universe?

The smallest unit of space we can conveniently deal

with is the volume of a neutron, a tiny globe that is

about 10'\ —13 centimeters in diameter, or one ten-

trillionth of a centimeter.

The observable universe has a radius of 12.5 bil-

lion light-years, or 1.25 X 10\10 light-years, and

each light-year is equal to just under 10\l3 kilo-

meters. Hence, the observable universe has a ra-

dius of roughly 10\23 kilometers. Since 1 kilo-

meter = 100,000, or 10\5, centimeters, the observable

universe has a radius of roughly 10X28 centimeters.

From this we can calculate the volume of the observ-

able universe to be roughly equal to 4.2 X 10\84 cubic

centimeters.

A neutron, with a diameter of ION.—13 centimeters,

has a volume that is equal to roughly 5 X 10\ — 40 cu-

bic centimeters. That means that the volume of the

observable universe is -roughly 2XlO\124, or

10\.124.3 times the volume of a single neutron.

Suppose we call the volume of space equal to that

of a neutron a "vacuon." We can then say that there

are 10X124.3 vacuous in the universe and call that the

"vacuon-number."

The vacuon-number is nearly a billion billion bil-

OPUS 200                153

lion billion billion times greater than the number of

subatomic particles in the universe, so we can feel

pretty confident about the superfactorial of the

vacuon-number, which is (10^124.3)^(10^124.3).

except that this comes out to 10\10\1Q\2.10...

Despite the vastly greater quantity of empty space

than of matter in the universe, -the rightmost compo-

nent of the triple-ten number went up only from 1.91

to 2.10, with 34 as the goal. That's enough to depress

us, but wait-

In considering the number of vacuons in the uni-

verse, we imagined it as existing at a moment in time.

But time moves, and the universe changes. A sub-

atomic particle that occupies one place at one moment

may occupy another place at another moment. The

most rapidly moving particles are, of course, the mass-

less ones which move at the speed of light.

The speed of light is Just about 3 X 10'\10 centime-

ters per second, and the smallest distance one can

move with some significance is the diameter of a neu-

tron, which is 10\ —13 centimeters. A photon will

flash the width of a neutron, then, in about

3 X 10\ —24 seconds. We can consider this the small-

est unit of time that has physical meaning and call it

the "chronon."0

To imagine a long period of time, let's consider

what we can call the "cosmic cycle," one period of ex-

pansion and contraction of the universe (assuming it

is oscillating). Some have guessed the length of the

cosmic cycle to be 80,000,000,000, or 8 X 10\10, years.

* Stanley G. Weinbaum once imagined ;>pace and time

quantized in this fashion in one of his science fiction stories

and med the word "chronoii" for his ultimate particle of

time.

154

ISAAC ASIMOV

The number of chronons in one cosmic cycle, then,

is roughly l0\42.

In every chronon of time, the universe is slightly

different from what it was in the preceding chronon

or what it will be in the next chronon, because,'if

nothing else, every free-moving photon, neutrino, and

graviton has shifted its position by the width of one

neutron in some direction or other with each chronon

that passes.

Therefore we might consider the total number of

vacuons not only in the present universe, but also in

the one that existed in the last chronon, the one that

will exist in the next chronon, and, in general, all the

universes in all the chronons through a cosmic cycle,

(To be sure, the expansion and contraction of the uni-

verse alters its vacuon content—these increasing in

number with expansion and decreasing with contrac-

tion—but we can suppose that the present size of the

universe is about average.)

In that case, then, the total number of vacuons

through every chronon of the cosmic cycle is just

about l<r\ 166.3. What this means is that if you wish

to place a proton somewhere in the universe at some

instant in time, you have (under the conditions I've

described-) a choice of 10'\166.3 different positions.

But if you take the superfactorial of this enor-

mous "total-vacuon number," you end up with

10\10\10\2.27.

We have hardly moved. I Just can't seem to move

those triple-ten numbers and make progress toward

Skewes* number. I am Skewered.

In fact, it's worse tlian that. According to Mr. Boas,

Skewes' determination of Skewes' number depended

on the supposition that something called the "Rie-

OPUS 200                155

mann- hypothesis" is true. It probably is, but no one

has proved it to be so.

In 1955 Skewes published a paper in which he cal-

culated the value of the number below which the

number of primes must be higher at some point than

the formula would predict, if the Riemann hypothesis

were not true.

tt turns out _that the Riemann-hypothesis-not-true

case yields a number that is far higher than Skewes'

number. The new number, Or what I suggest we call

the Super-Skewes number, is 10\10\10\1000, or

10\10\10\10\3.

The Super-Skewes number and Skewes' number are

both quadruple-ten numbers-10\10\10\10\3 and

10\10\10\10\1.53 respectively-and the differ-

ence in the rightmost component seems to be small.

However, vou saw what difficulty there was in budg-

ing the triple-ten numbers upward. Well, moving the

quadruple-ten numbers upward is far harder still, and

Skewes' number is virtually zero in comparison to the

Super-Skewes number.

If I had reached Skewes' number, I would still have

had the Super-Skewes number ahead of me. I would

have been Super-Skewered.

PART 4

PHYSICS

My major work, as far as physics is concerned, is my

three-volume Understanding Phvsics, which is in-

cluded among my first hundred books. Once that was

done, there was little I could do in physics but forage

about the edges of the subject and approach a differ-

ent audience.

Among the small books for eight-year-olds that I

wrote for Follett, and mentioned earlier, there is one

book on physics— Light (Boo^ 208). From that book,

here is the description of the spectrum:

from LIGHT (1970)

Light energy comes out of atoms in tiny amounts

called photons." Different kinds of atoms give off

different kinds of photons; each kind carries a differ-

ent amount of energy.

Photons of light are said to move up and down rap-

idly as they speed outward. Scientists think of them as

speeding along in a wavy motion. Photons travel as

"light waves."

The photons in light cause our eyes to see certain

colors. Certain low-energy photons make us see the

color red. Those with a little more energy make us see

160                 ISAAC ASIMOV

orange. With still a little more energy we see yellow

. . . then green . . . then blue, and finally violet.

Sunlight is made up of different kinds of light

waves. Each kind has its own length, its own kind of

photons, and its own amount of energy. The light

waves in a sunbeam can be spread out separately. A

special piece of glass with three flat sides will do this.

Such a piece of glass is called a "prism."

When separated light from a prism falls on a white

wall, vou can see a band of assorted colors. These are

made by the sorted-out light waves. Those having the

lowest energy cause you to see the red at one end of

the band. Those having the highest energy cause you

to see violet at the other end. You can also see other

colors in between. A beautiful band is made when

you separate the light waves in sunlight. It is called

the "solar spectrum." Other kinds of light give differ-

ent spectrum patterns.

A rainbow looks like a spectrum because it is a

spectrum. After a rainstorm, the air is still filled with

tiny droplets of water. Each droplet acts like a prism.

When the sun comes out and shines through the drop-

lets, the photons are sorted out. Then we see a rain-

bow, a spectrum in the sky.

Back in 1966, the editor of Science Digest asked if I

would do a small item for him. The magazine had a

department called "Please Explain," in which readers'

questions were answered. One question was a poser

that dealt with how often body cells are replaced..

Knowing the answer wasn't enough; it had to be

given in five hundred words and made both thorough

and clear. Being a cheerful idiot not much given to

worry and introspection, 1 undertook to answer the

OPUS 200                161

question for a reasonably small sum and did so. My

essay was published in the June 1966 issue of the

magazine.

What followed was absolutely predictable—which

doesn't mean to say that I predicted it, for I am often

thoroughly astonished when the predictable comes to

pass. In a couple of months, the magazine asked me to

do another essay on another catchy question, then an-

other, and another, and before the year was out, I

found that what I was doing was, in effect, a monthly

column.

I was fust getting ready to ask the editor if that was

what he really had in mind, when I received an issue

of the magazine in which the department was no

longer headed "Please Explain"; it had become "Isaac

Asimov Explains." That made it clear to the meanest

intelligence (meaning mine, for instance} that indeed

it was a column 1 was writing.

The column continued for over nine years before I

managed to get out of it. In 1974, there was a change

of editor, and when the new editor told me he wanted

to reorganize the magazine, I promptly asked him if

he wanted to end the column. He did.

I didn't consider it a tragic event, because I had

completed a goal I had set myself some years before, I

had written a hundred of these essays, and it had

been my intention to put the essays into book form

once a hundred of them had been done.

Houghton Mifflin published the collection in 1973 as

Please Explain (Book 143). Here are three selections

dealing with physics:

162                  ISAAC AS1MOV

from PLEASE EXPLAIN (2973)

What is the speed of gravitation?

A longer but perhaps clearer way of putting the ques-

tion is this: Suppose the sun suddenly ceased to exist

and vanished into nothingness. How long would it be

before the earth would cease to be held by its gravita-

tional field?

A similar question might be: How long after the

sun disappears would the earth cease receiving its

light?

We know the answer to the second question quite

well. We know that the sun is just under 93 million

miles from earth and we also know that light travels

at 186,282 miles per second through a vacuum. The

last bit of light leaving the sun, just before it disap-

peared, would take 8.3 minutes to reach the earth. In

other words, we would see the sun disappear 8.3 min-

utes after it really disappeared.

The reason it is easy to answer the question about

light is that there are a number of ways of actually

measuring the speed at which light travels. These

measurements are made practical by our ability to de-

tect changes in the very faint light emitted by a dis-

tant heavenly body, and by our own ability to pro-

duce quite strong beams of light.

We don't have these advantages with gravitational

fields. It is very difficult to study faint changes in

weak gravitational fields, and we can't produce strong

gravitational effects extending over long distances

here on earth.

So we have to fall back on theory. There are four

types of interactions known in the universe: (1)

OPUS 200

163

v

strong nuclear, (2) weak nuclear, (3) electromag-

netic, and (4) gravitational. Of these, the first two are

short-range, falling off very rapidly with distance. At

distances greater than the width of an atomic nucleus,

the nuclear interactions are so weak they can be ig-

nored. The electromagnetic and gravitational interac-

tions are long-range, however. They fall off only at

the square of the distance. This means they can make

themselves felt even over astronomical distances.

Physicists believe that everv interaction between

two bodies takes place through the exchange of sub-

atomic particles. The more massive the exchange parti-

cle, the shorter-ranged the interaction. Thus, the

strong nuclear interaction results from the exchange of

pions, which are 270 times as massive as electrons.

The weak nuclear interaction results from the ex-

change of even more massive W-particles (which

haven't been detected yet, by the way).

If an exchange particle has no mass at all, then the

interaction is as long-range as possible, and this is the

case with the electromagnetic interaction. The ex-

change particle there is the massless photon. A stream

of such massless photons makes up a beam of light or

related radiations. The gravitational interaction, ex-

actly as long-range as the electromagnetic one, must

also involve a massless exchange particle—which is

called a graviton.

But physicists have strong reason to suppose that

massless particles can travel through a vacuum only at

the speed of light; that is, at 186,282 miles per second,

neither more nor less.

If this is so, then gravitons travel at exactly the

speed of photons. This means that if the sun were to

disappear, the last gravitons it emits would reach us

164

ISAAC ASIMOV

at just the same time that the last photons would. At

the instant we saw the sun disappear, we would also

cease to be under its gravitational pull.

In other words, gravitation travels at the speed of

light.

Why can't matter travel faster than the speed of light?

Energy added to a body can affect it in a number of

ways. If a hammer strikes a nail in midair, the nail

goes flying off, gaining kinetic energy—in other

words, energy of motion. If a hammer strikes a nail

embedded in hard wood, so that the nail can't move,

the nail still gains energy—but in the form of heat.

Albert Einstein, in his theory of relativity, showed

that mass could be viewed as a form of energy (and

the invention of the atom bomb certainly proved him

correct). If energy is added to a body, that energy

may therefore appear in the form of mass, as well as

in other forms.

Under ordinary conditions, the gain of energy in the

form of mass is so incomprehensibly tiny that no one

could ever measure it. It was only in the twentieth

century, when subatomic particles were observed to

move at speeds of tens of thousands of miles per sec-

ond, that examples of mass increase were found that

were large enough to be detectable. A body moving at

160,000 miles a second relative to ourselves would be

measured by us as having twice as much mass as

when it was at rest relative to ourselves.

If energy is added to any freely moving body, that

energy can enter the body in one of two ways: (1) as

velocity, so that its speed of motion increases, and (2)

as mass, so that it becomes, "heavier." The divison be-

OPUS 200

165

tween these two forms of energy-gain, as measured by

ourselves, depends upon the speed of the body to be-

gin with, again as measured by ourselves.

If the body is going at ordinary velocities, virtually

all the added energy enters the body as velocity, and

the body moves faster and faster with hardly any

change in mass.

As the speed of the moving body increases (and

as we imagine additional energy constantly being

pumped into it), less and less of the energy enters as

velocity and more and more as mass. We note that,

though the body is still moving faster and faster, its

rate of gaining speed is falling off. Instead, we note

that it is becoming more massive at a slightly greater

rate.

As its speed increases still further and gets fairly

close to the 186,282 miles per second that is the speed

of light in a vacuum, almost all the added energy en-

ters as mass. In other words, the speed of motion of

the body increases very slowly, but now it is the mass

that is moving upward bv leaps and bounds. By the

time the speed of light is reached, all the added en-

ergy is appearing as additional mass.

The body cannot go faster than the speed of light

because to make it do so one must impart additional

energy to it and, at the speed of light, all that addi-

tional energy, however great, will merely be converted

into additional mass, and the body will not increase

its speed one iota.

Nor is this "just theory." Scientists have been care-

fully observing the speeding subatomic particles for

years. Cosmic ray particles exist with unimaginably

high energy contents, yet though their mass climbs

high indeed, their speeds never quite reach that of

light in a vacuum. The mass and velocity of subatomic

166

ISAAC ASIMOV

particles work out to just what the theory of relativity

predicts, and the speed of light is a maximum speed as

a matter of observed fact and is not merely specula-

tion.

In the atom bomb, matter is converted into energy. Is

it possible to do the reverse and convert energy into

matter?

It is certainly possible to change energy into matter,

but to do so in large quantities is impractical. Let us

see why.

According to Einstein's special theory of relativity,

e == me2, where e represents energy, measured in ergs,

m represents mass in grams, and c is the speed of light

in centimeters per second.

Light travels through a vacuum with a speed of

very nearly 30 billion (3 X 1010) centimeters per sec-

ond. The quantity c2 represents the product of c X c;

that is, 3 X 1010 X 3 X 1010, or 9 X lO^0. This means that

c2 is equal to 900,000,000.000,000,000,000.

A mass of 1 gram (m=l) can therefore be con-

verted, in theory, into 9 X lO"0 ergs of energy. The av-

erage American is more familiar with the ounce

(equal to 28.35 grams) as a unit of mass. One ounce

of matter represents 2.55 X 10s-'2 ergs of energy.

The erg is a very small unit of energy. The more

familiar kilo-calorie is equal to nearly 42 billion ergs.

An ounce of matter turned into energy would yield

6.1 X1011 (or 610 billion) kilo-calories. You can keep

alive very comfortably on 2500 kilocalories a day, ob-

tained from the food you eat. If you had the energy

available to you that is represented by a single ounce

of matter, you would have a supply that would last

OPUS 200                167

you 670,000 years, which is a lot by anybody's stan-

dards.

To put it another way, if the energy represented by

a single ounce of matter could be turned completely

into electrical energy, it would keep a hundred-watt

electric light bulb burning continuously for 800,000

years.

To put it still another way, the energy represented

by a single ounce of matter is equivalent to that ob-

tained by burning 200 million gallons of gasoline.

It is no wonder, then, that in nuclear bombs, where

sizable quantities of matter are turned into energy, so

much destruction is turned loose in the explosion of

one bomb.

The change works both ways. If matter can be

turned into energy, then energy can be turned into

matter. This can be done anytime in the laboratory. A

very energetic particle of energy—a gamma ray pho-

ton—can be converted into an electron and a positron

without much trouble. The process is thereby re-

versed, and energy is, in this way, turned into matter.

The matter formed, however, consists of two very

light particles, almost vanishingly small in mass. Can

the same principle be used to form more matter—even

enough matter to be seen?

Ah, but you can't beat the arithmetic. If an ounce of

matter can be converted into as much energy as is

produced by burning 200 million gallons of gasoline,

then it will take all the energy produced by burning

200 million gallons of gasoline to manufacture a mere

ounce of matter.

Even if someone were willing to make the demon-

stration and go to all the expense involved in collect-

ing all that energy (and perhaps several times as

much, allowing for inevitable wastage) just to form

168                 ISAAC ASIMOV

an ounce of matter, it still couldn't be done. All that

energy simply could not be produced quickly enough

and concentrated into a small enough volume to pro-

duce an ounce of matter all at once.

Thus, the conversion is possible in theory, but is

completely impracticable. To be sure, the matter of

the universe was once formed presumably from en-

ergy, but certainly not under any set of conditions we

can possibly duplicate in the laboratory today.

The Science Digest column wasn't the only thing my

inability to say a literary no had gotten me into.

Among my first hundred books is a small one I did for

the Atomic Energy Commission called The Genetic

Effects of Radiation, It earned me only a small flat

sum, and there were no royalties since the booklet was

distributed by the AEC, as a public service, to anyone

who asked for it.

Naturally, I couldn't very well argue myself into the

proposition that I must never do a public service, so I

had agreed to do the book. And, naturally, the AEC,

having tasted blood, asked for more. In the course of

my second hundred books, I did two more booklets

for the AEC. One is Electricity and Man {Book 123}

and the other is Worlds Within Worlds {Book 131},

both on physics.

Worlds Within Worlds was to be on the history of

the development of nuclear energy, and it was to be

only ten thousand words long. It ran away with me,

however, as books sometimes do, and by the time I

screeched to a half, panting and lightly perspiring, I

had done thirty thousand. The AEC cheefully put it

out as three booklets, but I listed it in my records as a

single book.

OPUS 200                 169

From Worlds Within Worlds, here is my discussion

of the development of the first nuclear reactor:

from WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS (1972)

Earlier in this history, we discussed chain reactions in-

volving chemical energy. A small bit of energy can ig-

nite a chemical reaction that would produce more

than enough energy to ignite a neighboring section of

the system, which would in turn produce still more—

and so on, and so on. In this way the flame of a single

match could start a fire in a leaf that would bum

down an entire forest, and the energy given off by the

burning forest would be enormously higher than the

initial energy of the match flame.

Might there not be such a thing as a nuclear chain

reaction? Could one initiate a nuclear reaction that

would produce something thafr would initiate more of

the same that would produce something that would

initiate still more of the same and so on?

In that case, a nuclear reaction, once started, would

continue of its own accord, and in return for the tri-

fling investment that would serve to start it—a single

neutron, perhaps—a vast amount of breakdowns

would result with the delivery of a vast amount of en-

ergy, Even if it were necessary to expend quite a bit

of energy to produce the one neutron that would start

the chain reaction, the end profit would be enormous.

What's more, since the nuclear reaction would

spread from nucleus to nucleus with millionths-of-a-

second intervals, there would be, in a very brief time,

so many nuclei breaking down that there would be a

vast explosion. The explosion would be millions of

times as powerful as ordinary chemical explosions in-

170

ISAAC ASIMOV

volving the same quantity of exploding material, since

the latter use only the electromagnetic interaction,

while the former use the much stronger nuclear inter-

action.

The Hrst to think seriously of such a nuclear chain

reaction was the Hungaiian phvsicist Leo Szilard. He

was working in Germany in 1933 when Adolf Hitler

came to power and, since he was Jewish, he felt it

would be wise to leave Germany. He went to Great

Britain and there, in 1934, he considered new types of

nuclear reactions that had been discovered.

In these, it sometimes happened that a fast neutron

might strike a nucleus with sufficient energy to cause

it to emit two neutrons. In that wav the nucleus, ab-

sorbing one neutron and emitting two, would become

a lighter isotope of the same element.

But what would happen if each of the two neutrons

that emerged from the original target nucleus struck

new nuclei and forced the emission of a pair of neu-

trons from each. There would now be a total of four

neutrons flving about, and if each struck new nuclei

there would next be eight neutrons, and so on. From

the initial investment of a single neutron there might

soon be countless billions initiating nuclear reactions.

Szilard, fearing the inevitability of war and fearing

that the brutal leaders of Germany might seek and use

such a nuclear chain reaction as a weapon in warfare,

secretly applied for a patent on a device that could

make use of such a nuclear chain reaction. He hoped

to turn it over to the British government, which might

then use its possession as a way of restraining the Na-

zis and keeping the peace.

However, it wouldn't have worked. It took the im-

pact of a very energetic neutron to bring about the

emission of two neutrons. The neutrons that then

OPUS 200                 171

emerged from the nucleus simply didn't have enough

energy to keep things going. (It was like trying to

make wet wood catch fire.)

But what about uranium fission? Uranium fission

was initiated by slow neutrons. What if uranium fis-

sion produced neutrons as well as being initiated by a

neutron? Would not the neutrons produced serve to

initiate new fissions that would produce new neutrons

and so on endlessly?

It seemed very likely that fission produced neu-

trons, and, indeed, at the conference where fission

was first discussed, Enrico Fermi suggested it at once,

Massive nuclei possessed more neutrons per proton

than less massive ones did. If a massive nucleus was

broken up into two considerably less massive ones,

there would be a surplus of neutrons. Suppose, for

instance, uranium-238 broke down into barium-138

and krypton-86. Barium-138 contains 82 neutrons, and

krypton-86, 50 neutrons, for .a total of 132. The

uranium-238 nucleus, however, contains 146 neutrons.

The uranium fission process was studied at once to

see if neutrons were actually given off, and a number

of different physicists, including Szilard, found that

they were,

Now Szilard was faced with a nuclear chain reac-

tion he was certain would work. Only slow neutrons

were involved and the individual nuclear breakdowns

were far more energetic than anything else that had

yet been discovered. If a chain reaction could be

started in a sizable piece of uranium, unimaginable

quantities of energy would be produced. Just one

gram of uranium, undergoing complete fission, would

deliver the energy derived from the total burning of

three tons of coal and would deliver that energy in a

tiny fraction of a second.

172

ISAAC ASIMOV

Szilard, who had come to the United States in 1937,

clearly visualized the tremendous explosive force of

something that would have to be called a nuclear

bomb. Szilard dreaded the possibility that Hitler

might obtain the use of such a bomb through the

agency of Germany's nuclear scientists.

Partly through Szilard's efforts, physicists in the

United States and in other Western nations opposed to

Hitler began a program of voluntary secrecy in 1940

to avoid passing along any hints to Germany. What's

more, Szilard enlisted the services of two other Hun-

garian refugees, the physicists Eugene Paul Wigner

and Edward Teller, and all approached Einstein, who

had also fled Germany and come to America.

Einstein was the most prestigious scientist then liv-

ing, and it was thought that a letter from him to the

President of the United States would be most persua-

sive. Einstein signed such a letter, which explained

the possibility of a nuclear bomb and urged the

United States not to allow a potential enemy to come

into possession of it first.

Largely as a result of this letter, a huge research

team was put together in the United States, to which

other Western nations also contributed. It had but one

aim—to develop the nuclear bomb.

Although the theory of the nuclear bomb seemed

clear and simple, a great many practical difficulties

stood in the way. In the first place, if only uranium

atoms underwent fission, a supply of uranium had at

least to be obtained in pure form, for if the neutrons

struck nuclei of elements other than uranium, they

would simply be absorbed and removed from the sys-

tem, ending the possibility of a chain reaction. This

alone was a heavy task. There had been so little use

for uranium in quantity" that there was almost no sup-

OPUS 200

173

ply in existence and no experience in how to purify'it.

Secondly, the supply of uranium might have to be a

large one, for neutrons didn't necessarily enter the

first uranium atom they approached. They moved

about here and there, making glancing collisions and

traveling quite a distance, perhaps, before striking

head-on and entering a nucleus. If in that time they

had passed outside the lump of uranium, they were

useless.

As the quantity of uranium within which the fission

chain reaction was initiated grew laiger, more and

more of the neutrons produced found a mark, and the

fission reaction died out more and more slowly. Fi-

nally, at some particular size—the "critical sizes'—the

fission ieaction did not die at all, but maintained it-

self, with enough of the neutrons produced finding

their mark to keep the nuclear reaction proceeding at

a steady rate. At any greater size the nuclear reaction

would accelerate and there would be an explosion.

It wasn't even necessary to send neutrons into the

uranium to start the process. In 1941 the Russian phys-

icist Georgii Nikolaevich Flerov found that every

once in a while a uranium atom would undergo fission

without the introduction of a neutron. Occasionally

the random quivering of a nucleus would bring about

a shape that the nuclear interaction could not bring

back to normal, and the nucleus would then break

apart. In a gram of ordinary uranium, there is a nu-

cleus undergoing such "spontaneous fission" every

two minutes on the average. Therefore, enough ura-

nium need only be brought together to surpass criti-

cal size and it will explode within seconds, for the

first nucleus that undergoes spontaneous fission will

start the chain reaction.

First estimates made it seem that the quantity of

174

ISAAC ASIMOV

uranium needed to reach critical size was extraordi-

narily great. Fully 99.3 percent of the metal is

uranium-238, however, and, as soon as fission was dis-

covered, Bohr pointed out that there were theoretical

reasons for supnosin^ that it was the uranium-235 iso-

tope (making up onlv 0.7 percent of the whole) that'

was the one undergoing fission. Investigation proved

him right. Indeed, the uranium-238 nucleus tended to

absorb slow neutrons without fission, and to go on to

beta-particle production that formed isotopes of nep-

tunium and plutonium. In this way uranium-238 ac-

tually interfered with the chain reaction.

In any quantity of uranium, the more uranium-235

present and the less uranium-238, the more easily the

chain reaction would proceed and the less the critical

size need be. Vast efforts were therefore made to sep-

arate the two isotopes and prepare uranium with a

higher than normal concentration of uranium-235

("enriched uranium").

Of course, there was no great desire for a fearful

explosion to get out of hand while the chain reaction

was being studied. Before any bomb could be con-

structed, the mechanism of the chain reaction would

have to be studied. Could a chain reaction capable of

producing energy (for useful purposes as well as for

bombs) be established? To test this, a quantity of

uranium was gathered in the hope that a controlled

chain reaction of uranium fission could be estab-

lished. For that purpose, control rods of a substance

that would easily absorb neutrons and slow the chain

reaction were used. The metal, cadmium, served ad-

mirably for this purpose.

Then, too, the neutrons released by fission were

pretty energetic. They tended to travel too far too

OPUS 200                 175

soon and get outside the lump of uranium too easily.

To produce a chain reaction that could be studied

with some safetv, the presence of a moderator was

needed. This was a supply of small nuclei that did not

absorb neutrons readily, but absorbed some of the en-

ergy of collision and slowed down any neutron that

struck it. Nuclei such as hydrogen-2. beryllium-9, or

carbon-12 were useful moderators. When the neutrons

produced by fission were slowed, they traveled a

smaller distance before being absorbed in their turn,

and the critical size would again be reduced.

Toward the end of 1942 the initial stage of the pro-

ject reached a climax. Blocks of graphite containing

uranium metal and uranium oxide were piled up in

huge quantities (enriched uranium was not vet avail-

able) in order to approach critical size. This took

place under the stands of a football stadium at the

University of Chicago, with Enrico Fermi (who had

come to the United States in 1938) in charge.

The large structure was called an "atomic pile" at

first because of the blocks of graphite being piled up.

The proper name for such a device, and the one that

was eventually adopted, was, however, "nuclear reac-

tor."

On December 2, 1942, calculations showed that the

nuclear reactor was large enough to have reached crit-

ical size. The only thing preventing the chain reaction

from sustaining itself was the cadmium rods that were

inserted here and there in the pile and that were soak-

ing up neutrons.

One by one the cadmium rods were pulled out. The

number of uranium atoms undergoing fission each

second rose and, finally, at 3:45 P.M., the uranium fis-

sion became self-sustaining. It kept going on its own

176

ISAAC ASIMOV

(with the cadmium rods ready to be pushed in if it

looked as though it were getting out of hand—

something calculations showed was not likely).

News of this success was announced to Washington

by a cautious telephone call from Arthur Holly Comp-

ton to James Bryant Conant. "The Italian navigator

has landed in the New World," said Compton. Conant

asked, "How were the natives?" and the answer was,

"Very friendly."

This was the day and moment when the world en-

tered the "nuclear age." For the first time, mankind

had constructed a device in which the nuclear energy

being given off was greater than the energy poured

in. Mankind had tapped the reservoirs of nuclear en-

ergy and could put it to use.

PART 5

CHEMISTRY

Although chemistry is the field m which I obtained

my degrees (including my Ph.D.) and although I am

still an associate professor of biochemistry at Boston

University School of Medicine (though I haven't

worked at it these past few decades), I do not write

as much in the field of chemistry as I do in physics or

astronomy.

In my first hundred books are such titles as The

Noble Gases, Photosynthesis, and Life and Energy,

which were all strongly chemical in content, but in

the second hundred books not a single full-sized non-

fiction book is devoted to chemistry. This was not on

purpose, 1 assure you.

However, things work out.

In 1975, I received a suggestion from Alan R.

Bechtold of Topeka, Kansas, that I write a science fic-

tion short story for him. He wanted to put out a series

of booklets of about six thousand words apiece, each

to consist of an original story from a well-known sci-

ence fiction writer. The booklets would he put out in

strictly limited editions and would be sold primarily

at fan conventions. When the limited edition was sold

out, the story would revert to the author.

Unexpectedly, the concept appealed to me. For one

thing, I got an idea at once and that always helps. As

180

ISAAC ASIMOV

it happened, the idea resulted in one of the few sci-

ence fiction stories I wrote that centered on chemis-

try. I called it Good Taste, and it was published in

1976, entering my list as Book 174.

1 wish I could report that the envisioned series was

a success, but it wasn't. My hook did well, but waiting

for the next writer to meet his obligation was a long

procedure and Bechtold run out of money, I'm sorry

to say.

Anyway, here is Good Taste in full:

GOOD TASTE (1976)

It was quite clear that it would not have happened—

the family would not have been disgraced and the

world of Gammer would not have been stunned and

horrified—if Chawker Minor had not made the Grand

Tour.

It wasn't exactly illegal to make the Grand Tow-

but, on Gammer at least, it was not really socially ac-

ceptable. Elder Chawker had been against it from the

start, to do him justice, but then Lady Chawker took

the side of her minor, and mothers are, at times, not to

be withstood. Chawker was her second child (both of

them sons, as it happened) and she would have no

more, of course, so it was not surprising that she doted

on him.

Her younger son had wanted to see the Other-

Worlds of the Orbit and had promised to stay away no

longer than a year. She had wept and worried and

gone into a tragic decline and then, finally, had dried

her eyes and spoken stiffly to Elder Chawker—and

Chawker Minor had gone.

Now he was back. one year to the day (he was al-

OPUS 200

181

ways one to keep his word, and, besides. Elder's sup-

port would have ceased the day after, never fear),

and the familv made holiday.

Elder wore a new, black glossy shirt but would not

permit the prim lines of his face to relax, nor would he

stoop to ask for details. He had no interest—no interest

whatever—in the Other-Worlds with their strange

ways and their primitive browsing (no better than the

ways on Earth, of which Cammerpeople never

spoke).

He said, "Your complexion is dirtied and spoiled,

Chawker Minor." (The use of the full name showed

his displeasure.)

Chawker laughed and the clear skin of his rather

thin face crinkled. "I staved out of the sun as much as

I could. Elder-mine, but the Other-Woriders would

not alwavs have it so."

Lady Chawker would have none of Elder's criticism

either. She said warmly, "It isn;t dirtied at all, Elder.

It breathes a warmth."

"Of the Sun," grumbled Elder, "and it would be

next that he would be grubbing in the filth they have

there."

"No farming for me. Elder. That's hard work. I vis-

ited the fungus vats at times, though."

Chawker Major, older than Minor by three years,

wider of face, heavier of body, but otherwise of close

resemblance, was torn between envy of his younger

brother's having seen different worlds of the Orbit

and revulsion at the thought of it. He said, "Did you

eat their Prime, Minor?"

"I had to eat something," said Chawker Minor. "Of

course, there were your packages. Lady-mine—

lifesavers, sometimes."

"I suppose," said Elder Chawker with distaste, "the

182

ISAAC ASIMOV

Prime was inedible there. Who can tell the Eith that

found its way into it."

"Come now. Elder-mine." Chawker paused, as

though attempting to choose words, then shrugged.

"Well, it held body and soul together. One got used to

it. I won't say more than that . . . But, Elder-Lady-

mine, I am so glad to be home. The lights are so warm

and gentle."

"You've enough of the Sun, I take it," said Elder.

"But you woulcJ go. Well, welcome back to the inner

world with light and warmth under our control,

locked away from the patch and blaze of sunshine.

Welcome back to the womb of the people, as the say-

ing goes."

"Yet I'm glad I went," said Chawker Minor. "Eight

different worlds, you know. It gives you a view you

don't have otherwise."

"And would be better off not having," said Elder.

"I'm not sure about that," said Chawker Minor, and

his right eyelid trembled just slightly as he looked at

Major. Chawker Major's lips compressed but he said

nothing.

It was a feast- Anyone would have had to admit that,

and in the end it was Chawker Minor himself, the

greediest to begin with, who was the first to push

away. He had no choice; else Lady would have kept

on supplying him with samples out of what seemed to

be a bottomless larder.

"Lady-mine," he said affectionately, "my tongue

wearies. I can no longer taste anything."

"You not taste?" said Lady. "What kind of nithling

story is that? You have the skill of the Grand-Elder

himself. At the age of six, you were already a Gusta-

tor; we had endless proof of that. There was not an

OPUS 200                 183

additive you could not detect even when you could

not pronounce it right."

'Taste buds bkint when not used," said Elder

Chawker darkly, "and jogging the Other-Worlds can

utterly spoil a man."

"Yes? Well, let us see," said Ladv. "Minor-mine, tell

your doubting Elder what you have eaten."

"In order?" said Chawker Minor.

"Yes. Show him vou remember."

Chawker Minor closed his eyes. "It's scarcely a fair

test," he said. "I so relished the taste I did not pause

to analyze it—and it's been so long."

"He has excuses, See, Ladv?" said Elder.

"But I will trv," Chawker Minor said hastily. "In the

first place, the Prime base for all of them is from the

fungus vats of the East Section and tlie thirteenth cor-

ridor within it, I believe, unless great changes have

been made in my absence."

"No, you are right," said Lady. with satisfaction.

"And it was expensive," said Elder.

'The prodigal returns," said Chawker Major just a

bit acidly, "and we must have the fatted fungus, as

the saying goes . . . Get the additives. Minor, if you

can."

"Well," said Chawker Minor, "the first dab was

strongly Spring Morning with added Leaves A-

Freshened and a touch, not more than a touch, of

Spara-Sprig."

"Perfectly right," said Ladv, smiling happily.

Chawker Minor went on with the list, his eyes still

closed, his taste memory rolling backward and for-

ward luxuriously over the tang and consistency of the

samplings. He skipped the eighth and came back to it.

"That one," he said, "puzzles me."

Chawker Major grinned. "Didn't you get any of it?"

184

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Of course I did. I got most of it. There was Frisk-

ing Lamb—not Leaping Lamb, either, Frisking, even

though it leaned just a little toward Leaping."

"Come on, don't try to make it hard. That's easy,"

said Chawker Major. "What else?"                ,

"Green Mint, with just a touch of Sour Mint—both—

and a dusting of Sparkle-Blood . . . But there was

something else I couldn't identify."

"Was it good?" asked Chawker Major.

"Good? This isn't the day to ask me that. Every-

thing is good. Everything is succulent. And what I

can't identify seems very succulent. It's close to Hedge

Bloom, but better."

"Better?" said Chawker Major delightedly. "It's

mine!"

"What do you mean, yours?" said Chawker Minor.

Elder said with stiff approval, "My stay-at-home

son has done well while you were gone. He devised a

computer program that has designed and produced

three new life-compatible flavor molecules of consid-

erable promise. Grand-Elder Tomasz himself has

given one of Major's constructions tongue-room—the

very one you just tested. Fly-away Minor-mine—and

has given it his approval."

Chawker Major said, "He didn't actually say any-

thing, Elder-mine."

Lady said, "His expression needed no words."

"It is good," said Chawker Minor, rather dashed at

having the play taken away from him. "Will you be

entering for the Awards?"

"It has been in my mind," said Chawker Major,

with an attempt at indifference. "Not with this one—1

call it Purple Light, by the way—but I believe I will

have something else, more worthy of the competition."

Chawker Minor frowned. "I had thought that—"

OPUS 200'                 185

"Yes?"

"—that I am ready to stretch out and think of noth-

ing. Come, half a dab more of Major's construction,

Lady-mine, and let's see what I can deduce concern-

ing the chemical structure of his Purple Light."

For a week, the holiday atmosphere in the Chawker

household continued. Elder Chawker was well known

in Gammer, and it seemed that half the inhabitants of

the world must have passed through his section before

all had had their curiosity sated and could see with

their own eyes that Chawker Minor had returned un-

scathed. Most remarked on his complexion, and more

than one young woman asked if she might touch his

cheek, as though the light tan were a layer that could

be felt.

Chawker Minor allowed the touch with lordly com-

placency, though Lady disapproved of these forward

requests and said so.

Grand-Elder Tomasz himself came down from his

aerie, as plump as a Gammerman ever permits himself

to be and with no sign that age or white hair had

blunted his talents. He was a Master-Gustator such as

Gammer might never have seen before, despite the

tales of Grand-Elder Faron of half a century ago.

There was nothing that Tomasz tongued that did not

open itself in detail to him.

Chawker Minor, who had no great tendency to un-

derrate his own talent, felt no shame in admitting that

what he himself had. innately, could not yet come any-

where near the old man's weight of experience.

The Grand Elder, who, for nearly twenty years

now, had governed the annual Awards festival by

force of his skill, asked closely after the Other-Worlds,

which, of course, he himself had never visited.

186

ISAAC ASIMOV

He was indulgent, though, and smiled at Lady

Chawker. "No need to fret, Lady," he said. "Young

people these days are curious. In my time we were

content to attend to our own cylinder of worth, as the

saying goes, but these are new times and many are

making what they call the Grand Tour. Good, per-

haps, to see the Other-Worlds—frivolous, sun-

drenched, browsive, nongustational, without a taste

bud to content themselves with—makes one appreciate

the eldest brother, as the saying goes."

Grand-Elder Tomasz was the only Gammerman

whom Chawker Minor had ever heard actually speak

of Gammer as "the eldest brother," although you

could find it often enough in the video cassettes. It

had been the third colony to be founded in the

Moon's orbit back in the pioneering years of the

twenty-first century; but the first two. Alter and Bay-

ter, had never become ecologically viable. Gammer

had.

Chawker Minor said with tactful caution, "The

Other-World people never tired of telling me how

much the experience of Gammer meant to all the

worlds that were founded afterward. All had, learned,

they said, from Gammer."

Tomasz beamed. "Certainly. Certainly. Well said."

Chawker Minor said with even greater caution,

"And yet such is self-love, you understand, Grand-

Elder, that a few thought they had improved on Gam-

mer."

Grand-Elder Tomasz puffed his breath out through

his nose ("Never breathe through your mouth any

more than you can help," he would say over and over

again, "for that blunts the Gustator's tongue") and

fixed Chawker with his deep blue eyes that looked

OPUS 200                 187

the bluer for the snow-white eyebrows that curved

above them.

"Improved in what way? Did they suggest a spe-

cific improvement?"

Chawker Minor, skating on thin ice and aware of

Elder Chawker's awful frown, said softly, "In matters

that they value, I gather. I am not a proper judge of

such things, perhaps."

"In matters that they value. Did you find a world

that knows more about food chemistry than we do?"

"No! Certainly not, Grand-Elder. None concern

themselves with that as far as I could see. They all

rely on our findings. They admit it openly."

Grand-Elder Tomasz grunted. "They can rely on us

to know the effects and side effects of a hundred

thousand molecules, and each year to study, define,

and analyze the effects of a thousand more. They rely

on us to work out the dietary needs of elements and

vitamins to the last syllable. Most of all, they rely on

us to work out the art of taste to the final, most subtly

convoluted touch. They do so, do they not?"

"Thev admit all this, without hesitation."

"And where do you find computers more reliable

and more complex than ours?"

"As far as our field is concerned, nowhere."

"And what Prime did they serve?" With heavy hu-

mor, he added, "Or did they expect a young Gammer-

man to browse."

"No, Grand-Elder, they had Prime. On all the

worlds I visited they had Prime; and on all those I did

not visit, I was told, there was also Prime. Even on the

world where Prime was considered fit chiefly for the

lower classes—"

Tomasz reddened. "Idiots!" he muttered.

"Different worlds, different ways," said Chawker

188

ISAAC ASIMOV

Minor rather hurriedly. "But even then, Grand-Elder,

Prime was popular when something was needed that

was convenient, inexpensive, and nourishing. And

they got their Prime from us. All of them had a fungal

strain brought originally from Gammer."

"Which strain?"

"Strain A-5" said Chawker Minor apologetically.

"It's the sturdiest, they said, and the most energy-

sparing."

"And the coarsest," said Tomasz with satisfaction.

"And what flavor additives?"

"Very few," said Chawker Minor. He thought a mo-

ment, then said, "There was, on Kapper, a place

where they had an additive that was popular with the

Kapperpeople and that had . . . possibilities. Those

were not properly developed, however, and when I

distributed tastes of what Lady-mine had sent me,

they were forced to admit that it was to theirs as

Gammer is to a space pebble."

"You had not told me that," said Lady Chawker,

who, till then, had not ventured to interpose in a con-

versation that had the Grand-Elder as one of its par-

ticipants. 'The Other-WorIders liked my preparations,

did they?"

"I didn't often hand it out," said Chawker Minor. "I

was too selfish to do it. But when I did, they liked it a

great deal, Lady-mine."

It was several days before the two brothers managed

to find a way of being alone together.

Major said, "Weren't you on Kee at all?"

Chawker Minor lowered his voice. "I was. Just a

couple of days. It was too expensive to stay long."

"I have no doubt Elder would not have liked even

the two days."

OPUS 200                 189

"I don't intend telling him. Do you?"

"A witless remark. Tell me about it."

Chawker Minor did, in semi-embarrassed detail,

and said, finally, "The point is, Major, it doesn't seem

wrong to them. They don't think anything of it. It

made me think that perhaps there is no real right and

wrong. What you're used to, that's right. What you're

not used to, that's wrong."

'Try telling that to Elder."

"What he thinks is right and what he is used to are

precisely the same. You'll have to admit that."

"What difference does it make what Z admit^ Elder

thinks that all rights and wrongs were written down

bv the makers of Gammer and that it's all in a book of

which there is only one copy and we have it, so that

all the Other-Worlds are wrong forever. I'm speaking

metaphorically, of course."

"I believe that, too, Major—metaphorically. But it

shook me up to see how calmly those Other-World

people took it. I could— watch them browse."

A spasm of distaste crossed Major's face. "Animals,

you mean?"

"It doesn't look like animals when they browse on

it. That's the point,"

"You watched them kill and dissect that—that—**

"No," he said hastily. "I just saw it when it was all

finished. What they ate looked like some kinds of

Prime and it smelled like some kinds of Prime. I imag-

ine it tasted—"

Chawker Major twisted his expression into one of

extreme revulsion, and Chawker Minor said defen-

sively, "But browsing came first, you know. On Earth,

I mean. And it could be that when Prime was first

developed on Cammer it was designed to imitate the

taste of browse food."

190

ISAAC ASIMOV

"I prefer not to believe that," said Chawker Major.

"What you prefer doesn't matter."

"Listen," said Chawker Major. "I don't care what

they browse. If they ever got the chanoe to eat real

Prime—not Strain A-5, but the fatted fungus, as the

saying goes—and if they had the sophisticated addi-

tives and not whatever primitive trash they use, they

would eat forever and never dream of browsing. If

they could eat what J have constructed and will yet

construct—"

Chawker Minor said wistfully, "Are you really

going to try for the Award, Major?"

Chawker Major thought for a moment, then said, "I

think I will. Minor. I really will. Even if I don't win, I

eventually will. This program I've got is different."

He grew excited. "It's not like any computer program

I've ever seen or heard of—and it works. It's all in

the—" But he pulled himself up sharply and said un-

easily, "I hope, Minor, you don't mind if I don't tell

you about it? I haven't told anyone."

Chawker Minor shrugged. "It would be foolish to

tell anyone. If you really have a good program, you

can make your fortune. You know that. Look at

Grand-Elder Tomasz. It must be thirty-five years

since he developed Corridor Song and he still hasn't

published his path."

Chawker Major said, "Yes, but there's a pretty good

guess as to how he got to it. And it's not really, in my

opinion—" He shook his head doubtfully, in prefer-

ence to saying anything that might smack of lese ma-

jeste.

Chawker Minor said, "The reason I asked if you

were going to try for the Award—"

"weiir

OPUS 200                 191

"Is that I was rather thinking of entering myself."

"You'^ You're scarcely old enough."

"I'm twenty-two. But would you mind?"

"You don't know enough, Minor. When have you

ever handled a computer?"

"What's the difference? A computer isn't the an-

swer."

"No? What is?"

"The taste buds."

"Hit and miss and taste buds all the way. We all

know that sound, and I will jump through the zero

axis in a bound, too, as the saying goes."

"But I'm serious, Major. A computer is only the

starting point, isn't it? It all ends with the tongue no

matter where you start."

"And, of course, a Master-Gustator like Minor-lad,

here, can do it."

Chawker Minor was not too tanned to flush.

"Maybe not a Master-Gustator, but a Gustator any-

way, and you know it. The point is that being away

from home for a year I've gotten to appreciate good

Prime and what might be done with it. I've learned

enough. Look, Major, my tongue is all I've got, and I'd

like to make back the money that Elder and Lady

spent on me. Do you object to my entering? Do you

fear the competition?"

Chawker Major stiffened. He was taller and heavier

than Chawker Minor and he didn't look friendly.

"There is no competition to fear. If you Want to enter,

do so, Minor-child. But don't come whimpering to me

when you're ashamed. And I tell you, Elder won't like

your making a no-taste-batch of yourself, as the say-

ing goes."

"Nobody has to win right away. Even if I don't win,

192                 ISAAC ASIMOV

I eventually will, as your saying goes." And Chawker

Minor turned and left. He was feeling a little huffy

himself.

Matters trailed off eventually. Everyone seemed to

have had enough of the tales of the Other-Worlds;

Chawker Minor had described the living animals he

had seen for the fiftieth time and denied he had seen

any of them killed for the hundredth. He had painted

word-pictures of the grain fields and tried to explain

what sunshine looked like when it glinted off men

and women and buildings and fields, through air that

turned a little blue and hazy in the distance. He ex-

plained for the two hundredth time that, no, it was

not at all like the sunshine effect in the outer viewing

rooms of Gammer (which hardly anyone visited any-

way ).

And now that it was all over, he rather missed not

being stopped in the corridors. He disliked no longer

being a celebrity. He felt a little at a loss as he spun

the book film he had grown tired of viewing and tried

not to be annoyed with Lady.

He said, "What's the matter. Lady-mine? You haven't

smiled all day."

His mother looked up at him thoughtfully. "It's dis-

tressing to see dissension between major and minor."

"Oh, come." Chawker Minor rose irritably and

walked over to the air vent. It was jasmine day and he

loved the odor and, as always, automatically won-

dered how he could make it better. It was very faint,

of course, since everyone knew that strong floral

odors blunted the tongue.

"There's notliing wrong, Lady," he said, "with my

trying for the Award. It's the free right of every Gam-

merperson over twenty-one."

OPUS 200                 193

"But it isn't in good taste to be competing with your

brother."

"Good taste! Why not? I'm competing with every-

one. So's he. It's just a detail tliat we're competing

with each other. Whv don't you take the attitude that

he's competing with me?"

"He's three vears older than you, Minor-mine."

"And perhaps he'll win, Lady-mine. He's got the

computer. Has Major asked you to get me to drop

out?"

"No, he did not. Don't think that of your brother."

Lady spoke earnestly, but she avoided his eyes.

Chawker Minor said, "Well, then, he's gone moping

after you and vou've learned to tell what he wants

without his having to say it. And all because I quali-

fied in the opening round and he didn't think I

would."

"Anyone can qualify," came Chawker Major's voice

from the doonvav.

Chawker Minor whirled. "Is that the way it is?

Then why does it upset you? And why did a hundred

people fail to qualify?"

Chawker Major said, "What some small-taste nither-

lings decide means very little. Minor. Wait till it comes

to the board."

"Since you qualified, too, Major, there's no need to

tell me how little importance there is to some small-

taste nitherlings—"

"Young-mine," said Lady rather sharply. "Stop it!

Perhaps we can remember that it is very unusual for

both major and minor of a single unit to qualify."

Neither ventured to break the silence in Lady's

presence for a while thereafter—but their scowls re-

mained eloquent.

194

ISAAC ASIMOV

As the days passed, Chawker Minor found himself

more and more involved in preparing the ultimate

sample of flavored Prime, which his own taste buds

and olfactory area would tell him was to be nothing

like anything that had ever rolled across a Gammer

tongue before.

He took it upon himself to visit the Prime vats

themselves, where the delectably bland fungi grew

out of malodorous wastes and multiplied themselves

at extraordinary speed, under ideal conditions, into

three dozen basic strains, each with its varieties.

(The Master-Gustator, tasting unflavored Prime it-

self—the fungal unalterate, as the saying went—could

be relied upon to pin its source down to the section

and corridor, Grand-Elder Tomasz had more than

once stated, publicly, that he could tell the very vat

itself and, at times, the portion of the vat, though no

one had ever quite put him to the full test.)

Chawker Minor did not pretend to the expertise of

Tomasz, but he lipped and tongued and smacked and

nipped till he had decided on the exact strain and va-

riety he wanted, the one that would best blend with

the ingredients he was mixing in his mind. A good

Gustator, said Grand-Elder Tomasz, could combine

ingredients mentally and taste the mixture in his imagi-

nation. With Tomasz it might, for all one knew, be

merely a statement, but Chawker Minor took it seri-

ously and was sure he could do it.

He had rented out space in the kitchen—another ex-

pense for poor Elder, although Chawker Minor was

making do with less than Major had demanded,

Chawker Minor did not repine at having less, for,

since he was eschewing computers, he didn't require

much. Mincers, mixers, heaters, strainers, and the rest

of the cookery tools took up little room. And at least

OPUS 200                 195

he had an excellent hood for the masking and removal

of all odors. (Everyone knew the horror tales of the

Gustators who had been given away by a single sniff

of odor and then found that some creative mixture

was in the public domain before they could bring it

before the board. To steal someone else's product

might not be, as Lady would say, in good taste, but it

was done and there was no legal recourse.)

The signal light flashed in a code sufficiently well

known. It was Elder Chawker. Chawker Minor felt

the thrill of guilt he had felt as a child when he had

pilfered dabs of Prime reserved for guests.

"One moment. Elder-mine," he sang out, and, in a

flurry of activity, set the hood on high, closed the par-

tition, swept his ingredients off the tabletop and into

the bins, then stepped out and closed the door quickly

behind him.

"I'm sorry, Elder-mine," he said with an attempt at

lightness, "but Gustatorship^is paramount."

"I understand," said Elder stiffly, though his nos-

trils had flared momentarily as though he would have

been glad to catch that fugitive whiff, "but you've

scarcely been at home lately, scarcely more than when

you were on your space folly, and I must come here to

speak to you."

"No problem. Elder, we'll go to the lounge."

The lounge was not far away, and, fortunately, it

was empty. Elder's sharp glances this way and that

made the emptiness seem fortunate for him, and

Chawker Minor sighed inaudibly. He would be lec-

tured, he knew.

Elder said at last, "Minor, you are my son, and I

will do my duty toward you. My duty does not con-

sist, however, of more than paying your expenses and

seeing to it that you have a fair start in life. There is

196

ISAAC ASIMOV

also the matter of reproval in good time. Who wishes

fair Prime must not stint on foul waste, as the saying

goes."

Chawker's eyes dropped. He, along with his

brother, had been among the thirty who had now

qualified for the final awarding to be held in a week,

and the unofficial rumor had it that Chawker Minor

had done so with a somewhat higher score than

Chawker Major had-

"Elder," said Chawker Minor, "would you ask me to

do less than my best for my brother's sake?"

Elder Chawker's eyes blinked in a moment of puz-

zlement and Chawker Minor clamped his mouth shut

He had clearly jumped in the wrong direction.

Elder said, "I do not ask vou to do less than your

best, but rather more than you are doing. Bethink you

of the shaming you have inflicted on us in your little

quarrel with Stens Ma|or last week."

Chawker Minor had, for a moment, difficulty re-

membering what this could apply to. He had done

nothing with Stens Major at all—a silly young woman

with whom he was perfectly content to confine him-

self to mere talk, and not very much of that

"Stens Major? Shaming? How?"

"Do not say you do not remember what you said to

her. Stens Major repeated it to her elder and lady,

good friends of our family, and it is now common talk

in the section. What possessed you. Minor, to assault

the traditions of Gammer?"

"I did not do such a thing. She asked me about my

Grand Tour and I told her no more than I have told

three hundred others."

"Didn't you tell her that women should be allowed

to go on the Grand Tour?"

"Oh."

OPUS 200                 197

"Yes. Oh."

"But, Elder, what I said was that if she would take

the Grand Tour herself there would be no need to ask

questions, and when she pretended to be shocked at

such a suggestion, I told her that, in my opinion, the

more Gammerpeople saw of the Other-Worlds, the

better it would be for all of us. We are too closed a

society, in my opinion, and, Elder, I am not the first

to say so."

"Yes, I have heard of radicals who have said so, but

not in our section and certainly not in our family. We

have endured longer than the Other-Worlds; we have

a stabler and fitter society; we do not have their prob-

lems. Is there crime among us? Is there corruption

among us?"

"But, Elder, it is at the price of immobility and liv-

ing death. We're all so tied in, so enclosed."

"What can they teach us, these Other-Worlds? Were

you not yourself glad to come back to the enclosed

and comfortable sections of Gammer with their corri-

dors lit in the gold light of our own energy?"

"Yes—but, you know, I'm spoiled, too. There are

many things on the Other-Worlds that I would have

very much liked to have made myself accustomed to."

"And just exactly what, Minor-madman-mine?"

Chawker Minor bit back the words. After a pause

he said, "Why simply make assertions? When I can

prove that a particular Other-World way is superior to

Gammerfashion, I will produce the proof. Till then,

what is the use of just talking?"

"You have already been talking idly without end,

Minor, and it has done you so little good that we can

call what it has done you harm outright. Minor, if you

have any respect left for me after your Grand Tour—

which Lady-yours wheedled out of me against my

198

ISAAC ASIMOV

will. Gammer knows—or if you have any regard for

the fact that I still deny you nothing that my credit

can obtain for you, you will keep your mouth shut

henceforward. Think not that I will halt at sending

you away if you shame us. You may then continue on

your Grand Tour for as long as the Orbit lasts—and be

no son of mine thereafter."

Chawker Minor said in a low voice, "As you say,

Elder. From this moment on, unless I have evidence, I

will say nothing."

"Since you will never have evidence," said Elder

grimly, "I will be satisfied if you keep your word."

The annual Finals was the greatest holiday occasion,

the greatest social event, the greatest excitement of

any sort in the course of the year. Each one of thirty

dishes of elegantly flavored Prime had been prepared.

Each one of the thirty judges would taste each dish at

intervals long enough to restore the tongue. It would

take all day.

In all honesty, Gammerpeople had to admit that the

nearly one hundred winners who had taken their prize

and acclaim in Gammer history had not all turned out

dishes that had entered the Great Menu as classics.

Some were forgotten and some were now considered

ordinary. On the other hand, at least two of Gammer's

all-time favorites, combinations that had been best

sellers in restaurants and homes for two decades, had

been also-rans in the years in which they had entered

the contest. Black Velvet, whose odd combination of

chocolate-warm and cherry blossom had made it the

standard sweet, did not even make it to the Finals.

Chawker Minor had no doubt of the outcome. He

was so confident that he found himself in continual

danger of being bored. He kept watching the faces of

OPUS 200                 199

the individual Judges as every once in a while one of

them would scoop up a trifle from one of the dishes

and place it on his tongue. There was a careful blank-

ness to the expression, a heavy-Iiddedness to the eye.

No true judge could possibly allow a look of surprise

or a sigh of satisfaction to escape him—certainly not a

quiver of disdain. They merely recorded their ratings

on the little computer cards they carried.

Chawker Minor wondered if they could possibly re-

strain their satisfaction when they tasted his. In the

last week, his mixture had grown perfect, had reached

a pinnacle of taste glory that could not be improved

on, could not—

"Counting your winnings?" said Chawker Ma|or in

his ear.

Chawker Minor started, and turned quickly.

Chawker Major was dressed entirely in platon and

gleamed beautifully.

Chawker Minor said, "Come, MaJor-mine, I wish

you the best. I really do. I want you to place as high

as possible."

"Second place if you win, right?"

"Would you refuse second place if I win?"

"You can't win, I've checked somewhat. I know

your strain of Prime; I know your ingredients—"

"Have you spent any time on your own work, all

this time you've been playing detective?"

"Don't worry about me. It didn't take long to leam

that there is no way you can combine your ingredients

into anything of value."

"You checked that with the computer, I suppose?"

"I did."

"Then how did I get into the Finals, I wonder? Per-

haps vou don't know all there is to know about my

ingredients. Look, Major, the number of effective

200

ISAAC ASIMOV

combinations of even a few ingredients is astronomi-

cal if we can consider the various possible proportions

and the possible treatments before and after mixing,

and the order of mixing and the—"

"I don't need vour lecture. Minor."

"Then you know that no computer in existence has

been programmed for the complexity of a clever

tongue. Listen, you can add some in^edients in

amounts so small as to be indetectable even by

tongue, and yet they add a cast of flavor that repre-

sents a marked change,"

"They teach you that in the Other-Worlds, youn-

gling?"

"I learned that for myself." And Chawker Minor

walked away before he could be goaded into talking

too much.

There was no question that Grand-Elder Tomasz this

year, as in a large number of previous years, held the

Judging Committee in the hollow of his tongue, as the

saying went.

He looked up and down the long table at which all

the judges had now taken their seats in order of pref-

erence, with Tomasz himself right in the middle. The

computer had been fed; it had produced the result.

There was complete silence in tlie room where the

contestants, their friends, and their families sat wait-

ing for glory or, failing that, for the consolation erf

being able to taste all the contesting samples.

The rest of Gammer, possibly without exceptions,

watched by holo-video. There would, after all, be ad-

ditional batches made up for a week of feasting, and

the general opinion did not always match that of the

judges either, though that did not affect the prize

winning.

OPUS 200                 201

Tomasz said, "I do not recall an awarding in which

there was so little doubt as to the computer decision,

or such general agreement."

There was a nodding of heads, and smiles and looks

of satisfaction.

Chawker Minor thought: They look sincere; not as

| if they're just going along with the Grand-Elder, so it

|- must be mine.

Tomasz said, "It has been my privilege this year to

taste a dish more subtle, more tempting, more ambro-

sial than anything I have ever, in all my time and ex-

perience, tasted. It is the best. I cannot imagine it

being bettered."

He held up the computer cards. "The win is unani-

mous, and the computer was needed only to deter-

mine the order of the runners-up. The winner is—" just

that pause for effect and then, to the utter surprise of

U everyone but the winner, "Chawker Minor, for his

dish entitled Mountain Cap. Young man . . ."

Chawker Minor advanced for the ribbon, the

plaque, the credits, the handshakes, the recording, the

beaming, and the other contestants received their

numbers in the list. Chawker Major was in fifth place.

Grand-Elder Tomasz sought out Chawker Minor after

a while and tucked the young man's arm into his el-

bow.

"Well, Chawker Minor, it is a wonderful day for you

and for all of us. I did not exaggerate. Your dish was

the best I've ever tongued. And yet you leave me cu-

rious and wondering. I identiBed all the ingredients,

but there was no way in which their combinations

could produce what was produced. Would you be

willing to impart your secret to me? I would not

202

ISAAC ASIMOV

blame you if you refused, but in the case of an accom-

plishment so towering by one so young, to—"

"I don't mind telling you, Grand-Elder. I intend to

tell everybody. I told my Elder that I would say noth-

ing till I had proof. You supplied the proof!"

"What?" said Tomasz blankly. "What proof?" '

"The idea for the dish occurred to me, actually, on

the Other-World Kapper, which is why I called it

Mountain Cap, in tribute. I used ordinary ingredients,

Grand-Elder, carefully blended, all but one. I suppose

you detected the Garden Tang?"

"Yes, I did, but there was a slight modification

there, I think, that I did not follow. How did the

Other-World you speak of affect matters?"

"Because it was not Garden Tang, Grand-Elder, not

the chemical. I used a complicated mixture for the

Garden Tang, a mixture whose nature I cannot be en-

tirely certain of."

Tomasz frowned portentously. "You mean, then,

yon cannot reproduce this dish?"

"I can reproduce it; be certain of that, Grand-Elder.

The ingredient to which I refer is garlic."

Tomasz said impatiently, "That is only the vulgar

term for Mountain Tang."

"Not Mountain Tang. That is a known chemical

mixture. I am speaking of the bulb of the plant."

Grand-Elder Tomasz's eyes opened wide and so did

his mouth.

Chawker Minor continued enthusiastically, "No

mixture can duplicate the complexity of a growing

product, Grand-Elder, and on Kapper they have

grown a particularly delicate variety which they use

in their Prime. They use it incorrectly, without any

appreciation of its potentiality. I saw at once that a

OPUS 200

203

true Gammer-person could do infinitely better, so I

brought back with me a number of the bulbs and

used them to good advantage. You said it was the best

dish of Prime you had ever rolled tongue over, and if

there is any better evidence than that for the value of

opening our societv, then—"

But he dwindled to a stop at last and stared at To-

masz with surprise and alarm, Tomasz was backing

away rapidly. He said in a gargling voice, "A growth—

from the dirt—I've eaten—"

The Grand-Elder had often boasted that such was

the steadiness of his stomach that he had never vom-

ited, not even in infancy. And certainly no one had

ever vomited in the great Hall of Judgment. The

Grand-Elder now set a precedent in both respects.

Chawker Minor had not recovered. He would never

recover. If it were exile that Elder Chawker had pro-

nounced, so be it. He would never return.

Elder had not come to see him off. Neither had Ma-

|or, of course. It didn't matter. Chawker Minor swore

inwardly that he would make out, somehow, without

their help, even if it meant serving on Kapper as a

cook.

Lady was there, however—the only one in all the

field to see him off; the only one to dare accept the

nonperson he had become. She shivered and looked

mournful and Chawker Minor was filled with the des-

perate desire to justify himself.

"Lady-mine," he said in a fury of self-pity, "it's un-

fair! It was the best dish ever made on Gammer. The

Grand-Elder said so himself. The best. If it had grated

bulb in it, that didn't mean the dish was bad; it meant

the bulb was good. Don't you see it? Look, I must

204

ISAAC ASIMOV

board the ship. Tell me you see it. Don*t you under-

stand it means we must become an open society, leam

from others as well as teach others or we'll wither?"

The platform was about to take him up to the ship's

entrance. She was watching him sadly, as though she

knew she would never see him again.

He began the final rise, leaned over the rail. "What

did I do wrong. Lady-mine?"

And she said in a low, distraught voice, "Can't you

see, Minor-mine, that what you did was not in—"

The clang of the ship's port opening drowned her

last two words, and Chawker Minor moved in and put

the sight of Gammer behind him forever.

Biology suffered in my second hundred hooks, as

chemistry had. Whereas mi/ first books include such

works as The Human Bodv and The Human Brain,

nothing of the sort appears later,

On the other hand, there is mif How Did We Find

Out series for Walker. One of them. How Did We Find

Out About Vitamins? (Book 158}, published in 1974,

is on the borderline between biology and chemistry.

Another item in the series, .How Did We Find Out

About Dinosaurs? (Book 145), published in 1973, is

on the borderline between biology and geology. A

third. How Did We Find Out About Germs? (Book

153), published in 1974, is clearly about biology. Here

is a passage from that book on the first medical vic-

tory over infectious disease.

from How Dm WE FIND Our ABOUT GERMS?

(2974)

Disease is a subject that concerns everyone. No one

can ever be sure that he or she might not suddenly fall

sick. A person can at any time begin to feel bad, de-

velop a fever, or break out in a rash. Eventually, he or

she might even die of a disease.

208

ISAAC ASIMOV

When one person falls sick, others might also. A dis-

ease can suddenly spread over a whole town or a

whole region, and some diseases can be very deadly.

In the 1300s, for instance, a disease called the Black

Death spread all over Europe, Asia, and Africa and

killed millions of people. It was the greatest disaster

in human history. One-third of all the people in Eu-

rope died.

At this time nobody in the world knew what caused

disease. Some people thought demons or evil spirits

took over the body. Some people thought it was bad

air of some sort or another. Some people thought it

was a punishment from Heaven for evil deeds.

Whatever it was, though, no one imagined the dis-

eases could be stopped and no one knew when an-

other Black Death might strike.

One hopeful thing about disease was that some dis-

eases only hit a person once. If someone got measles

or mumps or chicken pox and got well, that person

would never get that particular disease again. He or

she was "immune." His or her body had fought off the

disease and had developed some kind of defense that

would continue to work for many years.

One particularly dreadful disease that only struck

once was smallpox. The trouble was that very often

once was quite enough. Many people who got small-

pox died. Many others recovered, but their faces and

bodies were covered with scars left over from the ter-

rible blisters they had had. Every once in a while,

though, someone had only a light case that did not

scar him or her much. When that happened, the per-

son was Just as immune afterward as if he or she had

had a terrible case.

Naturally, it was much better to have a light case of

smallpox than to have none at all. With a light case,

OPUS 200                209

you were safe for life; with none at all, vou could

never be sure you might not get it at anv moment.

People knew that if vou were near a person with

smallpox you might catch it. Would it not be a good

idea, then, to hang around a person with a light case?

You might catch the light case and then be safe. To

make sure, you might scratch vour skin with a needle

that had been dipped in some of the fluid in the

smallpox blisters of the sick man. This was called "in-

oculation."

The trouble was, though, that a person might have

a light case of smallpox, yet another person catching

it might get a severe case. Inoculation just was not safe.

In the 1770s, an English doctor, Edward Jenner,

grew interested in a disease called cowpox. It was

called that because it was found in cows and in other

farm animals. The diease was something like a very

mild smallpox. It a person caught cowpox from a cow,

he or she would get a blister or two and that was it

People would hardly ever know they were sick.

The country people where Jenner lived thought it

was good luck to get cowpox because then you never

got smallpox- Most doctors thought this was Just a su-

perstition, but Jenner wondered. He did notice that

people who worked with farm animals a good deal

hardly ever got smallpox.

After twenty years of study, Jenner decided to try a

very dangerous experiment. On May 14, 1796, he

found a milkmaid who had Just developed cowpox.

He dipped a needle into the fluid inside a blister on

her hand and scratched the skin of a boy who had

never had either cowpox or smallpox. The boy got

cowpox and developed a blister in the place where he

had been scratched.

Jenner then waited for two months to make sure the

210

ISAAC ASIMOV

boy was completely recovered. He was now immune

to cowpox, but was he also immune to smallpox? Tak-

ing an enormous chance, Jenner deliberately

scratched the boy with a needle that had been dipped

in the fluid of a real smallpox blister. The boy did not

catch smallpox.

Jenner tried the whole thing again two years later

when he found another girl with cowpox. He again

found he could make someone immune to smallpox by

giving them fluid from a cowpox blister.

The medical name for cowpox is "vaccinia," from a

Latin word for "cow." Jenner's system for giving peo-

ple cowpox to save them from smallpox was therefore

called "vaccination." When Jenner announced his find-

ings, vaccination was quickly adopted all over the

world. Smallpox disappeared from places where vacci-

nation was used.

Of course, a hook need not be entirely about biology

in order to deal with biology. In 1975, a book of mine

appeared entitled The Ends of the Earth {Book 168),

published by Weybright and Talley. It was about the

polar regions, and I tried to cover every aspect of the

subject, including the biological part.

from THE ENDS OF THE EARTH (7975)

The smallest living organisms of the ocean float pas-

sively in the surface layers. The German physiologist

Viktor Hensen, in 1889, called this floating life of the

ocean "plankton," from a Creek word meaning "wan-

dering," and this expression has been used ever since.

Most of the plankton are microscopic in size, but the

OPUS 200                211

name is used also for such large plant organisms as

seaweed and such large animal organisms as giant jelly-

fish.

The microscopic plant cells of the plankton ("phyto-

plankton," the prefix from a Greek word meaning

"plant") are the basic food of all ocean animal life. All

sea animals either eat phytoplankton or eat other ani-

mals that have eaten phytoplankton, or other animals

that have eaten other animals that have eaten other

animals—and so on, until we come to an animal that

has eaten phytoplankton. This "food chain" can be of

varying lengths.

The small animals of the surface ("zooplankton,"

the prefix from a Greek word meaning "animal") feed

on the phytoplankton. The most common of the zoo-

plankton are small Crustacea called "copepods." There

are six thousand species of copepods, with lengths

varying from 0.5 millimeter (barely visible to the na-

ked eye) to 1 centimeter. They make up about 70 per-

cent of all the zooplankton and can sometimes turn

the ocean pink with their numbers. A somewhat larger

variety of shellfish is the small, shrimplike "krill,"

which is up to 5 centimeters in length.

Larger animals, such as young fish, feed on the zoo-

plankton, and themselves serve as food for larger or-

ganisms.

Food is not converted into the tissues of the eater

with perfect efficiency. There is roughly a 90 percent

loss, so that, in general, the total mass of a species can

only be about 10 percent that of the species it feeds

upon.

Since plant life in general is the food of animal life

in general, the mass of plant life on earth must be ten

times that of animal life, and the total mass of the

phytoplankton in the ocean must be roughly ten times

212

ISAAC ASIMOV

that of all the animal life there. (Animal life in the

ocean exists at all levels, but plant life is conBned to

the euphotic zone.)

Because each step upward in the food chain means

a decrease in total mass of the organism by a factor of

ten, the actual number of larger animals decreases

drastically.

Thus, the white shark, which is the largest sea verte-

brate with gills (12 meters long) that lives on other

large organisms, is a relatively rare creature. The sea

cannot support white sharks in the myriads that it can

support herring, for instance, which live on plankton.

Large animals can be supported in large numbers if

they cut through the food chain by living on plankton

directly. The whale shark and basking shark are even

larger than the white shark (up to 15 meters long)

but can be supported in surprising numbers because

they live on plankton.

There are land animals that live primarily on sea

life, and the distribution of these animals differs from

that of land animals that live primarily on land life.

Land plants grow stunted and sparse as one ap-

proaches the poles, and consequently land animals

that live on them grow fewer, too. The sparseness of

land life on the tundra and the virtual absence of land

life in Antarctica have already been mentioned.

Sea life is, however, richer in the polar regions than

in the tropics, thanks to the greater supply of oxygen

and nutrients in cold water than in warm water. As a

result, the polar regions are rich in land animal life

that finds its food in the ocean.

Land life that depends on the sea for its food roust

be adapted to ocean feeding, and this takes place to

a greater or lesser extent. In some cases, the adaptation

is so extreme that the land animals are no longer

OPUS 200                 213

really land animals, having adapted themselves to

continuous life in the oceans, even to the point of de-

veloping the streamlined fish shape for more rapid

motion.

The best known of the extremely adapted organ-

isms are the whales and their smaller relatives the dol-

phins, which breathe by means of lungs, bring forth

living young, and are, by every criterion, as fully

mammalian as we ourselves, but which spend all their

lives in the water.

The smallest dolphins are about 1.2 meters long and

weigh about 45 kilograms. The largest dolphin is the

killer whale, with males as long as 10 meters. The

killer whale is an example of an organism that is at

the top of the food chain. There are no other large

organisms for whom the killer whale is a regular arti-

cle of diet. A killer whale will die of disease, accident,

or old age, not by ordinary predation.

The one exception to this in the case of the killer

whale and of all other organisms that exist at the top

of the food chain rests in the activity of man. In his

natural physical state, man is no match for the larger

animals, but armed with the products of the technol-

ogy produced by his restless mind, he can destroy

them all and is, indeed, in the process of doing so.

Another large dolphin, the narwhal, up to 5 meters

long, is an Arctic animal. It inhabits the sea among

tile loose ice of the Arctic beyond 65° N, migrating

farther northward as the pack ice melts and recedes in

the polar summer. The most unusual characteristic of

the narwhal is that one tooth on the left side of its Jaw

forms a straight, spiral tusk up to 2.5 meters long. Its

appearance is exactly that of the fabled horn of the

unicorn, which was supposed to have miraculous med-

ical properties—and no wonder, since sailors brought

214

ISAAC ASIMOV

home pieces of narwhal tooth and, claiming it to be

unicorn horn, sold them for large sums.

The largest truly carnivorous whale is the sperm

whale. The male sperm whale can be as long as 20

meters and may weigh as much as 60 tons. It lives

largely on giant squid. It, too, is at the top of the'food

chain and is threated onlv bv man.

Still larger whales, like the largest sharks, must cut

through the food chain if they are to be supported in

any numbers. The largest of all whales (and, indeed,

the largest animal that has ever lived) is the blue

whale, which can be 30 meters long and weigh 135

tons. It feeds largely on krill, eating 3 tons per dav.

Whales that feed on plankton have fringes of homy

plates, up to 3 meters long, extending down from the

roof of tile mouth and frayed and brushlike at the

end. These, called "baleen" or "whalebone," trap and

strain out the plankton.

Whales are worldwide in their distribution, but nat-

urally they are most common where the food supply is

richest, and this means the polar regions; and the Ant-

arctic far more than the Arctic.

Whalers, hunting the whale for meat, oil, and whale-

bone, ventured into Arctic and Antarctic waters, and

a great deal of the early exploration of the polar re-

gions was performed by whalers and by those who

hunted other sea mammals.

The search for whales was ruthless, however, and

without any thought for preserving the species. In the

eighteenth century, the large baleen whales of the

Arctic were reduced to such small numbers that it was

simply not worthwhile hunting them anymore.

With the passing of the baleen whales of the north,

attention turned to the sperm whale when it was dis-

covered that quantities of sperm oil could be obtained

OPUS 200                 215

from the head of that organism and that such oil was

particularly useful in oil lamps. The sperm whale was

a more difficult and savage target (Moby Dick in

Herman Melville's great novel was a sperm whale),

but they would have been wiped out also if the elec-

tric light and the growing use of petroleum had not

eased the need for sperm oil.

Whaling is now almost entirely confined to the Ant-

arctic, where the food supply of the oceans is the rich-

est in the world thanks to the Antarctic Convergence.

Some 70 percent of the whales killed are hunted down

in the Antarctic and, of these, 70 percent are the fin

whale- Even now 35,000 whales are being killed each

year, and these great animals will be wiped out if

mankind does not manage to control the whalers.

Stepping down a notch in the extent of adaptation

to the sea, we come to the seals. They, too, are typi-

cally polar in distribution because of the richness of

the cold regions of the ocean.

Like the whales, the seals have been hunted down

and slaughtered. Where the whales are bare skinned

and depend on retaining warmth against the cold wa-

ter of the polar oceans by thick layers of fat ("blub-

ber") under the skin, seals have, in many cases, devel-

oped thick coats of hair. The coats of these "hair seals"

have been coveted and have very nearly proved the

doom of those animals.

The ones that yield the best "sealskins" are the

Alaska fur seals. These gathered in huge hordes on the

Pribilof Islands (discovered'by the Russian navigator

Gerasim Pribilof in 1786) in the Bering Sea. At the

time of the discovery, some 5,000,000 seals formed

the herd. They began to wither under the attack

of the sealers until the Russian government exerted

protection.

216

ISAAC ASIMOV

The Pribilof Islands, along with all of Alaska,

passed to the United States in 1867, and at once the

sealers began to make destructive inroads until only

125,000 seals remained in 1911. There seemed no way

of making men forgo short-term profits in favor of a

careful conservation that would, in the long run, yield

greater returns.

Finally, when the United States and other nations

imposed rigorous controls on sealing activities, the

seal herds began to be restored. By now the herds are

back up to 3,000,000 despite the fact that since 1911,

under carefully rationed culling of the herds, 1,500,000

seals have been taken for their fur.

The most northerly of the seals is the ringed seal,

which lives almost exclusively on and under the ice of

the Arctic Ocean.

The largest of the seals is the elephant seal, so

called more because of its trunklike nasal protuber-

ance than its size- Species are found in both the Arctic

and the Antarctic, with the latter somewhat the larger.

The Antarctic males reach a length of 6.5 meters and

a weight of nearly 4 tons.

The next largest seal is the walrus, which can reach

a length of 3.5 meters and a weight of 1.4 tons. It dif-

fers from the other members of the seal family by pos-

sessing a pair of downward pointing tusks (the two

upper canine teeth), which can be as long as 40 centi-

meters. The walruses are to be found only in the Arc-

tic. Once 500,000 were to be found on the Arctic ice

floes, but hunting has reduced their numbers to less

than 50,000.

Of the forty-seven species of seals, five are native to

the Antarctic. The largest of these (and third only to

the elephant seal and the walrus) is the leopard seal.

It is well named, for it is the most ferocious carnivore

OPUS 200                217

of the family. It needs to fear no other animal but the

killer whale—and, of course, man.

The crab-eater seal, despite its name, lives on krill.

It is the most common of the Antarctic seals* and num-

bers 5,000,000 to 8,000,000.

The most thoroughly Antarctic of the seals, how-

ever, is the Weddell seal. It sticks close to the shores

of Antarctica, while the other seals range well out to

sea. The Weddell seal finds safety beneath the coastal

ice, breaking holes in it to breathe through. It can

dive to a depth of 600 meters and can remain sub-

merged for nearly an hour. Ordinarily, however, it

comes up for air every ten to thirty minutes. (The

female spends considerable time on top of the ice. for

only there can she feed her voung.)

Another notch downward in adaptation to the sea,

we come to what would seem so completely a land

animal as the bear. Two species of bears are charac-

teristic of the Arctic regions and they are the two larg-

est: the Kodiak brown bear and the polar bear.

The more northerly of the two is the polar bear.

Creamy white in fur, it is not noticeable against the

snow and ice it lives among. It can be 2 meters or

more in length and may weigh over 700 kilograms.

The polar bear lives on fish and seals and is capable

of swimming miles out to sea. It can also roam the

Arctic ice all the way to the North Pole—followed by

the Arctic fox, which scavenges the polar bear kills.

(The polar bear's liver is so rich in vitamin A as to be

actually poisonous to man.)

And while we're talking of land mammals adapted

to seeking food by sea, we should mention man, too.

The Eskimos, at least, live very well in the apparently

bleak Arctic world by learning to turn to the rich sea

for their food.

218

ISAAC ASIMOV

There are important sea birds in the polar regions.

In the Arctic, the most typical examples are the mem-

bers of the auk family. These are not strong fliers but

are very well adapted to diving into water for the fish

they eat. They are capable of swimming underwater

by making the same wing movements they maker in

flight. One of the better-known auks is the puffin,

which has a large head and a multicolored parrotlike

beak.

The most tragic member of the family was the great

auk, which stood about a meter high and was the

most completely adapted to water life of any species

of the family. It could swim underwater expertly, but

its wings were paddles only, and it could not fly with

them.

What with its nonflight, its habit of congregating in

great numbers on the islands in the Atlantic section of

the Arctic, its single egg laid on bare ground without

protection, and its inability to recognize the presence

of danger, the great auk was an easy prey. They were

killed wantonly in huge numbers and the last mem-

bers of the species were killed on June 4, 1844.

Not all polar sea birds are poor fliers. The gull-like

Arctic tern is, in some way, a flying champion. It

nests in the Arctic (as far north as 82.°5N) but evades

the winter by flying 17,500 kilometers to the Antarc-

tic; then evades the Antarctic winter by flying back to

the Arctic. It spends seven months of the year travel-

ing, and at each end of its journey experiences some

two and a half months of continuous sunlight.

Another Arctic bird, the golden plover, also under-

goes a long migratory flight, much of it being over tile

ocean and therefore nonstop, since the plovers don't

swim well. A fhree-month-old golden plover can make

it successfully from its birthplace in Alaska down to

OPUS 200                219

Hawaii (some 3500 kilometers) in two days of fiving.

Although the Antarctic region has no mammals ex-

cept for whales and seals, which remain in the waters

off the shores of Antarctica, there are birds that make

their wav across portions of the continent itself. Con-

sidering that the birds usually possess the ability to

fly, this is perhaps not so unusual.

Of the fifteen species of flying birds that are found

in the Antarctic region the most southerly is a preda-

tory gull-like bird called the skua. It seems verv likely

that skuas have ranged over all Antarctica and that

thev are the onlv species of living creature that has

reached the South Pole independently of man,

There are two Antarctic petrels, and one of these,

the giant petrel, is the largest of the Antarctic flying

birds—with a wing-spread of 2 meters and a weight of

over 4 kilograms.

The most characteristic birds of Antarctica, how-

ever, are species incapable of flight, birds that ac-

tually walk extensively over the barren ice of that

frozen continent. They are penguins, which adapted

to the same kind of life and have developed a smiliar

form to the great auk of the Arctic.

Penguins are as closely adapted to sea life as the

great auk was, maybe more so. Their wings are pad-

dles that are useless for flying but that give them an

almost unmatched speed (almost 50 kilometers an

hour) and turning ability underwater. Such is the

force of their swimming that they can leap out of the

water to twice their own height. On land, however,

the best they can do is waddle in ungainly fashion.

(Their upright posture, their humorous waddle, and

their black and white coloration, as though they were

wearing suits, have endeared them to men and spared

them carnage.)

220

ISAAC ASIMOV

There are seventeen species of penguins altogether

all of them native to the Southern Hemisphere. Of

these, two species actually live on Antarctica. The

smaller of the Antarctic penguins is the Adelie pen-

guin, so called because it is found in Adelie Land.

The Adelie penguins congregate in crowded nesting

sites inland ("rookeries"). They are about 45 centime-

ters tall and weigh 6 to 7 kilograms.

The skua is always waiting to eat the eggs and the

penguin chicks, while in the ocean the leopard seal

waits for the adults. As long as man does not interfere,

however, enough survive to keep the species going.

More astonishing is the emperor penguin, the larg-

est of all living penguins, standing over a meter high

(twice the height of the Adelie) and weighing as

much as 35 kilograms. (There are fossils of penguins,

now extinct, that stood 1.6 meters high and weighed

as much as 110 kilograms.)

Unlike the Adelie penguins, the emperors did not

seem to possess rookeries. Edward Wilson, one of

those fated to die later with Scott in the tragic at-

tempt to reach the South Pole and return, was particu-

larly interested in finding the eggs of the emperor

penguin. He believed the emperor penguin to be the

most primitive of all birds, and the species most

closely related to the reptiles. (He was wrong in this.)

He thought that a study of the embryos of these birds

might clarify their position in the animal kingdom.

In 1902, he was the first to discover an emperor

penguin rookery. (There are fourteen known rookeries

now, sheltering perhaps 160,000 emperor penguins al-

together.) For the first time, Wilson saw emperor

chicks on the feet of adults. From their size, he real-

ized the hatching of those chicks must have taken

OPUS 200                221

place quite awhile before, during what was then win-

ter.

In fact, it was discovered that the female emperor

penguin laid her single egg in the middle of the Ant-

arctic winter, so that the egg had to be incubated un-

der worse conditions, by far, than those experienced

by any other bird in the world. The emperor penguin

is the onlv bird that does not nest on bare land. It

nests on ice, and the emperor penguin may, indeed,

never feel bare land but find itself always on or in

water in solid or liquid form. (The Adelie penguin

nests on exposed land along the rim of the continent

and lays its eggs at the beginning of summer.)

The emperor penguin rookeries are located inland,

some 80 to 130 kilometers from the coast. (Emperor

penguins are occasionally found as far as 400 kilome-

ters from the nearest coast, stubbornly trudging along—

the farthest south any nonfiying vertebrate has ever

reached independently of man.) „

It takes a month for the emperor penguins to travel

from the shores of Antarctica, where food can be ob-

tained, to the inland rookeries where no food exists

(but where, except for man and skua, isolation and

security are absolute). The emperor penguins fast

during this trek.

There, in the interior, in winter, the female lays her

single egg. TTiere is no nest and no nesting territory,

something that only the emperor penguin, of all birds,

lacks. The single egg is taken by the male and placed

on his feet, immediately under a bare and unfeathered

patch of the abdomen. A flap of skin covers the egg,

which is then incubated against the father's body and

on his feet, so that the nesting territory is, so to speak,

the ground on which the birds stands.

222

ISAAC ASIMOV

The male emperor penguins can waddle about

clumsily without losing the eggs, and most of them

huddle together for warmth, which they need, for

the icy Antarctic midwinter temperatures go as low

as—60° C, and the gales whistle past the birds at speeds

of up to 150 kilometers per hour.                 '

Once the egg is transferred, the female takes off for

food and the sea again—another month's journey. The

male, however, stands his ground for sixty days, still

fasting. Prior to the trek to the rookery, the male em-

peror penguin has eaten enough to lay by a sizable

quantity of fat—attaining a weight of 35 kilograms—but

this begins to melt away during the long fast.

Finally, when the chicks are near to hatching, the

females return an4 ^^ over. At last the males can

head for the sea, which they finally reach after a four-

month fast during which they lose 25 to 40 percent of

their weight.

When the chick hatches, the mother feeds it with

food she had stored in her crop, but this won't last.

The father must return, and for a while the parents

take turns walking to the sea, eating their fill, and re-

turning to feed the chick. Fully one quarter of the

chicks don't survive the rigors of that first winter—but

by the time the Antarctic summer arrives and the

coastal ice begins breaking up, those that have sur-

vived can make it to the sea and go out to feed on

their own.

Words are of natural interest to writers, and certainly

to me. It is a source of delight to me that English is

my first language, for no other language consists of so

many words, so many madly spelled and madly pro-

nounced words, so many lawless words. In no other

language, I firmly believe, can you have such fun

with words.

What one-syllable word becomes two syllables if

you subtract two letters?

What word changes pronunciation when it is capi-

talized?

What word has a spelling pattern xyzxyzx?

There are four common English words ending with

"dous." Three of them are "tremendous" "stupen-

dous^ and "horrendous" What is the fourth?

What common words contain the following letters in

order somewhere in their spelling: pefr, wsp, ckc, ufi,

ufa?

I'll give you the answers at the end of this section.

Meanwhile, you can have fun with them.

My chief pleasure has always been the origin and

etymology of words My first hundred books include

no less than six {all published by Houghton Miffiin)

that deal exclusively with etymology. These are Words

226

ISAAC ASIMOV

of Science, Words from the Mvths, Words in Genesis,

Words from the Exodus, Words on the Map, Words

from History.

These cover the subject rather thoroughly and there

are no such easy pickings in the second hundred. I did

manage one more with Houghton Mifflin, however.

That was More Words of Science (Book 122), pub-

lished in 1972. Here are three essays from that hook:

one on a chemical word, one on a biological word,

and one on a physical word.

from MORE WORDS OF SCIENCE (1972)

HALLUCINOGENS

The brain, like every other part of the body, performs

its functions through certain chemical reactions. These

are produced by stimuli brought to the brain through

die senses. It is possible to change the brain chemistry

by taking substances that interfere with these chemi-

cal reactions. In that case, the body will respond to

stimuli that don't relate to the outside world. Objects

that are not really there seem to be sensed, while ob-

jects that are really there may be ignored. The results

are "hallucinations," from a Latin word meaning "to

wander in the mind."

Certain plants contain chemicals that can produce

hallucinations. The peyote cactus and a mushroom

called Amanita muscaria contain such chemicals.

Sometimes these plants are eaten in primitive religious

celebrations because the hallucinations are thought to

be glimpses of another world (or an escape from this

one). Another substance that produces hallucinations

is hashish, one form of which is marijuana.

OPUS 200                 227

In 1943, a Swiss chemist, Albert Hofmann, was

studying an organic compound called "lysergic acid

diethylamide" and accidentally got a few tiny crystals

of it on his fingers. He happened to touch his fingers to

his Ups and was soon overcome by odd hallucinations.

It took him a full day to regain normality. He began

careful studies and found that very small doses of the

chemical could always produce hallucinations. The

name was soon reduced to an abbreviation of the

three words. Since the German word for "acid" is

Saure, and Hofmann spoke German, the abbreviation

isLSD.

Since many young people foolishly began to play

games with their minds by taking LSD and other such

substances, hallucination-producing drugs became im-

portant to study. They are now lumped together un-

der the general name "hallucinogens" (producers of

hallucinations).

PHEBOMONE

Human beings can communicate by talking. Through

sounds, gestures, and written symbols, abstract ideas

can be transmitted from one person to another. Hu-

man beings are unique in this respect.

Yet other creatures must be able to communicate in

some fashion, if only so that there can be cooperation

between two individuals of a species in order that

they might reproduce. Within a body, the different

parts are made to behave in some cooperative fashion

by means of chemical messenger's called "hormones."

Is it possible that chemical messages can be carried

on, not only within an organism, but from one organ-

ism to another?

Such hormonal effects, carried through water or air

228

ISAAC ASIMOV

Y,.

from one member of a species to another, are called

"pheromones," the prefix coming from a Greek word

meaning "to carry." They are hormones carried over a

distance.

Insect pheromones are the most dramatic. A female

moth can liberate a compound that will act as a pow-

erful sexual attractant on a male moth of the same

species a mile away. Each species must have its own

pheromone, for there is no point in affecting a male of

another species. Each species must have receiving de-

vices of tremendous delicacy because they must be

able to react to Just a few molecules in the air.

Pheromones are also used in interspecies conflict.

Certain ants raid the nests of other ant species to kid-

nap the young, which they rear as slaves. The raiders

use trails of pheromones which not only aid them to

keep together and coordinate their attacks, but also

act to alarm and scatter the ant species they are at-

tacking.

Biologists are laboring to use insect pheromones to

lure members of troublesome species to destruction.

In this way, they can be absolutely specific, doing no

direct harm to any other species.

SYNCHROTRON

In the 1930s, physicists developed methods for accel-

erating subatomic particles in order to give them high

energies and send them smashing into atomic nuclei.

The most successful of these was invented by the

American physicist Ernest 0. Lawrence in 1931. It

whirled particles around and around, thanks to the

driving force of a magnetic field, and it was therefore

called a "cyclotron,"

By making larger and larger magnets, one could

OPUS 200                 229

whirl the particles to greater and greater energies.

The device only works well, however, if the mass of

the particles doesn't change. As the particles go faster,

their mass increases considerably (as Albert Einstein

predicted they would in his special theory of relativity).

This lowers the efficiency of the cyclotron and limits

the energies it can produce.

In 1945, the Soviet physicist Vladimir I. Veksler and

the American physicist Edwin M. McMilIan inde-

pendently worked out a wav to alter the strength of a

magnetic field so as to match the increase in mass.

The two effects were "synchronized" (from Greek

words meaning "same time") and the efficiency re-

mained high. Such a modified cyclotron was called a

"synchrocyclotron."

In cyclotrons, the whirling particles spiral outward

and eventually pass beyond the limits of the magnet.

If the particles could be held in a tight circle, they

could be whirled many more times before being re-

leased and still higher energies would be attained.

The English physicist Marcus L. E. Oliphant

worked out a design for such a device in 1947, and in

1952 the first of the kind was built in Brookhaven Na-

tional Laboratory on Long Island. It still made use of

a synchronized increase in the strength of the field,

but the spiraling of the particles, as in a cyclotron,

was gone. The new device was therefore called simply

a "synchrotron."

As for the puzzles I set you at the beginning of the

section—

1. The one-syllable word "plague" loses the first two

letters and becomes the two-syllable "ague."

2. Capitalize the word polish" and it becomes "Pol-

ish."

230

ISAAC ASIMOV

3. The most common word with the pattern xyzxyzx

is "alfalfa." Second is "entente," but that is more

French than English. There was once a breath

freshener with the name "Sen-Sen."

4. The fourth common English word ending in "dous"

is "hazardous."                          , '

5. The letter combinations and the words containing

them are:

pefi—grapefruit

'wsp—newy{wper (Less good, because less common,

is "bowsprit."}

ckc—sackcloth or cockcrow

v&—genuflect

uf a—manufacture (Oddly enough, this is the only

common word with that combination.)

In the course of my first hundred hooks, I wrote a

history hook for Hom'hton Mifflin entitled The

Greeks. I enjoyed dome that so much thtit I embarked

on a whole series of histories, and In) the time I had

reached my hundredth book, Houghton Mifflin had

published seven of them, all on ancient and medieval

history.

In the course of my second hundred books I did

seven more histories for Houston Mifflin. One of

them. The Land of Canaan (Book 116}, was on an-

cient history. In this book, piil}lished in 1971, I told

the tale of the Maccabean revolt.

from THE LAND OF CANAAN (1971)

The high priests of the old line of Zadok, which dated

back to Solomon's Temple, still held their state in Je-

rusalem. In 219 B.C., during the last years of Ptolemaic

dominion, Onias II died and Simon II became high

priest. He is known to later generations as Simon the

Just and received an eloquent tribute in the fiftieth

chapter of the apocryphal biblical book Ecclesiasti-

cus. In 196 B.C., at about the time Judea passed under

Seleucid dominion, Simon's son Onias III became

234

ISAAC ASIMOV

high priest He, too, is pictured as having been pious

and devout.

Judea itself was confined to a small inland region

bordering on the northwestern shores of the Dead

Sea, with Jerusalem as its only city of note and with a

total area of only about 750 square miles. To its north,

where once Israel had been, was Samaria, and with

the Samaritans the Jews maintained a deadly hostility,

each group considering the other to be pernicious he-

retics. To the south of Judea lived the descendants of

the Edomites, who had moved northward into land

that had once been southern Judah and which was

now Idumea. Between Jews and Idumeans there was

also a deadly enmity.

To be sure, the Jews were not confined to Judea.

Many of them colonized Galilee, the region north of

Samaria. It had once made up northern Israel but in

these days was so full of non-Jews that it was called

Galilee of the Gentiles by the conservative and disap-

proving Jews of Judea itself. Then, of course, there

were the Jews of the Diaspora (Greek for "disper-

sion"); that is, those who dwelt outside the borders of

the land that had once been promised to Abraham.

There were the Jews of the Tigris-Euphrates, of Alex-

andria, of the Greek cities in Asia Minor and else-

where.

To all Jews, however, wherever located, Jerusalem

and its Temple remained at the center of their na-

tional consciousness. At the time of the great festivals,

Jerusalem was crowded with Jews from all over the

Near East, coming to sacrifice. The development of

Judaism was by this time almost complete. Virtually

all the books of the Old Testament had by now been

written.

OPUS 200                235

Yet Judaism faced a new danger. The old Canaanite

idolatries were long gone, but a new and even more

attractive idolatry existed. Since the time of Alexan-

der, Greeks had penetrated all the Mediterranean

world and wherever they went they carried Greek cul-

ture with them. They were a city people, too, and

wherever they went they founded cities. In Judea arid

surrounding lands, the penetration by the Greeks had

been slow under the Ptolemys, but when the Greek-

loving Seleucid kings took over, the trend accelerated.

And those who were not Greeks by race (or Hel-

lenes, as the Greeks called themselves) nevertheless

hastened to adopt Greek culture. They became Hel-

lenized and the process of HeIIenization became a

dominating force in all the Mediterranean. Even the

rough Romans of the west felt the force of HeIIeniza-

tion; and Scipio himself, the conqueror of Hannibal,

was a leader of those who would adopt Greek ways.

The Jews were not immune. Many Jews, not only in

Greek cities far from Jerusalem but even in Judea it-

self, adopted Greek ways of life while paying lip ser-

vice to the older and less sophisticated notions of Juda-

ism. Other Jews, however, particularly in Judea itself,

clung entirely to the old ways and abhorred Greek no-

tions.

The stage was set for a quarrel between these two

lands of Judaism, but anvone looking at the world in

183 B.C. could not possibly have foreseen that such a

struggle could have any importance or that it could

have any possible effect outside Judea. The thought

that the struggle would have world-shaking effects

and that it would dictate the nature of the religions

that would dominate the world in centuries to come

would have seemed utterly unbelievable.

236

ISAAC ASIMOV

Yet it happened; but so slowly that for centuries no

one could possibly have noticed that anything impor-

tant was taking place.

It began with the failure of Antiochus III- The large

indemnity he had agreed to pay the Roman's follow-

ing his defeat was more than he had in his treasury. J

To get the money, lie liad to squeeze the rich temples

of his land- It was while he was trying to carry the

gold out of one of the temples in a far province that

the rioting peasantry killed him in 187 B.C.

He was succeeded by his son Seleucus IV, who

found the Seleucid realm weakened by defeat and

plunder and the far-eastern provinces, so painstak-

ingly retaken by Antiochus III, falling away again,

this time permanently."

Seleucus IV attempted to maintain a quiet and un-

adventurous reign, since the land needed time for re-

covery. He still needed money, however, as his father

had, and one of the obvious sources was the Temple

in Jerusalem. Seleucus sent an official named Helio-

dorus to see what could be done in that direction.

The tale of what follows is told in the apocryphal

book of Second Maccabees in a garbled fashion. What

may very likely have happened was that Onias III, the

high priest, managed to make a deal with Heliodorus.

He bribed Heliodorus generously, giving the under-

ling a part in order to avoid having to give the master

the whole. Heliodorus knew that he risked his neck if

what he had done was discovered, so he arranged to

have Seleucus IV assassinated in 175 B.C.

But Seleucus IV had a younger brother Antiochus,

who had been born in Athens and who, after his fa-

* For the subsequent history of these eastern provinces, see

my book The Near East (Houghton Mifflin, 1968).

OPUS 200                237

ther's defeat, had been sent as a hostage to Rome. The

younger Antiochus was treated kindly there and con-

ceived an admiration for Rome. He was also (perhaps

because of his pride in his Athenian birth) an enthusi-

ast of Greek culture. On hearing of his older brother's

assassination, Antiochus left Rome and made his way

to Antioch. Once there, he had no trouble seizing con-

trol and beginning his reign as Antiochus IV.

Antiochus IV was a capable man who dreamed of

restoring the Seleucid Empire to the power from

which the defeat by the Romans had toppled it. To do

this—the old story—he needed money. Among the

sources of funds was still the Temple at Jerusalem.

Onias III, who represented the more conservative fac-

tions of Judaism, was still high priest and Antiochus

IV viewed him with disfavor. This might have been

simply the result of the old man's stubborn refusal to

part with Temple money, or perhaps Antiochus had

heard rumors of the deal with Heliodorus. Then, too,

Antiochus may well have thought his kingdom would

be stronger if all its people were united in Hellenic

culture, and the stubborn adherence of Onias III to

conservative Judaism may have bothered him.

In any case, when Onias' brother Joshua ap-

proached Antiochus with suggestions of a deal, Anti-

ochus listened. The suggestion was that Antiochus ap-

point Joshua as high priest in place of his brother.

Joshua would then allow Antiochus a generous supply

of the Temple funds. (In return, Joshua would have

the prestige and power of the high priesthood and—as

both men knew—a chance to enrich himself, as any

high priest could do if he were a little unscrupulous.)

To tempt Antiochus further, Joshua played up to his

known pro-Greek proclivities by offering to encour-

age the Hellenization of the Jews. As a demonstration

238

ISAAC ASIMOV

of his sincerity in this direction, he had changed his

name from the Hebrew "Joshua" to the Greek "Jason."

Antiochus agreed to the deal. Onias III was taken

off to house arrest in Anfrioch, and Joshua-Jason be-

came high priest. Joshua-Jason promptly began to live

up to his part of the bargain. Antiochus got his money

and Joshua-Jason established a gymnasium in Jerusa-

lem, At the gymnasium young men could exercise,

Greek fashion, in the nude, and the more modish of

the young Jews flocked to it. (And Joshua-Jason, who

controlled the gymnasium financially, reaped gener-

ous profits.)

The conservative Jews were horrified by the arrest

of Onias III and by the rifling of the treasury, but the

gymnasium shocked them most of all. Not only was

public nudity considered an abomination, but young

Jews who wished to exercise often wore false foreskins

to avoid advertising the fact that they were circum-

cised—thus denying the very mark of Judaism.

But Joshua-Jason had merely taught others to take

the same route as himself. A cousin of his named On-

ias, who took the Greek name of Menelaus, offered

Antiochus a still higher bribe ^f he were made high

priest in his turn. Antiochus obliged in 172 B.C. and in

succeeding years the Temple and the people were

looted indeed.

When the depredation of Onias-Menelaus became

plain, old Onias III, who was looked upon by all con-

servative Jews as the only legitimate high priest, had

the courage to denounce the matter publicly, and then

took sanctuary in a Creek temple in a suburb of Anti-

och. Onias-Menelaus, however, seems to have per-

suaded the Seleudd commander in the district (with

bribes, perhaps) to induce Onias III to leave the sanc-

tuary by giving an oath for his safety. Once Onias III

OPUS 200                239

was out of the temple, he was promptly murdered.

This was in 170 B.C.

There was chaos in Judea among those factions sup-

porting this high priest or that, but this was of little

moment to Antiochus IV. The Hellenization of the

land seemed to be progressing favorably and he had

the money he needed from the Temple at Jerusalem

and from other sources. He could now buy arms, pay

soldiers, and begin the Seleucid comeback. He in-

tended to begin the comeback by taking over Egypt,

which was now under the rule of Ptolemy VI, an ami-

able person but a complete incompetent.

Antiochus IV had no trouble at all. He was a good

general and he had a good army. Brushing aside feeble

Ptolemaic resistance, he marched to Memphis, the an-

cient capital of the Egyptians, and in 170 B.C. had

himself declared king of Egypt. He then took his army

to the Ptolemaic capital of Alexandria and, in 169 B.C.,

placed it under siege.

While the siege was under way, however, news

reached Antiochus that in his absense Joshua-Jason

had attempted to take the high priesthood from

Onias-Menelaus by force. Jerusalem was in a state of

civil war and the Seleucid army, almost 350 miles west

of its own borders, could not afford to have its line of

communications threatened.

Furious, Antiochus IV hastened back to Judea and

punished the troublesome Jews by occupying the city,

entering the Temple himself at the head of an armed

contingent, and dragging off all the valuables he

could find. For the moment, Jerusalem was stricken

and quiet.

In 168 B.C., then, Antiochus IV returned to Egypt,

where he had as little trouble as before and where he

once again resumed the siege of Alexandria. By now,

240

ISAAC ASIMOV

however, the Ptolemys had squealed for help to

Rome, which promptly answered the call. Outside the

walls of Alexandria a Roman ambassador approached

Antiochus IV. Antiochus recognized him as an old

friend and approached gladiv to greet him; but the

old friend was an official emissary from Rome now

and he had only one thing to say: Antiochus was ei-

ther to leave Egypt or to accept war with Rome.

Thunderstruck, Antiochus IV asked for time to con-

sider. The Roman drew a circle in the ground around

the king and said, "Decide before you leave the cir-

cle."

Antiochus dared not face Rome. Though his entire

army was around him and though it had marched vic-

toriously through Egypt, and though it was sure to

take Alexandria, he and all his men had to back down

in the face of a single unarmed Roman. There are few

humiliations in history as dramatic as this one.

We can imagine Antiochus' angry frustration as he

retreated, his need to get back at something or some-

one. Perhaps the news reached him that the Jews were

jubilant over the state of his affairs, as well they

might be in view of the troubles he had visited on

them by his manipulation of the high priesthood and

by his looting of the Temple.

In any case, Antiochus IV determined that, though

the Romans might humiliate him, the Jews would not.

On his return to Antioch in 167 B.C. he resolved to put

an end to Judaism altogether. Let the Jews become

Greeks and loyal subjectsl It did not seem to him

(probably) to be much of a task. Men such as Joshua-

Jason and Onias-Menelaus seemed only too eager to

be Greek, and they commanded sizable factions

among the Jews.

Consequently, Antiochus ordered that the Temple

OPUS 200                241

in Jerusalem be made Greek and that within it there

be erected a statue representing Zeus (with whom

Yahweh was to be identified) and that on its altar

there be sacrifices offered in Greek fashion. What's

more, copies of the Tewish Scriptures were to be de-

stroyed, Jewish dietarv regulations ended, the Sab-

bath abolished, and the practice of circumcision for-

bidden. Those Jews who accented Hellenization were

to be left in peace as loyal subjects of Antiochus- For

the first time in history a persecution began that was

religious, not national, in character.

Words cannot describe the horror felt by the conserva-

tive Jews. Nebuchadnezzar, four centuries before, had

merely destroyed the Temple, but Antiochus had des-

ecrated it with idols and swine's flesh. Nebuchadnez-

zar had merely taken away the Jewish land, but •Anti-

ochus was taking awav their ideal. The conservative

Jews prepared to resist and to retain their way of life,

even to death by torture.

Such deaths took place, according to the tales told

later in Second Maccabees. Grisly tales of martyrdom,

of Jews dying under torture rather than agreeing to

taste swine's flesh, are recorded there. These were the

first martyr tales in the Judeo-Christian tradition and

they formed a precedent.

It was during this period of trial that the books of

Daniel and of Esther were written with their (fic-

tional) tales of the dangers and sufferings undergone

by Jews under previous oppressors and of how these

were overcome by faith and courage. The apocryphal

books of Tobit and Judith were written in similar

fashion. These were intended to serve, not as sober

history (though they were taken as such by the pious

of later ages), but as devices for stimulating and en-

242

ISAAC ASIMOV

couraging resistance. And eventually, the resistance

ceased being that of passive acceptance of torture and

death and became the active return of violence for

violence.

This new turn of events began with an aged priest,

Mattathias. He and his five sons left Jerusalem and

retired to the comparative safety of a small town

named Modin, seventeen miles to the northwest, out-

side Judea proper. According to Josephus, the great-

great-grandfather of Mattathias was named Hashmon,

so that Mattathias and his descendants are sometimes

called the Hasmoneans. On the other hand, the third

of his five sons, who was to turn out to be the most

famous of them, was Judah Makkabi, or in Greek

form, Judas Maccabeus. The surname may mean the

Hammerer, from his later victories. In any case, the

family has come to be better known as the Macca-

bees, and the apocryphal books written about the

events of this time, whether sober history in the case

of First Maccabees, dramatized history in the case of

Second Maccabees, or fiction in the case of Third

Maccabees, all received this name.

The spark that initiated the Jewish rebellion against

the Seleucids was set off by an officer of Antiochus

who came to Modin to enforce the new laws. He

asked Mattathias, as a prominent Jewish leader, to set

a good example and to carry through a sacririce to

Zeus in the manner required. Mattathias refused.

When another Jew offered to fulfill the royal com-

mand, Mattathias, in a rage, killed the Jew and the

Seleucid officer.

There was then nothing to do but to leave Modin

hastily. Mattathias and his sons made for the Cophna

hills, some dozen miles northeast of Modin. Other

Jews who resented the new laws came to join him

OPUS 200                 243

there, and in no time a guerrilla band had been

formed. Mattathias died very soon after the flight to

the hills and the band came under the command of

Judas Maccabeus.

Joining the Maccabee standard were bands of Has-

sidim (or, in the Greek version of the name, Hasi-

deans), a term which means "the pious ones." Their

sole concern lay in religion and they were uninter-

ested in politics. It was onlv when the practice of Ju-

daism was outlawed that they were willing to resort to

violence, but under those conditions they were fanati-

cal fighters indeed.

The Gophna hills lay in Samaritan territory, and the

Seleucid governor of the region, Apollonius, moved

quickly to nip the revolt before it got very far. Apol-

lonius was, in all likelihood, overconfident. He must

have been convinced he could easiiv handle a few

rebels and he marched forward carelessly. Judas' men

lay in ambush and swarmeA down at the proper time.

Apollonius' men were scattered, Apollonius himself

was killed, and Judas took Apollonius' sword for use

in later battles.

This victory encouraged the conservative Jews in

Jerusalem and placed the pro-Hell enizers there in dif-

ficulties. Matters grew still worse for the latter. A

larger Seleucid force was sent out in 166 B.C. to oc-

cupy Jerusalem and end the annoying revolt. Again

Judas Maccabeus and his men lay in ambush, this

time at Bethhoron, twelve miles northwest of Jerusa-

lem. The second Seleucid force was also trapped and

destroyed.

By now the Jewish guerrillas had made a first-class

nuisance of themselves, but Antiochus IV could not

turn his full attention to them. He needed money,

money, money, and he had to get that somewhere in

244

ISAAC ASIMOV

the east, where the provinces had declared themselves

independent and where tax collections had dried up.

Off he marched eastward, leaving the small Jewish

war band to the attention of his minister, Lysias.

In 165 B.C. Lysias assembled a strong army at Em-

maus, fifteen miles west of Jerusalem and eleven

miles west of the Maccabean stronghold at Mizpeh.

Judas held his ground and remained on the defensive.

With only three thousand men he had to.

But the Seleucid army could not wait. If the rebels

would not come out to fight, they would have to be

flushed out. Its commander made a mistake, however;

he divided his forces and sent only part to Mizpeh.

That was what Judas was hoping for. With the enemy

divided, Judas raced his men to Emmaus, where he

attacked and defeated the part of the Seleucid army

that had remained there- With that done, Judas

whirled on the contingent that was returning fruit-

lessly from Mizpeh. For the third time, the Seleucids

were defeated.

Later in the year Lysias tried once more, sending a

troop around Judea into the friendly land of Idumea

and then attacking toward Jerusalem from the south.

The watchful Judas stopped him at Beth-zur, sixteen

miles southwest of Jerusalem, and defeated him again.

By now, successive victories had brought enough of

the Jews to the side of the Maccabees to make if" pos-

sible for the guerrillas to enter Jerusalem. Seleucid

forces and their Hellenized Jewish sympathizers still

controlled the fortified portions of the city, but the

Maccabees were able to seize the Temple.

Judas Maccabeus proceeded to rededicate the Tem-

ple, purifying it from its Seleucid profanation. He

chose priests who had never compromised with the

Seleucid authorities, tore down the altar on which

OPUS 200

245

swine had been sacrificed to Zeus, and buried the

stones. A new altar was built, new vessels supplied,

and proper sacrifices performed. The anniversary of

the dedication of the Temple in 165 B.C. is celebrated

to this day by the Jews as the eight-day feast of

Hanukkah ("dedication").

Judas Maccabeus bv no means considered this a fi-

nal victory. It was merely an item. He had as his am-

bition the liberation of all Jews everywhere in the

land that had once been Canaan. He led his army

across the Jordan and northward, while his brother Si-

mon, with another troop, took the route northward

along the coast. Both defeated Seleucid contingents,

enrolled fighters from among the Jewish population,

and established strongpoints. By 163 B.C. the Seleucid

power south of Damascus had been reduced to tatters,

and far off, in what is now central Iran, Antiochus IV

died, possibly from tuberculosis. Despite his very real

ability, his reign had been a disaster.

The death of Antiochus IV did not end Seleucid at-

tempts to repress the Maccabean revolt Antiochus'

nine-year-old son reigned as Antiochus V, with Lysias

as his minister. In 162 B.C. yet another Seleucid army

advanced to the attack. It was the strongest yet, and

once again it attacked from the south, moving through

Beth-zur. It had at least one elephant moving with it.

In a battle at Beth-zecfaariah, Bve miles north of

Beth-zur, the Maccabeans were forced back. Eleazar,

one of the brothers of Judas, fought his way to the

elephant, thinking that it carried the king in person.

He stabbed it in the abdomen and killed it, but the

dying elephant fell on Eleazar and crushed him—and

it did not after all, carry the young king.

Eleazar's feat did not turn the tide of battle, and for

the first time, in the face of overwhelming strength,

246

ISAAC ASIMOV

Judas was defeated. He brought what he could save

of his forces back to the Gophna hills, where he and his

family had first sought refuge five years before, and

the Seleucid forces reoccupied Jerusalem. This time,

however, they were careful to make no attempt to in-

terfere with the Temple services. Lysias' moderation

was the result of trouble at home. Other generals were

trying to seize control of the kingdom from Lysias,

while Demetrius, a nephew of Antiochus IV, was

grabbing at the tlirone itself.

Lysias therefore, in an effort to end the Judean re-

volt which was sapping his strength, offered a compro-

mise. He would grant the Jews complete religious free-

dom if they would accept Seleucid political sover-

eignty. The Hassidim, who were interested only in

Judaism as a religion, accepted this and retired from

the battle. This meant that Lysias had gained his

point, for, without the Hassidim, Judas' remaining

forces were too weak to offer resistance and he could

only maintain himself in the Gophna hills and await

events.

In the Seleucid wars that followed, both Antiochus

V and Lysias were killed, and Demetrius I ruled in

their place. With Judea quiet, he attempted to restore

the situation as it had once been, with the appoint-

ment of a high priest who would control Judaism in

the Seleucid interest—at least to a reasonable degree.

He appointed Eliakim as high priest; Eliakim, a Hel-

lenizer, preferred to be known by the Greek name of

Alcimus. Since Eliakim-Alcimus was of the old Za-

dokite line of priests, the Hassidim accepted him.

Now there was left only the small band of irrecon-

cilables in the Gophna hills. Demetrius might have ig-

nored them, but apparently Judas was attempting to

interest Rome in the Jewish plight, and the Seleucid

OPUS 200

247

•j       king decided to clean them out before it occurred to

Rome to interfere. Demetrius therefore sent his sen-

^       eral Bacchides with a strong force from Jerusalem to-

i       ward the Cophna hills.

^        Battle was Joined eight miles north of Jerusalem in

^,       161 B.C. Judas, whose forces now were less than a

?       thousand strong, was overwhelmed. He himself died

,''       on the battlefield and the few survivors scattered.

|       Two of his brothers, Jonathan and Simon, who were

? -       among those survivors, managed to take Judas' body

^      away from the battlefield and bury him in the family

^      tomb at Modin. Thus died the most remarkable Jew-

ish fighter since the time of David eight centuries be-

fore.

The Maccabean revolt appeared over. A few men

lurked in the southern desert with Jonathan, the

younger brother of Judas Maccabeus, but they were

powerless and could be ignored. The moderate policy

of Lysias and Demetrius I* had worked where the

stern force of Antiochus IV had failed.

The revolt had nevertheless accomplished one pur-

pose: the Temple was Jewish again and the Seleucids

made no attempt ever again to interfere with the rit-

ual. This meant that Judaism had been saved and

that—alone—meant that Judas' stand, though it had

ended in defeat and death, was nevertheless of crucial

importance to world history.

On the other hand, the danger was not entirely

over. Judaism might have been saved only to die more

slowly. The high priest, Alcimus, did all he could to

Hellenize the religion. He died in 159 B.C.—the last

high priest who was in any way Zadokite—but Hellen-

ization continued after him. And it might have suc-

ceeded had the Seleucid kingdom remained a stable

248

ISAAC ASIMOV

and effective governing force. What prevented the

withering of Judaism was not so much what the sur-

viving Maccabees could do, but the continuing dynas-

tic struggle among the Seleucids. Demetrius I was

constantly fighting rivals for the throne, and, when he

was forced to pull soldiers out of Judea, Jonathan and

his small band automatically began to increase in

numbers and expanded to fill the vacuum.

Demetrius made the best of it. In 157 B.C. he ap-

pointed Jonathan to the post of royal governor and al-

lowed him to enter Jerusalem and rule Judea, pro-

vided he acknowledged Seleucid sovereignty. Jona-

than agreed to that, accepting the reality of power

and letting the appearance go.

In 152 B.C. an imposter, Alexander Balas, who

claimed to be a son of Antiochus IV, obtained the

backing of Ptolemaic Egypt and launched a civil war

against Demetrius I. Jonathan remained shrewdly un-

committed for a while, allowing both sides to bid for

his services. Demetrius offered Jonathan rule over

wider areas, and Balas offered to appoint him high

priest. Jonathan accepted both offers.

In that year of 152 B.C., then, Jonathan donned the

robes of the high priesthood, and for the first time in

nine centuries an individual who was not descended

from Solomon's high priest, Zadok, officiated in the

Temple.

Finally, when Jonathan had to choose, he came

down on the side of Balas. The choice seemed a good

one, for in 150 B.C., in a final battle between the two

claimants, Balas was victorious and Demetrius I was

killed.

In 147 B.C., however, the son of Demetrius arrived

in Syria and attacked Balas. The son was Demetrius II

and he, of course, was hostile to the Maccabeans, who

OPUS 200                249

had supported—and were, perforce, continuing to sup-

port—Balas- An army loyal to Demetrius encamped in

what was once the land of the Philistines and chal-

lenged Jonathan to battle. Jonathan, in that same year,

accepted the challenge, and the battle was fought in

Azotus, the Biblical Ashdod.

For the first time the Maccabean army was large

enough to fight as something more than a guerrilla

force—to fight an organized battle rather than institut-

ing a surprise attack from ambush—and it won. The

Maccabees under Jonathan now controlled land on

both sides of the Jordan over an area of some 800

square miles.

In 145 B.C. Demetrius II finally defeated Balas in

battle and drove him to flight and eventual death, but

by then the Seleucid monarchy was a worthless toy.

The civil wars that had been nearly continuous since

the death of Antiochus IV, eighteen years before, had

seen a steady shrinkage of the dominions of Antioch.

All the east, including the Tigris-Euphrates valley,

was now part of the independent kingdom of Parthia

(ruled by a people akin to the Persians). Only Syria

remained to the Seleucids.

Demetrius II found his power so limited that he

could no longer mount a real offensive against the

Maccabean forces. In fact, he needed help against his

own enemies. Jonathan offered such help, suggesting

he would send a band of seasoned Jewish mercenaries

to serve Demetrius if the king would hand over the

fortified posts surrounding Jerusalem. Demetrius

agreed, accepted the forces, used them to establish his

power firmly in Antioch, and then refused to give up

the fortified posts.

The angry Jonathan waited for the inevitable—more

dynastic troubles. In 143 B.C. a general named Try-

250

ISAAC ASIMOV

phon, making use of a young bov who was hailed as

the son of Balas and given the title Antiochus VI, re-

belled against Demetrius II. Jonathan threw his sup-

port to the new claimant at once-

But Tryphon wearied of the indirection of having to

act under cover of a bov and planned to kill Anti-

ochus VI. To do so, however, might have risked the

good will of Jonathan, who was, at the moment, his

strongest supporter. Tryphon therefore planned to

plunge the Maccabean power into confusion in the

most direct possible way Hrst. He invited Jonathan to

a conference in the royal city of Ptolemais, eighty-five

miles north of Jerusalem. Jonathan, apparently flat-

tered to be treated with considerable respect by the

Seleucid power; allowed himself to be lured into the

city with a very small band of men. He was captured

and killed in 142 B.C.

But one Maccabean brother remained—Simon. He

reclaimed Jonathan's bodv and buried it in the family

tomb, then once more approached Demetrius II, who

still maintained a force against Tryphon. Simon of-

fered him an alliance against Tryphon in exchange tor

recognition of complete Judean independence. The

deal was made. and 142 B.C. marked the moment

when, for the first time since Nebuchadnezzar's de-

struction of Jerusalem, 445 years before, there was an

independent Jewish state- Simon ruled both as king

(though he did not use the title) and high priest.

Almost at once Simon began to strengthen himself.

In 141 B.C, he took over the fortified posts in Jerusa-

lem so that at least the capital city was entirely free of

the foreign soldiery. He also took the coastal city of

Joppa to give the newly independent kingdom a foot-

hold at sea.

OPUS 200                251

From a material standpoint my history books do not

do particularly well. For instance, they have never

moved into paperback editions. That doesn't matter to

me, however, since I enjoy writing them, and my in-

come is high enough to let me please myself in this

respect.

Houghton Mifflin might object, to be sure, but they

don't. Perhaps that is because they dont want to hurt

my feelings and see a look of troubled sadness come

into my eyes ... So, among the second hundred,

they loyally published two books of mine on medieval

history: Constantinople {Book 106) in 1970, and The

Shaping of France (Book 126) in 1972.

From the latter book, here is a passage in which

France, having suffered disastrous defeats at the

hands of the smaller nation of England, meets with an

even worse enemy.

from THE SHAPING OF FRANCE (1972)

But once disasters begin to come, they come in battal-

ions. France had suffered a disaster at sea at the Bat-

tle of Sluys, and a far worse disaster on land at the

Battle of Crecy. Now there came a disaster worse than

either, worse than both together, worse than anything

mere medieval armies could do; something that

placed not only France but England, too, and all Eu-

rope under a terror beyond that which mere armies

could create.

It was the plague.

The plague is essentially a disease of rodents and is

spread from rodent to rodent by fleas. Every once in a

while, however, when the fleas spread the disease to

rodents such as house rats, which live in close coa-

252

ISAAC ASIMOV

Junction with human beings, the disease spreads also

to men. Sometimes it affects the lymph nodes, partic-

ularly in the groin and the armpits, causing them to

swell into painful "buboes"—hence "bubonic plague."

Sometimes the lungs are affected ("pneumonic

plague") and that is even worse, for then contagion

proceeds from man to man via the air and there is no

need for the intervention of rats and fleas.

Sometime in the 1330s, a new strain of plague bacil-

lus made its appearance somewhere in central Asia; a

strain to which human beings were particularly sus-

ceptible. Men began to die, and even while Edward

and Philip fought their trivial battle over who was to

rule France, the grinning specter of death was striding

closer to Europe. By the time Calais fell, the plague

had reached the Black Sea.

In the Crimea, the peninsula jutting into the north-

central Black Sea, there was a seaport called Kaffa

where the Genoese had established a trading post. In

October 1347, a fleet of twelve Genoese ships Just

managed to make it back to Genoa from Kaffa. The

few men on board who were not already dead were

dying—and thus the plague entered western Europe.

In early 1348 it was in France and in mid-1348 it had

reached England.

Sometimes one caught a mild version of the disease,

but very often it struck virulently. In the latter case,

the patient was almost always dead within one to

three days after the first symptoms. Because the ex-

treme stages were marked by hemorrhagic spots that

turned dusky, the disease was called the Black Death.

In a world innocent of hygiene, the Black Death

spread unchecked. It is thought to have killed some 25

million people in Europe before it died down (more

because all the most susceptible people were dead

OPUS 200                 253

than because anyone did anything) and many more

than that in: Africa and Asia. About a third of the pop-

ulation of Europe died, perhaps more, and it took a

century and a half before natural multiplication re-

stored European population to what it had been at

the time of the Battle of Crecy- It was the greatest

natural disaster to strike mankind in recorded history.

Its short-term effects were marked by the abject

terror it inspired among the populace. It seemed as

though the world were coming to an end, and every-

one walked in fear. A sudden attack of shivering or

giddiness, a mere headache, might mean that death

had marked you for its own and had given you a cou-

ple dozen hours to live.

. Whole towns were depopulated, with the first to

'die lying unburied while the initial survivors fled—

only to spread the disease to wherever it was they

fled to. Farms lay untended; domestic animals (who

also died by the millions) wandered about uncared

for. Whole nations (Aragon, for instance) were af-

flicted so badly that they never truly recovered.

Distilled liquors (alcoholic drinks produced by dis-

tilling wine, thus producing a stronger solution of al-

cohol than could be formed by natural fermentation)

had first been developed in Italy about 1100. Now,

two centuries later, they grew popular. The theory

was that strong drink acted as a preventive against

contagion. It didn't, but it made the drinker less con-

cerned, which was something. The plague of drunken-

ness settled down over Europe to match the plague of

disease and remained behind after the disease was

gone.

Everyone suffered, with those who lived in

crowded quarters the worst, of course. Towns suf-

fered more than the countryside, and indeed the grad-

254

ISAAC ASIMOV

ua] urbanization of the west received a setback from

which it did not recover for a century. Monastic com-

munities were also particularly hard hit, and the qual-

ity of monastic life in some ways never recovered.

Even the highest were vulnerable. In 1348 and

1349, three archbishops of Canterbury died of the

plague. In the papal capital of Avignon, five cardinals

and a hundred bishops died. A daughter of Edward

III, Joan, was on her wav to Castile to marry the son

of King Alfonso XI. She died of plague in Bordeaux

on her way there. And in Castile, so did King Alfonso.

In France, Philip's queen, Joan of Burgundy, died.

The terrified populace had to take action. Knowing

nothing of the germ theorv or of the danger of fleas, un-

able to keep clean in a culture which was rather suspi-

cious of cleanliness and considered it unholy, they

could do nothing useful. They could, however, find a

scapegoat, and for that there were always Jews avail-

able.

The theory arose that the Jews had deliberately poi-

soned wells in order to destroy Christians. The fact

that Jews were dying of the plague on equal terms

with Christians was not allowed to interfere with the

theory, and the Jews were slaughtered without mercy.

Of course this did nothing at all to diminish the scourge.

Viewed from a longer range, the Black Death

(which kept recurring at intervals—though never

again as bad—after the first attack had died out in

1351) destroyed the medieval optimism of the thir-

teenth century. It placed a kind of gloom on the world

and bred a growth of fatalistic mysticism that took a

long time to dispel.

It also helped destroy the economic structure of feu-

dalism. There had never been a surplus of labor in the

fields and the towns, but with the devastation of the

OPUS 200                 255

plague (which fell more violently upon the low-born

than upon the aristocracy} there was a sudden ex-

treme shortage. Savage laws were promulgated by

governments in order to keep serfs and artisans from

taking advantage of the suddenly increased value of

their muscles and skills, but no laws could counter the

economic facts of life.

Serfs who recognized the great need for their serv-

ices dickered for better treatment and greater privi-

leges and often got them. Artisans charged higher

prices. Prices and wages rose, and to the difficulties

produced by war and plague were added those of eco-

nomic dislocation and inflation.

Under the double blow of the Battle of Crecy and

the Black Death, the very basis of feudalism, both

military and economic, was destroyed. In western Eu-

rope, it had to die. It took its time, but there was

never a question of its surviving after the mid-

fourteenth century; only of how long it would take be-

fore human beings realized that it was dead.

Then, half a century later, after the French had sttf-

fered civil war and additional defeats and the ever-

victorious English were lai/ing siege to Orleans with

final victory at hand, here is what happened:

' from THE SHAPING OF FRANCE (2972)

On February 12, 1429, when the siege was completing

its fourth month, a column of French tried to inter-

cept a wagon train being sent to the English from

Paris. This included many barrels of dried herrings,

for it was the Lenten season and fish was in high de-

256

ISAAC ASIMOV

mand. The supply train was under the command of

Sir John Fastoife, who had fought well at Agincourt

and in Normandy.

As soon as Fastoife was aware of the oncoming

French, he took vigorous measures for the defense. He

drew his wagons into a line that served as an im-

promptu fortification. From behind the shelter of

those wagons, he placed his English longbowmen at

one flank, and Parisian crossbowmen (the Parisians

were still hotly pro-Burgundy and anti-Armagnac) on

the other.

The French fought well, but there was little they

could do against the wagon-protected bowmen, and

the English won again. Burst barrels strewed herring

all over the field, so the action is known as the Battle

of the Herrings.

The French relieving forces were particularly dis-

heartened at this repulse because it seemed one more

in an endless string of victories won in the field by

the English. There seemed no use in fighting at all, so

what was left of those forces marched hastily away.

No other forces were sent with any intention of battle.

Orleans was left to its fate, and, after two more

months had passed, it seemed that Orleans must fall

and that the Bastard, whatever his resolution and abil-

ity, would simply have to surrender.

And then a very strange thing happened, one of the

strangest in history, and something that would have

been derided as incredible if it had appeared in a

work of fiction.

A peasant girl appeared on the scene.

Her name was Jeanne Dare and she was born about

1412 at the village of Domremy, at the eastern borders

of France, 160 miles east of Paris. After the Treaty of

Troyes, Domremy lay in that part of France which

OPUS 200                257

had been handed over to the overlordship of the En-

glish king.

• Jeanne Dare, or Joan Dare in English, is never

known by that name. Her last name has been mis-

spelled as d'Arc, as though she were of the nobility, so

that in English she is invariably known as Joan of Arc,

although there is no place called Arc from which she

came or over which she had some claim.

In her teens she was experiencing visions, hearing

voices and imagining herself called on to save France.

In 1429, these visions and voices finally drove her to

action. Charles VII had still not been crowned at

Reims, though six full vears had passed since the

death of his father. What's more, the siege of Orleans

might end in another English victory, and that might

defeat him forever. It seemed to Joan that her mission

had to start at once, that she had to relieve the siege

and crown Charles.

In January 1429, Joan left for Vaucouleurs, twelve

miles north of Domremy, wliere there was a fortified

outpost that still held out for Charles VII. Its captain

was sufficiently impressed by her (or perhaps suffi-

ciently eager to get rid of her) to send her on to

Charles VII with an escort of six men. Charles VII

was then at Chinon, 90 miles southwest of Orleans

and 270 miles from Domremy. Joan had to cross

English-controlled territory to reach Chinon, and so

she dressed in a man's costume to avoid the kind of

trouble a young girl might have if encountered by sol-

diers. She arrived at Chinon on February 24, 1429,

two weeks after the Battle of the Herrings had ended

French attempts to do anything active about the siege

of Orleans.

It was a superstitious age. When a girl announced

herself as a miraculous maid sent by God, she might

258

ISAAC ASIMOV

be taken for exactly that—or as a dangerous witch sent

by the Devil for the ensnarement of men. It was not

easy to tell which. Charles VII actually received Joan,

and she was then questioned by learned theologians

for three weeks in order to determine whether she was

of divine or diabolical inspiration.

It may well be that some of the worldly men around

Charles were not reallv concerned with which she

was, and perhaps didn't believe she could be either.

They might have been trying to decide whether she

would be accepted by the soldiers as a miracle maid

or not. If the French and (even more) the English

could be made to believe that God was fighting on

the side of the French, that could have an important

effect on morale on either side.

The decision arrived at was (theologically) that Joan

was sent by Cod and (practically/politically) that

this attitude would carry conviction. She was there-

fore sent to Orleans with an escort of about three

thousand soldiers under John, Duke of Alencon, who

had led the French forces at the lost Battle of Ver-

neuil and had been in captivity for a while as a result.

On April 29, 1429, Joan and her escort slipped into the

city.

It is important to understand that by now the de-

fending force within the city was quite substantial

and, indeed, they outnumbered the thin line of be-

sieging English. What kept the French from emerging

to do battle was not the lack of means, but the lack of

.will. The French were simply unable to believe they

could win. What's more, the English had suffered con-

siderably in the course of a half-year siege, and all

that kept them to their task was that they were simply

unable to believe they could lose.

OPUS 200                 259

It was only a matter of morale that kept the situa-

tion going, against the military sense of it all. Once

the news arrived that a miraculous maid was coming

to the aid of the French, the situation with respect to

morale changed suddenly and dramatically and what

followed was almost inevitable. While few events in

history have seemed so miraculous as what Joan of

Arc accomplished, it is not really as miraculous as it

seemed.

Very likely, the Bastard of Orleans counted on

Joan's effect on the morale on both sides, and, within

a week of her arrival, he launched an attack, on May

4, on the fortified posts set up by the English at the

eastern approaches of the citv. He did not even bother

telling her about it. On learning of the fighting, how-

ever, Joan hastened to the eastern walls. The French

soldiers, heartened at her appearance, fought the more

savagely, and the English fell back.

The first sign of French victory set in motion a vi-

cious cycle for the English. If the French advanced

more than was their wont, it was a sign that Joan was

heaven-sent or hell-sent but, in either case, of miracu-

lous help to the French and not something mere men

could fight against. The English were all the readier

to retreat further, and to accept that further retreat as

further evidence.

When Joan was struck by an arrow, the English

cheered, but it was a superficial wound and, when she

appeared on the battlements again, it was easy to be-

lieve that she was invulnerable. And the English fell

back still more readily.

By May 8, the English had abandoned the siege,

leaving their strongpoints, their artillery, their dead

and wounded. The made all haste to get out of the

reach of Joan's influence.

260

ISAAC ASIMOV

Orleans was the Stalingrad of the Hundred Years'

War. The siege of Orleans had been the high point of

the English advance into France. The myth of English

invincibility was broken, the hot glare of Agincourt

dimmed; and from here on in, there could be only re-

cession for the English forces.

Then, having written about ancient and medieval his-

tory, on and off, for about ten years, I grew eager to

tackle modern history. Since by now the bicentennial

year of 1976 was approaching, why not a history of

the United States?

It seemed a shrewd idea to me, hut I forgot to

count words in my eagerness to write. Houghton

Mifflin had provided that the histories run no more

than 75,000 to 80,000 words each, since they were pri-

marily aimed at a teenage audience (though adults, I

am firmly convinced, can also profit from reading my

histories}.

I began my history of the United States with the

Indians and with the discovery and settling of North

America by Europeans, and when the allotted word-

age was done, I was dismayed to find I was only up

to 1763. I stopped, called the book The Shaping of

North America (Book 137), and it was published in

1973

I continued, then, with a second book but found I

could only squeeze some fifty years into that . . .

and another fifty years into a third . . . and another

fifty years into a fourth. The Birth of the United

States (Book 149), published in 1974, took the history

from 1763 to 1816; Our Federal Union (Book 161),

published in 1975, took it from 1816 to 1865; and The

Golden Door (Book 189), published in 1977, took it

OPUS 200                261

from 1865 to 1918. I had passed the bicentennial year

and I had at least one more volume to do.

From the last of these books, here is my description

of the Spanish-American War, perhaps the least im-

portant war we fought:

from THE GOLDEN DOOB (2977)

The Americans had fewer ships than the Spanish, but

those ships were new and beautifully designed. For

once, the United States was ready for war, at least on

the seas.

This was partly because of the work of the Ameri-

can naval officer Alfred Thaver Mahan (bom in West

Point, New York, on September 27, 1840). The son of

a professor at West Point, he himself went to the Na-

val Academy at Annapolis. He served on blockade

duty during the Civil War and remained in the Navy

till his retirement as a rear admiral in 1896-

He was a great military theoretician, writing The

Influence of Sea Power upon History, 1660-1783 in

1890, The Influence of Sea Power upon the French

Revolution and Empire, 1793-1812 in 1892, and The

Interest of America in Sea Power, Present and Future

in 1897.

The thesis was this: The ocean is continuous and

worldwide; the land, discontinuous and consisting of

isolated portions. A landlocked military power can oc-

cupy regions adjacent to the home base, but must stop

at the coast if it lacks a navy. A naval power, if sepa-

rated from the military power by the ocean, can iso-

late itself and, by means of its navy, attack the enemy

at every coastal point, safeguard its trade, and block-

ade its enemy. A sea power would have the world as

262

ISAAC ASIMOV

its supply source and would, in the end, defeat a con-

tinental power. It was in this way, Mahan pointed out,

that Great Britain had finally defeated all her ene-

mies, including Napoleon, and had gained her world

empire.

No nation could grow strong any longer without a'

navy, Mahan said. As for the United States, which

had no powerful nations sharing land boundaries

with it and which had two wide oceans on either side,

it could be particularly strong, even invulnerable, if it

had an effective navy. Mahan pointed out the neces-

sity of a base in Hawaii and coaling stations on smaller

islands since the Pacific Ocean was so much wider

than the Atlantic. He also advocated the building of a

canal across the isthmus of Panama, so that the

United States could, in need, quickly concentrate its

navy in either ocean.

Following Mahan, the Americans worked hard at

developing an efficient navy, and though at the time

the war with Spam came, there was no canal across

the isthmus, there were American ships in each ocean.

The Pacific Fleet was particularly well placed

through a historical accident. The secretary of the

navy, John Davis Long (born in Buckfield, Maine,

October 27, 1838) was away from his desk, and his

assistant secretary served briefly in his place as acting

secretary. That assistant secretary was Theodore

Roosevelt, who was a great admirer of Mahan's" and

* Another admirer of Mahan's was Kaiser Wilhelm II of

Germany. A month before the Spanish-American War

started, Germany, aware of Mahan"s theories, began the

building of a modern navy designed eventually to surpass

that of Great Britain. Great Britain was already suspicious of

German ambitions, and this hit at the very heart of its

strength. Great Britain and Germany became deadly ene-

OPUS 200                263

very keen on using the navy properly. He ordered six

warships in the Pacific to proceed to Hong Kong in

order to be ready to act against the Philippines the

moment war was declared. Secretary Long, when he

returned, was furious, but he did not countermand the

order,

If the United States had a serviceable navy, it had

virtually no army at all. Spain had 155,000 soldiers in

Cuba at the time, while the United States had a total

of 28,000 soldiers altogether, and these had fought no

one but Indians for a generation.

Volunteers were called up, but the new, enlarged

army units were not stiffened by scatteiing veterans

throughout them. Instead, the veterans were kept in-

tact and the rookies were left to themselves. Further-

more, the supply organization of botli food and medi-

cal care was abysmally poor—the last war in which

the United States permitted itself this disgrace.!

As soon as news of the declaration of war was re-

ceived in Hong Kong, the American squadron, under

Commodore George Dewey (born in Montpelier, Ver-

mont, on December 26, 1837), a veteran of the Civil

War, had to leave, as otherwise Hong Kong's status as

a neutral port would be in question. That suited

mies and sixteen years later they were on the opposite sides

of a great war.

+ It was also the last major war fought with gunpowder,

which had been the mainstay of battle for five centuries and

had fouled the guns, choked the gunners, and hidden the

battlefield with its endless smoke. In 1891, the British chem-

ists James Dewar and Frederick Augustus Abel had invented

cordite, the first of the smokeless powders and a substance

more powerful and shattering than gunpowder. Future wars

would be fought with such smokeless powders.

264

ISAAC ASIMOV

Dewey. His orders were to go to Manila, 1050 kilome-

ters to the southeast.

Dewey had six ships under his command—four

cruisers and two gunboats—and on April 27, 1898,

after having put all his ships in complete battle readi-

ness, he sailed for Manila Waiting for him were ten

Spanish ships together with Spanish shore batteries.

The Europeans in Hong Kong, imagining the Span-

iards to be what they once had been, were certain

that Dewey was steaming to his destruction; but there

was really no chance of that. Dewey's ships were of

the latest design and in tiptop shape The Spanish

ships were little more than hulks, and the Spanish ad-

miral was expecting defeat.

The Spanish admiral lines up seven of his ships just

off Manila in order to protect the city, but there was

nothing to protect the ships. Dewey reached Manila

Bay, saw nothing to prevent his entering, did so, and

reached the neighborhood of Manila itself on the

night of April 30.

When daybreak of May 1, 1898, revealed the two

opposing fleets to each other, the Spaniards fired high

and did no damage. At 5:40 A.M. Dewey said quietly

to Captain Charles Vemon Gridley (born in Logans-

port, Indiana, on November 24, 1844), captain of the

flagship, Olympia, "You may fire when ready, Gri-

dley."

The American ships paraded back and forth before

the Spanish fleet, firing steadily. They pulled off

briefly at 7:30 so that the men could have a quiet

breakfast, then returned to work. By 11:00 A.M. the

Spainish fleet was destroyed. Every ship had been

sunk or beached and 381 Spaniards had been killed.

In the process, Dewey lost not a man. Eight sailors

OPUS 200                265

had received minor wounds, that was all And when

the American ships moved in to bombard Manila it-

self, the Spaniards agreed to silence the shore batteries.

Despite the total victory at sea, Dewey could not

take Manila For that he needed a land force, and he

^ had none. On May 19, he brought in Aguinaldo from

. Hong Kong so that he might lead his Filipino insur-

I gents against the Spaniards on land and keep them

occupied and incapable of taking any aggressive ac-

^ tion against the ships Even that didn't give Dewey

^ the wherewithal to take the city, and he had to wait

for the arrival of American soldiers.

^ The wait wasn't particularly comfortable. He was

^ Isolated and far from any friendly port, and, by June

^T12, British, French, and German ships had arrived.

•HThey were there, ostensibly, to guard the lives and

^ properties of their nationals but were clearly hoping

H to pick up some pieces if the fall of Spanish power in

II the Philippines created a vacuum there- The Germans

^were especially aggressive in thetr provocations, and

'H'at one point the desperate Dewey was forced to tell a

^iCerman officer, "Tell your admiral if he wants war I

^. am ready."

H- But the Germans didn't actually want war; they just

Unwanted whatever they could get without war. With

I'Dewey ready (and the worth of his ships having been

; dramatically exhibited), and with the United States

^finally making it clear that, whatever happened to the

S; Philippines, no other nations would be allowed a look-

,in, the German ships sailed off. Dewey settled down

?to maintain his blockade and wait for his soldiers.

Meanwhile, in the Atlantic, Spain's fleet had

|reached the West Indies, and by that time they were

roompletely out of fuel. They could not possibly fight

fisefore getting into some Cuban port in order to load

266

ISAAC ASIMOV

coal. The American Navy knew this, and it was only a

matter of finding the fleet while it was in port and

keeping it there. (From their Florida base, the Ameri-

can ships had to go only a few hundred kilometers to

reach any part of the Cuban coast, so they had no fuel

problem*)                                     ,

On May 19, the Spanish fleet reached Santiago, on

Cuba's southeastern coast, and entered. On May 29,

the American fleet, under Rear Admiral William

Thomas Sampson (born in Palmyra, New York, on

February 9, 1840)—who had been head of the board

of inquiry in connection with the sinking of the

Maine—located the Spanish fleet there and instantly

blockaded the harbor.

If the American fleet could have entered the har-

bor, as Dewey had entered Manila Bay, they would

surely have destroyed the Spanish ships. However, the

channel entrance was narrow and was littered with

mines, and the United States did not wish to lose any

of its modem and expensive ships if that could be

avoided. Yet something had to be done, for as long as

the Spanish ships were intact, there was always the

possibility that they might do some damage.

It was decided to leave the American fleet outside

the harbor and to invade Cuba with a land force that

could attack Santiago from the rear. On June 10, ma-

rines landed in Guantanamo Bay, sixty-five kilometers

east of Santiago, to establish a foothold. (During

some preliminary skirmishes, one American com-

mander—a Confederate veteran—forgot who the en-

emy was and shouted, "Come on, boys, we've got the

damn Yankees on the run.")

More than that was needed though, and the main

American army, gathering in Tampa, Florida, had

been ordered to Cuba on May 30. It was under Gen-

OPUS 200                 267

eral William Rufus Shatter (born in Galesburg, Michi-

gan, on October 16, 1835). He was a veteran of the

Civil War and had fought bravely and well, but he

now weighed 310 pounds and did not know how to

organize a large command.

It took eleven davs before embarkation could get

started and four days to complete the embarkation—

everything done in complete chaos, with Shatter

doing virtually nothing. By June 20, the transports

reached the vicinity of Santiago. Shatter decided not

to attempt a direct attack on the city but to land at a

point thirty kilometers east of Santiago. In this, he fol-

lowed the advice of General Calixto Garcia,0 who

commanded the Cuban rebels in this area.

The disembarkation was even more ragged and dis-

organized than the embarkation had been, and had the

Americans faced an efficient and well-commanded

enemy, most of them would probably have met their

end. As it was, the Spanish command was bad enough

to make even Shafter look good, and the Americans

were placed on Cuban soil without opposition and

without casualties resulting from enemy action.

By June 30, the Americans were ready to march on

Santiago. On July 1, two battles were fought—one at

e In the course of the war, an American officer. Lieutenant

Andrew Summers Rowan, had made contact with Garcia in

order to coordinate action. In 1899, the American journalist

Elbert Green Hubbard wrote a moralistic essay entitled "A

Message to Garcia," exalting this action and using it as a

-lesson to "get things done" through what seems suspiciously

like mindless obedience. The essay gained tremendous popu-

. larity and was read and memorized by uncounted hordes of

schoolchildren—including the author of this book, who, even

as a child, disagreed with its simplistic philosophy, but

thought it the better part of valor not to say so.

268

ISAAC ASIMOV

El Coney, 8 kilometers northeast of Santiago, and the

other at San Juan Hill, about 1.5 kilometers east of

Santiago. Both were American victories, and it was in

the latter that Theodore Roosevelt distinguished him-

self.

At the outbreak of the war Roosevelt resigned and

Joined the First Volunteer Cavalry unit, as a lieuten-

ant colonel. He wasn't its commander, but he was al-

ways spectacularly visible, and in the popular mind

the unit was Roosevelt's Rough Riders. At San Juan

Hill, the Americans were pinned by fire from Span-

iards holding the heights and the Rough Riders

weren't riding, roughly or otherwise, for they were dis-

mounted. Fighting on foot, they led the charge under

enemy fire, though it wasn't actually much of a

charge since they moved up the heights slowly and

with difficulty. But they moved, and drove the Span-

iards off.

It was Roosevelt's only chance at the military glory

he longed for. (As he said, "It wasn't much of a war,

but it was all we had.") And it was better than noth-

ing, for he made the most of it in later years. The

American satirist Finley Peter Dunne (born in Chi-

cago on July 10, 1867) had his famous Irish-dialect

hero, Mr. Dooley, remark that when Roosevelt wrote

up his Spanish-American experiences he should have

entitled it "Alone in Cuba."

Once on the heights, the Americans were in a posi-

tion to bombard the city of Santiago and the Spanish

fleet from land. The Spanish admiral, whose orders

forbade surrender, had no choice but to try to break

out of the harbor. On July 3, he made the attempt and

the American ships pounced at once. In four hours,

every Spanish ship was destroyed, 474 Spaniards were

OPUS 200                 269

Ikuled or wounded, and 1750 were taken prisoner. The

lAmerican loss was 1 killed and 1 wounded.

"Straight" history is not the only history there is, of

course, and one of my interests has long been the his-

t^tory of science. In my first hundred books, the most

'^sbnportant example of that is Asimov's Biographical

jtEncyclopedia of Science and Technology (published

^hy Doubleday}, which covered all of science from the

^4ime of ancient Egypt to the present in a thousand

^biographical entries.

F In the course of writing my second hundred hooks,

p revised and enlarged that book to the point where I

^considered the result, published in 1972, the equiva-

Ifent of a new book and listed it as Book 118.

1 also did a history of the telescope for Houghton

tifflin-Eyes on the Universe {Book 165). Here is the

ile of the invention of the telescope from it:

EYES ON THE UNIVERSE (1975)

|You might even imagine a piece of glass that was sym-

Itnetrical, a convex surface on both sides meeting in a

gine all around the edge. You can image it best, per-

piaps, as two plano-convex pieces of glass placed to-

Jgether flat side to flat side. The result is a "biconvex"

Jtpiece of glass.

| The biconvex piece of glass has the shape of a lentil

fseed, and it came to be called by the Latin version of

l&at name. It was a "lens." Strictly speaking, only the

priconvex piece of glass has a right to the name, but its

|use has spread to all kinds of transparent objects with

loothly curved surfaces. You can speak of a "plano-

270

ISAAC ASIMOV

convex lens," for instance, even though there are no

lentil seeds with a plano-convex shape-

Crude lenses have been unearthed in Crete and in

Asia Minor, and some may date as far back as 2000

B.C. Alhazen's writing op light and refraction men-

tioned lenses and his books began to be translated

into Latin about 1170. They served to stimulate

thought and experiment in a Europe that was begin-

ning to grow interested in science.

The first systematic studies of lenses in Europe

were made by the English scholar Robert Grosseteste

(1175-1253) and his pupil Roger Bacon (1220-1292).

Neither knew what was happening to light, but they

could observe the magnification. Bacon used lenses to

magnify letters on a page and to aid himself in read-

ing. He suggested the wearing of lenses to aid vision,

and about 1300 spectacles came into use in Italy.

The first spectacles were made of biconvex lenses,

which enlarged objects and which were particularly

useful to old people, who are often far-sighted.

It is also possible to have a "biconcave" lens—one in

which the glass is thick at the edge of the lens all

around and in which the curve on each side bellies

inward, so that the glass is thinner as one moves in-

ward from the edge and is thinnest at the center. With

such a lens, light is bent away from the center and the

effect is Just the opposite of that of a biconvex lens.

Objects viewed through it seem smaller.

It may seem that such a lens is useless. What is the

good in seeing things smaller? The fact is, however,

that biconcave lenses are useful in correcting near-

sightedness, and spectacles for that purpose began to

be used about 1450.

The making of spectacles became an important in-

dustry in early modem times, particularly in the Neth-

OPUS 200                271

erlands, where men grew skilled in the manufacture of

lenses.

Thus, rather than making lenses either biconvex or

biconcave, men could make them convex on one side

and concave on the other, so that the resulting

; "concavo-convex lens" is thinner and more delicate

' than either the biconcave or the biconvex lenses. If

the curves are so chosen that the center of the

concavo-convex lens is thinner than the edges, such a

lens will correct near-sightedness; if the center is

thicker than the edges it will correct far-sightedness.

The shop of a Dutch spectacles-maker, with lenses

of every variety lying about, is an invitation to play

games, for no one has ever had lenses available to him

without at once beginning to peer through them at

various objects. A magnification effect is most inter-

esting, and it is only natural to attempt to make the

magnification as great as possible.

Two English mathematicians,. Leonard Digges

^ (1510P-1571?) and John Dee (1527-1608), even expe-

rimented with combinations of lenses in an attempt to

increase the magnifying effect, but reported no suc-

cesses.

; When the discovery came, according to the most of-

' ten repeated version of the story, it came bv accident.

^ Hans Lippershey (1570P-1619?) was a spectacles-

' maker in the city of Middelburg, in the Dutch prov-

since of Zeeland, about eighty miles southwest of Am-

'sterdam. What is supposed to have happened is that

,an apprentice of his, idling away his time in the ab-

sence of his master, amused himself by looking at the

|world through the lenses that had been left in his

tcare. Eventually, he took two lenses and held them

|both before his eyes, one nearby and one far off, and

272

ISAAC ASIMOV

found, to his astonishment, that a distant weathervane

appeared to be much larger and closer.

With considerable excitement, he showed this to

Lippershey when he returned to the shop. It may be

that the apprentice was not beaten for wasting time,

for Lippershey seems to have caught the significance

of the finding at once.

Lippershey realized that one could not expect to

stand about holding two lenses in appropriate posi-

tions, one in each hand. He therefore devised a metal

tube into which the two lenses could be fitted in the

proper place, and he had what he called (in Dutch) a

"looker," something one could look through.

It came to be called, more pretentiously, an "optic

tube" or "optic glass" or "perspective glass." In the

first book of Paradise Lost, published in 1667, John

Milton still refers to such a device as an optic glass. In

1612, however, a Greek mathematician, loannes Dimi-

siani, who was secretary to an Italian cardinal, sug-

gested the word "telescope," from Greek words mean-

ing "to see at a distance." By about 1650 this word

began to gain ground and eventually drove out all

others. We can say, then, that Lippershey had in-

vented the first telescope.

But did he? Once the instrument became famous,

other Dutchmen lay claim to having been first in the

field. This is very possible, for given a supply of len-

ses, anyone could invent it by accident One with a

particularly good case is another optician of Middel-

burg, a neighbor of Lippershey's named Zacharias

Janssen (1580-1638?). He claimed to have con-

structed a telescope in 1604, and he may have; Lip-

pershey may have borrowed the idea and made up the

story of his apprentice to cover the theft.

Nevertheless, Lippershey deserves credit whether

OPUS 200                 273

he originated the telescope in the strict sense of the

word or not. All his competitors for the honor did

nothing with their telescopes, as far as we know, ex-

cept indulge in viewing for their own amusement.

Lippershey made the world conscious of the instru-

ment by offering it to the Dutch government as a war

weapon.

At that time, the Netherlands had been fighting a

bitter war of independence against Spain for forty

years, and all that was keeping the small nation alive

against the superior military power of Spain was the

Dutch navy. An instrument that would allow ships of

the Dutch fleet to see the approach of an enemy long

before that enemy could be aware of the Dutch would

place the Netherlands in a strong position.

Maurice of Nassau, the capable man who was then

stadholder of the Dutch republic, was interested in

science and saw the importance of the device at once.

He paid Lippershey 900 flonns and ordered him to

produce for the government telescopes of a binocular

variety, ones that could be looked through with both

eyes at once.

Maurice tried to keep the telescope a secret, but

that was impossible; the device was too simple. The

mere rumor that such a thing existed meant that any

ingenious man could duplicate it at once. Telescopes

were offered to Henry IV of France before 1608 was

over, but King Henry, while amused, was not inter-

ested.

The secret war weapon, then, was no secret—but

the Dutch did not lose too much. In 1609, a truce with

Spain was worked out and the Dutch were never in

real danger (from Spain, at least) thereafter. The tele-

scope could go its way, then, with not even the

sketchiest attempt to keep it secret—and it did.

274

ISAAC ASIMOV

*     *     •

By all odds, though, the most unusual bit of history

included in my second hundred books is fictional. In

1973, the Saturday Evening Post, aware of the coming

bicentennial, suggested that 1 write a fantasy about

Benjamin Franklin, one in which I would talk to him,

perhaps, and get the advice of the wise old sage with

respect to our contemporary problems.

I thought it was a fascinating idea, and I felt I

could handle it since I had already written The Shap-

ing of North America and The Birth of the United

States in addition to The Kite That Won the Revolu-

tion, a book specifically on Franklin, which was in-

cluded in my first hundred.

I therefore wrote a story called "The Dream" and it

was published in the January-February 1974 Saturday

Evening Post.

As so often happens, though, the publishers' appe-

tite was only whetted and they came after me again.

They wanted more dream conversations with Frank-

lin, and I wrote three more before mounting one of

my all-too-rare rebellions against such things and re-

fusing to do any more.

I called the additional stories simply "Second

Dream," "Third Dream," and "Fourth Dream," but the

Saturday Evening Post called them "Benfamin's

Dream," "Party by Satellite," and "Benjamins Bicen-

tenial Blast."

Then, in January 1976, the printers' union of New

York held its annual banquet on Franklins birthday

(he being the patron saint of American printers). It

was their Custom to put out a small booklet of Frank-

liniana, and on this occasion, with my permission they

OPUS 200                275

put out a collection of three of the Dreams. (For some

reason, they left out the third.)

It was a privately printed book, beautifully done,

and longer than some of my children's hooks. What's

more, it contained stories of mine that were not other-

wise collected in book form, so I placed it on my list as

Book 170 (with the most inconvenient name of all the

books in my entire two hiin(lred). From it, here is

"The Dream," the first in the series, in its entirety:

"The Dream" (1974)

"I'm dreaming," I said. It seemed to me that I had

said it aloud. I know that I was in bed. I was aware of

the bedclothes. I was aware of the scattered city lights

peeping through the slats of the Venetian blinds.

Yet he was tliere. As alive—as living—as real—

I could reach out and touch him, but I dared not

move.

I recognized him. I've seen enough pictures of him,

and so has everyone. He did not look quite like his

pictures, for he was old, very old. White hair fringed

his head. I recognized him. I simply knew who he

was.

He said, "I'm dreaming."

We stared at each other and all the world faded

away—the bed and the bedclothes and the room. I

said, "You're Benjamin Franklin,"

He smiled slowly and said, "It may be that this is

not a dream only. I stand close to death and perhaps

the dying may have their wishes answered, if the wish

be sufficiently earnest. Of what year are you?"

I felt panic rise. It might be a dream, but it might

be madness. "I am dreamingF I insisted wildly.

276

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Of course, you are, after a fashion, dreaming," said

Franklin—what else could I call him^ "And I as well-

How is it conceivable that you and I could speak but

by something outside reality? And how does man

transcend reality but in dreams? Of what year are

you, my good sir?"

I was silent. He waited patiently and then shook his

head.

"Then I will speak first," he said. "I am old enough

to have naught to fear. It is New Year's Eve of the

Year of our Lord 1790, in the fourteenth year of the

Independence of the United States, and in the first

year of the presidency of George Washington. And in

the last year of poor Benjamin Franklin, too. I will not

last the new year. I know that.

"I do not die prematurely. In a fortnight and a few

days I will mark my eighty-fourth birthday. A good

old age, for it has made my life long enough to see my

native land become a new nation among the nations

of the earth, and I have had something to do with

that. We have a Constitution that was hammered out,

not without pain, and will perhaps serve. And General

Washington is spared to lead us.

"Yet will our nation last? The great monarchies of

Europe remain hostile and there are dissensions

among ourselves. British forces still hold our frontier

posts; Spain threatens in the south; our trade lan-

guishes; the party spirit grows. Will our nation last?"

I managed to nod my head.

He chuckled almost noiselessly. "Is that all you can

say? A nod? I asked for two hundred years. With this

new year coining in, my last year, I asked what the

United States might be like on its two hundredth

birthday. Are these, then, the only tidings I am vouch-

safed?"

OPUS 200                277

"Almost," I managed to say. "Almost. It is almost

the bicentennial."

Franklin nodded. "For you two centuries is a long

time. It is two centuries since the first Englishmen

stepped ashore on Roanoke Island; two centuries since

Spain's invincible Armada was smashed. I fear the

many inevitable changes two more centuries will

bring."

He paused and then his voice seemed stronger, as

though (ie were prenaring to face whatever might be.

"You speak of the bicentennial as though you accept

the idea casually. The United States, then, still exists

in your time?"

"YesI"

"In what condition? Still independent? Still with the

princely domain we won from Great Britain?"

"Still independent," I said, and I felt myself grow

warm with the pleasure of bringing great news. "And

far larger. It is a land as large as all of Europe, with a

population of more than two hundred million drawn

from every nation. Fiftv states stretch from the Atlan-

tic to the Pacific, with the fiftieth leaping the sea to

the Hawaiian Islands of the mid-Pacific."

His eyes lightened with joy. "And Canada?"

"Not Canada. That remains under the British

crown."

"Great Britain is still a monarchy then?"

"Yes. Queen Elizabeth II is on the throne, but Great

Britain is our friend and lias been for a long time."

"Let the Creator be praised for that Does the na-

tion prosper?"

"The richest on earth. The strongest"

Now Franklin paused. Then: "You say that because

you think to please me, perhaps. Richer than Great

Britain? Stronger than France?"

~t'.

278

ISAAC ASIMOV

"If you asked to have the future revealed to you,        f

would it be lies you would hear? The time has not

been all bliss. If we are a mighty union of states now,

under our thirty-seventh President in unbroken suc-

cession from George Washington, it is because we        ''

have survived a long and bloody war between the '

states. In this present century, we have fought war

after war overseas. We have had periods of economic

disaster and periods of political corruption. It has not

been the best of all possible worlds, but we have sur-

vived, and, as we approach the bicentennial, we are

the richest and strongest nation on earth."

The old man seemed restless. He stirred in his bed

and said, "I feel that I would like to walk about. I am        ^

not yet so old as to be bedridden. Yet I fear it will

break the vision. It grows stronger, do you not feel

that?"

"Yes," I said. It was as though we two alone, sepa-        ^

rated by two centuries, were all that existed in a uni-        ^

verse closed tightly about us.                                '^

Franklin said, "I feel your thoughts without asking.        ^-

1 begin to grow in you, or you in me. I sense your        •-'

world—the world that is to come."                           ^

There was a tickling in my skull—not a tickling, ei-        S

ther—a sensation I could not describe and still cannot.        <t

It was another mind which, even in great old age, was        ^

more powerful than my own and had gently inserted        t

itself into the interstices of my own.                         ^

Franklin said, with infinite satisfaction, "Yours is an         t'

age in which natural philosophy, then, is highly ad-         t

vanced, I see."                                               a,

"We call it science now," I said, "and you are right.        "A

We fly through the air and can circle the globe in less

time than it took you to go from Boston to Philadel-

phia. Our words streak at the speed of light and reach

OPUS 200                279

any comer of the globe in a fraction of a second. Our

carriages move without horses and our buildings

tower a quarter of a mile into the air."

He was silent and for a time seemed to be attempt-

ing to absorb what might have seemed like wild fan-

tasy.

I said, "Much of it stems from you. You were the

first to penetrate the nature of electricity, and it is

electricity that now powers our society. You invented

the lightning rod, the first device, based on the find-

ings of pure science, to defeat a natural calamity. It

was with the lightning rod that men first turned to

science for help against the universe."

He said, "You make it unnecessary for an old man

to praise himself. I am too old to play at the game of

modesty. I look back at my life and my eyes are not so

blind as to fail to show me something of my true

worth. Do you think, then, the lightning rod is my

greatest invention?"

"One of them, certainly," I said.

"Not at all," said Franklin seriously, "for my great-

est invention is the United States, which I see is fated

to increase so mightily in strength and wealth. But

you think I exaggerate?"

"Well," I said, "you were a member of the commit-

tee that wrote the Declaration of Independence—"

"Tom Jefferson did the writing," interupted Frank-

lin, "though I suggested a passage or two."

"And you were a member of the Constitutional

Convention—"

"Where I devoted myself to quieting tempers. None

of that. I invented the United States over a score of

years before it was born. Have you forgotten that in

your time?"

"I am not certain—"

280

ISAAC ASIMOV

"The French!" he said, impatiently. "Have the

Americans of the future forgotten the day when

France controlled Canada and Louisiana and reached

out to take the Ohio Valley, too. The day when they

would have penned us between the mountains and the

sea, to take us at their leisure later?"               ,

"We remember," I said. "We remember Wolfe and

the capture of Quebec."

"But that was victory, in 1759. Cast your mind back

to 1754. The French were at Fort Duquesne, only two

hundred fifty miles from Philadelphia. Young George

Washington's mission to the French—and he was

Young George then, a lad of twenty-one—had failed.

Yet the colonies would not take action against the

menace. The Pennsylvania proprietary government

was torpid. The British were concerned with Europe,

not with us. And even the Iroquois, our old Indian

allies, were threatening to transfer their friendship to

the French. Do you remember all that?"

"Only dimly, sir."

"So Governor De Lancey of New York called a con-

gress of the colonies to meet and confer about the

common danger. On June 19, 1754, twenty-five dele-

gates from seven colonies—the four of New England,

plus New York, Pennsylvania, and Maryland-met at

Albany. We comforted the Iroquois and held them

firm, and then, on June 24, I presented my plan of

union to the Albany congress."

He paused dramatically, then said, "I suggested the

colonies be governed by a governor-general, appoint-

ed and paid by the British crown. Partner with

him was to be a grand council in which delegates

from the various colonies, in number proportional to

population, would sit. The grand council would deal

OPUS 200                281

with American affairs, and the govenor-general would

see to it that the interests of the empire were pre-

served. The congress accepted it—on July 4. It might

have saved the colonies for Great Britain."

I nodded. "It might have. Canada finally came to

much the same arrangement and is still under the

British crown, though it rules itself."

"Ah! But the colonies ignored my plan because it

gave too much power to the crown, and Parliament

ignored it because it gave too much power to the colo-

nies. But the idea of union, which was mine, did not

die. you see. And what I suggested, molded into modi-

fied form by time, came to pass, so that my intention

became the United States of America. And," he added

with deep satisfaction, "I lived to see it and to play

my small—no, my large part."

I nodded again.

"And now," he said, "you live in a great world that

has grown curiously small, a world far smaller than

my thirteen colonies of 1754. Around the world in a

day, you say? Words at the speed of light? The astron-

omer royal, Mr. Bradley, had worked that out to be

some 180,000 miles per second."

"That is right; 186,282 miles per second."

"Even to the exact mile? And yet your world is as

divided as our American states once were."

"More divided, I fear."

"I catch a dim view of devices that make war

deadly," he said.

"We have bombs that can destroy—"

But old Franklin waved his hand. "Do not tell me. I

see enough. And yet with the chance of universal de-

struction, there remains no certainty of peace?"

"The nations are armed and hostile."

282

ISAAC ASIMOV

"The United States arms also?"                       ^

"Certainly. It is the strongest nuclear power.**          ^

*Then man does not advance in wisdom as he does   ^

'y                                            e"

m power.''                                            ^

I shrugged. What could I say?                       ||

Franklin said, "Are there no enemies against which    ^

the nations can unite? We tried to unite against

France, but relied too greativ on Great Britain to feel

the absolute need. We did unite against Great Britain,

at last, when we stood alone."

I said, "There is no power against whom the nations

of the world feel the need to unite. There is no enemy

from beyond the earth to threaten us with universal

defeat and slavery."

"Are there no enemies other than those who are liv-

ing beings?" asked Franklin angrily. "Is there not ig-

norance? Is there not miserv? Is there not hunger and

disease, hatred and bigotry, and disorder and crime?

Has your world changed so much that these things do

not exist?"

"No. We have them. Not all of man's, material ad-

vance has ended the threat of those things you men-

tion. We multiply still in great number—nearly four

billion the world over—and that multiplies our prob-

lems and may even destroy us all."

"And mankind will not combine against this imma-

terial foe?"

I said, "No more than the colonies combined against

France or even against Great Britain until bloodshed

in New England brought them a clear and present

danger."

Franklin said, "Can you wait for a clear and present

danger? What you call a nuclear war would make it

too late at once. If matters advanced to the point

where your complex society broke down, then even

OPUS 200

283

in the absence of war you could not prevent catas-

trophe."

"You are correct, sir."

"Is there no way, then, to dramatize the—" His head

bent in thought. He said, "You spoke of a war be-

tween the states. Are the states still at enmity? Is the

nation still divided?"

"No, the wounds are healed."

"How? In what manner?"

"That is not easy to explain. For one thing, in the

years after that war, the nation was engaged in build-

ing the West. In this great colonizing venture, all the

states, north and south, combined. In that common

task. and in the further task of strengthening the na-

tion, smaller enmities were forgotten."

"I see," said Franklin. "And is there no great ven-

ture in which the world is engaged in your time. Is

there nothing so grand that in it all the nations may

find a common goal and, as you say, forget the

smaller enmities?"

I thought for a moment. "Space, perhaps."

"Space?"

"Both ourselves and the Soviet Union—which used

to be the Russian Empire—have sent out exploring

vessels as far as the planets Mars and Jupiter."

For a moment Franklin seemed speechless. Then he

said, "With men on board?"

"No, unmanned. But six vessels, carrying three men

each, have traveled to the moon. Twelve Americans

have walked on the moon. A seventh vessel miscarried

but brought its crew safely back to earth."

Franklin said, "And with so majestic a feat at the

disposal of mankind, the nations of the world can yet

quarrel?"

"I am sorry, but it is so."

284

ISAAC ASIMOV

"Is the venture, perhaps, merely a useless show?"

"No. Not at ail. Vessels bearing instruments circle

earth. They help in our planetary communications.

They serve as navigational aids. They report on our

cloud cover and help us predict the weather. They in-

vestigate the properties of space and help us under-

stand our universe. Through their observations we can

plot earth's resources, pinpoint earth's physical prob-

lems of pollution, understand the planet as a whole in

ways we never could before. We can add to our

knowledge in an as yet unsuspected fashion that will

help us in—"

"And still the nations quarrel?"

"Yes."

Franklin's eyes began to blaze at this. One arm

reached out tremblinglv toward me. 'Then there must

be further dramatization. Tell me, is it an American

venture only—those vessels to the moon—or are other

nations involved?"

"It is strictly American."

"Ah. And the bicentennial approaches. Then cannot

the United States establish a birthday party that will

be the greatest birthday of all time by making it a

celebration for mankind?"

"In what way, sir?"

"Launch one of your vessels on the bicentennial,"

he said energetically. "Or, if there is not time for that,

announce one to be launched by the united aid of all

the nations of the world. Let there be a celebration of

the Fourth, not as the bicentennial of a single nation,

but as a glorification of the principle of the union of

political entities against a common foe and for a com-

mon purpose.

"Let there be the largest birthday cake in the world,

if you will; the decoration of whole cities; the saluting

OPUS 200

285

'; of a thousand guns; the playing of ten thousand

bands—but let it be for mankind. Let the leaders of all

nations assemble to praise the union of mankind. Let

them all plan their own part in the launching of ves-

sels into space under the auspices of a united planet.

; Let the conquest of space be the source of pride for

nothing smaller than mankind. Let it be that in which

, all men can find a common glory, and in which all

men can forget enmities."

I said, "But the problems of mankind will remain.

They will not disappear."

Franklin's figure seemed to waver, grow less sub-

stantial. "Do you want everything at once? The Amer-

ican union did not solve all problems for Americans.

But it made it possible for solutions to be sought, and

sometimes found."

He grew dimmer still, wraithlike, and then vanished

in a fading smoke. And I woke up.

If it were a dream, it was Franklin's dream, too.

And a greater dream still—of a union beyond our Un-

ion.

But what could I do? I do not make policy.

Yet I am a writer. With help, I might make myself

heard. With help!

So I picked up the telephone and called a certain

editor, for, in addition to the lightning rod and the

United States, hadn't Benjamin Franklin also invented

the Saturday Evening Post?

PART 9

THE BIBLE

Among my first hundred books is the two-volume Asi-

mov's Guide to the Bible. What could I do for an en-

core?

One thing J could do was to write articles on bibli-

cal subjects for people who were impressed with the

Guide. Reader's Digest Books asked me to contribute

essays to an elaborate book they were compiling

about men and women in the Bible. 1 wrote articles

for them on Jacob, Ruth, and so on.

Although 1 was well paid, I didn't particularly enjoy

the task since the editors had their ideas and they

were not mine. Eventually, when the book came out, I

found that everyone who had had anything to do with

the book was carefully acknowledged—the editors,

photographers, paper cutters, office boys, garbage col-

lectors—everyone but the writers. The written words,

it could only be assumed, had been carved on Sinai

by direct revelation.

I was furious. Although I had contributed a sub-

stantial portion of the book, I refused to include it in

my list—not if my authorship were in no way acknowl-

edged. In fact, I didn't even keep the book.

It was not, however, an effort that had been en-

tirely wasted. My biography on Ruth got me to think-

ing about the subject, and for Doubleday I wrote a

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ISAAC ASIMOV

book for young people called The Story of Ruth

(Book 127). It was published in 1972.

I repeated the thesis of this book in an F & SF es-

say, "Lost in Non-Translation" which appeared in

March 1972 and was then included in my essay collec-

tion The Tragedy of the Moon {Book 144), published

by Doubleday in 1973. The essay is included here in

full.

"Lost in Non-Translation'* (2972)

At the Noreascon (the Twenty-ninth World Science

Fiction Convention), which was held in Boston on the

Labor Day weekend of 1971, I sat on the dais, of

course, since, as the Bob Hope of science fiction, it is

my perennial duty to hand out the Hugos. On my left

was my daughter, Robyn—sixteen, blond, blue-eyed,

shapely, and beautiful. (No, that last adjective is not a

father's proud partiality. Ask anyone.)

My old friend Clifford D. Simak was guest of honor,

and he began his talk by introducing, with thoroughly

justified pride, his two children, who were in the au-

dience. A look of alarm instantly crossed Robyn's face.

"Daddy," she whispered urgently, knowing full well

my capacity for inflicting embarrassment, "are you

planning to introduce me?"

"Would that bother you, Robyn?" I asked.

"Yes, it would."

"Then I won't," I said, and patted her hand reassur-

ingly.

She thought awhile. Then she said, "Of course,

Daddy, if you have the urge to refer, in a casual sort

of way, to your beautiful daughter, that would be all

right."

OPUS 200

291

So you can bet I did fust that, while she allowed her

eyes to drop in a charmingly modest way.

But I couldn't help but think of the blond, blue-eyed

stereotype of Nordic beautv that has filled Western lit-

erature ever since the blond, blue-eyed Germanic

tribes took over the western portions of the Roman

Empire, fifteen centuries ago, and set themselves up

as an aristocracy.

. . , And of the manner in which that stereotype has

been used to subvert one of the clearest and most im-

portant lessons in the Bible—a subversion that con-

tributes its little bit to the serious crisis that today

faces the world, and the United States in particular.

In line with my penchant for beginning at the be-

ginning, come back with me to the sixth century B.C.

A party of Jews had returned from Babylonian exile to

rebuild the Temple at Jerusalem, which Nebuchad-

nezzar had destroyed seventy years before.

During the exile, under the guidance of the prophet

Ezekfel, the Jews had firmly held to their national

identity by modifving, complicating, and idealizing

their worship of Yahweh into a form tliat was directly

ancestral to the Judaism of today. (In fact Ezekiel is

sometimes called "the father of Judaism.")

This meant that when the exiles returned to Jerusa-

lem, they faced a religious problem. There were peo-

ple who, all through the period of the exile, had been

living in what had once been Judah, and who wor-

shiped Yahweh in what they considered the correct,

time-honored ritual. Because their chief city (with Je-

rusalem destroyed) was Samaria, the returning Jews

called them Samaritans.

The Samaritans rejected the newfangled modifica-

292

ISAAC ASIMOV

tions of the returning Jews, and the Jews abhorred the

old-fashioned beliefs of the Samaritans. Between them

arose an undying hostility, the kind that is exacer-

bated because the differences in belief are compara-

tively small-

In addition there were, also living in the land, those'

who worshiped other gods altogether—Ammonites,

Edomites, Philistines, and so on.

The pressures on the returning band of Jews were

not primarilv military, for the entire area was under

the more or less beneBcent rule of the Persian Em-

pire; they were social pressures, and perhaps even

stronger for that. To maintain a strict ritual in the face

of overwhelming numbers of nonbelievers is difficult,

and the tendency to relax that ritual was almost irre-

sistible. Then, too, young male returnees were at-

tracted to the women at hand and there were inter-

marriages. Naturally, to humor the wife, ritual was

further relaxed.

But then, possibly as late as about 400 B.C., a full

century after the second Temple had been built, Ezra

arrived in Jerusalem. He was a scholar of the Mosaic

law, which had been edited and put into final form in

the course of the exile. He was horrified at the back-

sliding and put through a tub-thumping revival. He

called the people together, led them in chanting the

law and expounding on it, raised their religious fervor,

and called for confession of sins and renewal of faith.

One thing he demanded most rigorously was the

abandonment of all non-Jewish wives and their chil-

dren. Only so could the holiness of strict Judaism be

maintained, in his view. To quote the Bible (and I

will use the recent New English Bible for the pur-

pose ):

"Ezra the priest stood up and said, *You have com-

OPUS 200                 293

mitted an offense in marrying foreign wives and have

added to Israel's guilt. Make vour confession now to

the Lord the God of vour fathers and do his will, and

separate yourselves from the foreign population and

from vour foreign wives.' Then all the assembled peo-

ple shouted in reply, 'Yes; wte must do what vou say

. . . (Ezra 10:10-12).

From that time on, the Jews as a whole began to

practice an exclpsivi.sm, a voluntary separation from

others, a multiplication of peculiar customs that fur-

ther emphasized their separateness; and all of this

helped them maintain their identity through all the

miseries and catastrophes that were to come, through

all the crises, and through exiles and persecutions that

fragmented them over the face of the earth.

The exclusivism, to be sure, also served to make

them socially indigestible and imparted to them a

high social visibility that helped give rise to condi-

tions that made exiles and persecutions more iikely.

Not everyone among the Jews adhered to this pol-

icy of exclusivism. There were some who believed

that all men were equal in the sight of God and that

no one should be excluded from the community on

the basis of group identity alone.

One who believed this (but who is forever name-

less) attempted to present this case in the form of a

short piece of historical fiction. In this fourth-century-

B.C. tale the heroine was Ruth, a Moabite woman.

(The tale was presented as having taken place in the

time of the judges, so the traditional view was that it

was written by the prophet Samuel in the eleventh

century B.C. No modem student of the Bible believes

this.)

Why a Moabite women, by the way?

It seems that the Jews, returning from exile, had

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ISAAC ASIMOV

traditions concerning their initial arrival at the bor-

ders of Canaan under Moses and then Joshua, nearlv a

thousand vears before. At that time, the small nation

of Moab, which lay east of the lower course of the

Jordan and of the Dead Sea, was understandably

alarmed at the incursion of tough desert raiders and

took steps to oppose them. Not only did they prevent

the Israelites from passing through their territory, but,

tradition had it, they called in a seer, Balaam, and

asked him to use his magical abilities to bring misfor-

tune and destruction upon the invaders.

That failed, and Balaam, on departing, was sup-

posed to have advised the king of Moab to let the

Moabite girls lure the desert raiders into liaisons,

which might subvert their stem dedication to then-

task. The Bible records the following:

"When the Israelites were in Shittim, the people be-

gan to have intercourse with Moabite women, who in-

vited them to the sacrifices offered to their gods; and

they ate the sacrificial food and prostrated themselves

before the gods of Moab. The Israelites joined in the

worship of the Baal of Peor, and the Lord was angry

with them" (Numbers 25:1-3).

As a result of this, "Moabite women" became the

quintessence of the type of outside influence that by

sexual attraction tried to subvert pious Jews. Indeed,

Moab and the neighboring kingdom to the north, Am-

mon, were singled out in the Mosaic code:

"No Ammonite or Moabite, even down to the tenth

generation, shall become a member of the assembly of

the Lord . . . because they did not meet you with

food and water on your way out of Egypt, and be-

cause they hired Balaam ... to revile you . . , You

shall never seek their welfare or their good all your

life long" (Deuteronomy 23:3-4, 6).

OPUS 200                 295

And yet there were times in later history when

there was friendship between Moab and at least some

men of Israel, possibly because they were brought to-

gether by some common enemy.

For instance, shortly before 1000 B.C., Israel was

ruled by Saul. He had held off the Philistines, con-

quered the Amalekites, and brought Israel to its great-

est pitch of power to that point. Moab naturally

feared his expansionist policies and so befriended any-

one rebelling against Saul. Such a rebel was the Ju-

dean warrior David of Bethlehem. When David was

pressed hard by Saul and bad retired to a fortified

stronghold, he used Moab as a refuge for his family.

"David . . . said to the king of Moab, 'Let my fa-

ther and motlier come and take shelter with you until

I know what God will do for me.' So he left them at

the court of the king of Moab, and they stayed there

as long as David was in his stronghold" (1 Samuel

22:3-4).

As it happened, David eventually won out, became

king first of Judah, then of all Israel, and established

an empire that took in the entire east coast of the

Mediterranean, from Egypt to the Euphrates, with the

Phoenician cities independent but in alliance with

him. Later, Jews always looked back to the time of

David and his son Solomon as a golden age, and Da-

vid's position in Jewish legend and thought was unas-

sailable. David founded a dynasty that ruled over Ju-

dah for four centuries, and the Jews never stopped

believing that some descendant of David would yet

return to rule over them again in some idealized fu-

ture time.

Yet, on the basis of the verses describing David's

use of Moab as a refuge for his family, there may have

arisen a tale to the effect that there was a Moabite

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ISAAC ASIMOV

strain in David's ancestry. Apparently, the author of

the Book of Ruth determined to make use of this tale

to point up the doctrine of nonexclusivism by using

the supremely hated Moabite woman as his heroine.

The Book of Ruth tells of a Judean family of Bethle-

hem—a man, his wife, and two sons—who are driven

by famine to Moab. There the two sons marry Moa-

bite girls, but after a space of time all three men die,

leaving the three women—Naomi, the mother-in-law,

and Ruth and Orpah, the two daughters-in-law—as

survivors.

Those were times when women were chattels, and

unmarried women, without a man to own them and

care for them, could subsist only on charity. (Hence

the frequent biblical injunction to care for widows

and orphans.)

Naomi determined to return to Bethlehem, where

kinsmen might possibly care for her, but urged Ruth

and Orpah to remain in Moab. She does not say, but

we might plausibly suppose she is thinking, that Moa-

bite girls would have a rough time of it in Moab-

hating Judah.

Orpah remains in Moab, but Ruth refuses to leave

Naomi, saying, "Do not urge me to go back and desert

you . . . Where you go, I will go, and where you stay,

I will stay. Your people shall be my people, and your

God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I

will be buried. I swear a solemn oath before the Lord

your God: nothing but death shall divide us" (Ruth

1:16-17).

Once in Bethlehem, the two were faced with the

direst poverty, and Ruth volunteered to support her-

self and her mother-in-law by gleaning in the fields. It

was harvest time, and it was customary to allow any

stalks of grain that fell to the ground in the process of

OPUS 200

297

gathering to remain there to be collected bv the poor.

This t^leanin^ was a kind of welfare program for those

in need. It was, however, backbreaking work, and any

young woman, particularly a Moabite, who engaged

in it underwent certain obvious risks at the hands of

the lusty young reapers. Ruth's offer was simply he-

roic.

As it happened, Ruth gleaned in the lands of a rich

Judean farmer named Boaz, who, coming to oversee

the work, noticed her working tirelessly. He asked

after her, and his reapers answered, "She is a Moabite

girl . . . who has Just come back with Naomi from

the Moabite country" (Ruth 2:6).

Boaz spoke kindly to her and Ruth said, "Why are

you so kind as to take notice of me when I am only a

foreigner?" (Ruth 2:10). Boaz explained that he had

heard how she had forsaken her own land for love of

Naomi and how hard she worked to take care of her-

As it turned out, Boaz was a relative of Naomi's

dead husband, which must be one reason why he was

touched bv Ruth's love and fidelity. Naomi, on hear-

ing the story, had an idea. In those days. if a widow

was left childless, she had the right to expect her dead

husband's brother to marry her and offer her his pro-

tection. If the dead husband had no brother, some

other relative would fulfill the task.

Naomi was past the age of childbearing, so she

could not qualify for marriage, which in those days

centered about children; but what about Ruth? To be

sure, Ruth was a Moabite woman and it might well be

that no Judean would marry her, but Boaz had proven

kind. Naomi therefore instructed Ruth how to ap-

proach Boaz at night and, without crudely seductive

intent, appeal for his protection.

Boaz, touched by Ruth's modesty and helplessness,

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ISAAC ASIMOV

promised to do his duty, but pointed out that there

was a kinsman closer than he and that, by right, this

other kinsman had to have his chance first.

The verv next day, Boaz approached the other kins-

man and suggested that he buy some property in

Naomi's charge and, along with it, take over another

responsibility. Boaz said, "On the day when you ac-

quire the field from Naomi, you also acquire Ruth the

Moabitess, the dead man's wife . . ."(Ruth 4:5).

Perhaps Boaz carefully stressed the adjectival

phrase "the Moabitess," for the other kinsman drew

back at once. Boaz therefore married Ruth, who in

time bore him a son. The proud and happy Naomi

held the child in her bosom and her women friends

said to her, "The child will give you new life and

cherish you in your old age; for your daughter-in-law

who loves vou, who has proved better to you than

seven sons, has borne him" (Ruth 4:15).

In a society that valued sons infinitely more than

daughters, this verdict of Judean women on Ruth, a

woman of the hated land of Moab, is the author's

moral—that there is nobilitv and virtue in all groups

and that none must be excluded from consideration in

advance simply because of their group identification.

And then, to clinch the argument for any Judean so

nationalistic as to be impervious to mere idealism, the

story concludes: "Her neighbors gave him a name:

'Naomi has a son,' they said; 'we will call him Obed.'

He was the father of Jesse, the father of David" (Ruth

4:17).

Where would Israel have been, then, if there had

been an Ezra present to forbid the marriage of Boaz

with a "foreign wife"?

Where does that leave us? That the Book of Ruth is

a pleasant story, no one will deny. It is almost always

OPUS 200

299

referred to as a "delightful idyll," or words to that ef-

fect. That Ruth is a most successful characterization

of a sweet and virtuous woman is beyond dispute.

In fact everyone is so in love with the storv and

with Ruth that the whole point is lost. It is, by right, a

tale of tolerance for the despised, of love for the

hated, of the reward that comes of brotherhood. By

mixing the genes of mankind, by forming the hybrid,

great men will come.

The Jews included the Book of Ruth in the canon

partly because it is so wonderfully told a tale but

mostly (I suspect) because it gives the lineage of the

great David, a lineage that is not given beyond Da-

vid's father, Jesse, in the soberly historic books of the

Bible that anteceded Ruth. But the Jews remained, by

and large, exclusivistic and did not leam the lesson of

universalism preached by the Book of Ruth.

Nor have people taken its lesson to heart since. Why

should they, since every effort is made to wipe out

that lesson? The story of Ruth has been retold any

number of ways, from children's tales to serious nov-

els. Even movies have been made of it. Ruth herself

must have been pictured in hundreds of illustrations.

And in every illustration I have ever seen, she is pre-

sented as blond, blue-eyed, shapely, and beautiful—

the perfect Nordic stereotype I referred to at the be-

ginning of the article.

For goodness' sake, why shouldn't Boaz have fallen

in love with her? What great credit was there in

marrying her? If a girl like that had fallen at your feet

and asked you humbly to do your duty and kindly

marry her, you would probably have done it like a

shot.

Of course she was a Moabite woman, but so what?

What does the word "Moabite" mean to you? Does it

300

ISAAC ASIMOV

arouse any violent reaction? Are there many Moabites

among vour acquaintances? Have vour children been

cha-sed bv a bunch of lousv Moahites latelv? Have

thev been reducing property values in vour neighbor-

hood? When was the last time vou heard someone sav,

"Got to get those rotten Moabites out of here. They

just fill un the welfare rolls"?

In fact, judging by the way Ruth is drawn, Moa-

bites are English aristocrats and their presence would

raise property values.

The trouble is that the one word that is not trans-

lated in the Book of Ruth is the kev word "Moabite,"

and as long as it is not translated, the point is lost; it is

lost in non-translation.

The word "Moabite" reallv means "someone of a

group that receives from us and deserves from us

nothing but hatred and contempt." How should this

word be translated into a single word that means the

same thing to, sav, many modern Greeks? . . . Why,

Turk." And to manv modem Turks? . . . Why,

"Greek." And to many modern white Americans? . . .

Why, "black."

To get the proper flavor of the Book of Ruth, sup-

pose we think of Ruth not as a Moabite woman but as

a black woman.

Reread the story of Ruth and translate "Moabite" to

"black" every time you see it. Naomi (imagine) is

coming back to the United States with her two black

daughters-in-law. No wonder she urges them not to

come with her. It is a marvel that Ruth so loved her

mother-in-law that she was willing to face a society

that hated her unreasoningly and to take the risk of

gleaning in the face of leering reapers who could not

possibly suppose they need treat her with any consid-

eration whatever.

OPUS 200                 301

And when Boaz asked who she was, don't read the

answer as, "She is a Moabite girl," but as, "She is a

black girl." More likely, in fact, the reapers might have

said to Boaz something that was the equivalent of (if

you'll excuse the language), "She is a nigger £?rl."

Think of it that way and you find the whole point is

found in translation and only in translation. Boaz' ac-

tion in being willing to marry Ruth because she was

virtuous (and not because she was a Nordic beauty)

takes on a kind of nobility. The neighbors' decision

that she was better to Naomi than seven sons becomes

something that could have been forced out of them

only by overwhelming evidence to that effect. And

^. the final stroke that out of this miscegenation was

I-born none other than the great David is rather breath-

k taking.

\.

; We get something similar in the New Testament. On

one occasion a student of the law asks Jesus what

^must be done to gain eternal life, and he answer? his

, own question by saying, "Love the Lord your God

^with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your

r strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor

r&s yourself (Luke 10:27).

These admonitions are taken from the Old Testa-

ment, of course. That last bit about your neighbor

• comes from a verse that says, "You shall not seek re-

-venge. or cherish anger towards your kinsfolk; you

shall love your neighbor as a man like yourself' (Leviti-

cus 19; 18).

(The New English Bible translation sounds better

to me here than the King James's: "Thou shalt love

thy neighbor as thyself." Where is the saint who can

truly feel another's pain or ecstasy precisely as he feels

own? We must not ask too much. But if we simply

302

ISAAC ASIMOV

grant that someone else is "a man like yourself," then

he can be treated with decency at least It is when we

refuse to grant even this, and talk of another as our

inferior, that contempt and cruelty come to seem nat-

ural, and even laudable.)

Jesus approves the lawyer's saying, and the lawyer

promptly asks, "And who is my neighbor?" (Luke 10:-

29). After all, the verse in Leviticus first speaks of

refraining from revenge and anger toward kinsfolk;

might not, then, the concept of "neighbor" be re-

stricted to kinsfolk, to one's own kind, only?

In response, Jesus replies with perhaps the greatest

of the parables—of a travel&r who fell in with robbers,

who was mugged and robbed and left half dead by

the road. Jesus goes on, "It so happened that a priest

was going down by the same road; but when he saw

him, he went past on the other side. So too a Levite

came to the place, and when he saw him went past on

the other side. But a Samaritan who was making the

Journey came upon him, and, wh^n he saw him, was

moved to pity. He went up and bandaged his wounds,

bathing them with oil and wifie. Then he lifted him

onto his own beast, brought Mm to an inn, and looked

after him there" (Luke 10:31-34).

Then Jesus asks who the traveler's neighbor was,

and the lawyer is forced to say, "The one who showed

him kindness" (Luke 10:37).

This is known as the Parable of the Good Samari-

tan, even though nowhere in the parable is the rescuer

called a good Samaritan, merely a Samaritan.

The force of the parable is entirely vitiated by the

common phrase "good" Samaritan, for that has cast a.

false light on who the Samaritans were. In a free-

association test, say "Samaritan" and probably every

person being tested will answer, "Good." It has be-

OPUS 200

303

come so imprinted in all our brains that Samaritans

are good that we take it for granted that a Samaritan

would act like that and wonder why Jesus is making a

point of it.

We forget who the Samaritans were, in the time of

Jesus!

To the Jews, they were not good. They were hated,

despised, contemptible heretics with whom no good

Jew would have anything to do. Again, the whole

point is lost through non-translation.

Suppose, instead, that it is a white traveler in Mis-

sissippi who has been mugged and left half dead. And

suppose it was a minister and a deacon who passed by

and refused to "become involved." And suppose it was

a black sharecropper who stopped and took care of

the man.

Now ask yourself: Who was the neighbor whom you

must love as though he were a man like yourself if

you are to be saved?

The Parable of the Good Samaritan clearly teaches

that there is nothing parochial in the concept "neigh-

bor," that you cannot confine your decency to your

own group and your own kind. All mankind, right

down to those you most despise, are your neighbors.

Well, then, we have in the Bible two examples—in the

Book of Ruth and in tlie Parable of the Good Samari-

tan—of teachings that are lost in non-translation, yet

are terribly applicable to us today.

The whole world over, there are confrontations be-

tween sections of mankind denned by a difference of

race, nationality, economic philosophy, religion, or

language, so that one is not "neighbor" to the other.

These more or less arbitrary differences among

peoples who are members of a-single biological spec-

304

ISAAC ASIMOV

ies are terribly dangerous, and nowhere more so than

here in the United States, where the most perilous

confrontation (I need not tell you) is between white

and black.

Next to the population problem generally, mankind

faces no danger greater than this confrontation, par-

ticularly in the United States.

It seems to me that more and more, each year, both

whites and blacks are turning, in anger and hatred, to

violence. I see po reasonable end to the steady escala-

tion but an actual civil war.

In such a civil war, the whites, with a preponder-

ance of numbers and an even greater preponderance

of organized power, would in all likelihood "win."

They would do so, however, at an enormous material

cost and, I suspect, at a fatal spiritual one.

And why? Is it so hard to recognize that we are all

neighbors, after all? Can we, on both sides—on both

sides—6nd no way of accepting the biblical lesson?

Or if quoting the Bible sounds too mealy-mouthed,

and if repeating the words of Jesus seems too pietistic,

let's put it another way, a practical way:

Is the privilege of feeling hatred so luxurious that it

is worth the material and spiritual hell of a white'

black civil war?

If the answer is really yes, then one can only de-

spair.

PART 10

SHORT-SHORTS

Tee always liked short-short stories.

First, since they are brief and can be read quickly,

you can get the value of one even if you only have

five minutes to spare—while waiting for a telephone

call or while drinking a cup of coffee. It can fill in. a

disregarded corner of the day.

Second, there can be no frills. Youce sot to have

the story distilled down to 1500 words or less, and ide-

ally that leaves room only for the point; and that

point, when the story is well done, can jab itself into

your mind and never be forgotten.

Third, writing one is a challenge, and I enfoy c1wl-

lenges.

In May 1973, the Saturday Evening Post asked me

to write a short-short science fiction story for them

and I did. I meant to write a lighthearted robot story

and even called it "Light Verse," intending o. pun.

Alas, the story squirmed in my hands (even short-

shorts can do that) and became rather more tragic

than I had intended,

I included it eventually in my short-story collection

Buy Jupiter and Other Stories (Book 164), which Dou-

bleday published in 1875. Here it is in full:

308                 ISAAC ASIMOV

"Light Verse" (1973)

The very last person anyone would expect to be a

murderer was Mrs. Avis Lardner. Widow of the great

astronaut-martyr, she was a philanthropist, an art col-

lector, a hostess extraordinaire, and, everyone agreed;

an artistic genius. But above all, she was the gentlest

and kindest human being one could imagine.

Her husband, William J. Lardner, died, as we all

know, of the effects of radiation from a solar flare,

after he had deliberately remained in space so that a

passenger vessel might make it safely to Space

Station 5.

Mrs. Lardner had received a generous pension for

that, and she had then invested wisely and well. By

late middle age she was very wealthy.

Her house was a showplace, a veritable museum,

containing a small but extremely select collection of

extraordinarily beautiful jeweled objects. From a

dozen different cultures she had obtained relics of al-

most every conceivable artifact that could be embed-

ded with jewels and made to serve the aristocracy of

that culture. She had one of the first jeweled wrist-

watches manufactured in America, a jeweled dagger

from Cambodia, a jeweled pair of spectacles from It-

aly, and so on almost endlessly.

All was open for inspection. The artifacts were not

insured, and there were no ordinary security provi-

sions. There was no need for anything conventional,

for Mrs. Lardner maintained a large staff of robot ser-

vants, all of whom could be relied on to guard every

item with imperturbable concentration, irreproach-

able honesty, and irrevocable efficiency.

Everyone knew of the existence of those robots, and

there is no record of any attempt at theft, ever.

OPUS 200

309

And then, of course, there was her light-sculpture.

How Mrs. Lardner discovered her own genius at the

art, no guest at her many lavish entertainments could

guess. On each occasion, however, when her house

was thrown open to guests, a new symphony of light

shone throughout the rooms; three-dimensional curves

and solids in melting color, some pure and some fus-

ing in startling, crystalline effects that bathed every

guest in wonder and somehow always adjusted itself

so as to make Mrs. Lardner's blue-white hair and soft,

unlined face gently beautiful.

It was for the light-sculpture more than anything

else that the guests came. It was never the same twice

and never failed to explore new experimental avenues

of art. Many people who could afford light-consoles

prepared light-sculptures for amusement, but no one

could approach Mrs. Lardner's expertise. Not even

those who considered themselves professional artists.

She herself was charmingly, modest about it. "No,

she would protest when someone waxed lyrical.

no

'I wouldn't call it 'poetry in light.' That's far too kind.

At most, I would say it was mere light verse."" And

everyone smiled at her gentle wit

Though she was often asked, she would never cre-

ate light-sculpture for any occasion but her own par-

ties. "That would be commercialization," she said.

She had no objection, however, to the preparation

of elaborate holograms of her sculptures so that they

might be made permanent and reproduced in mu-

seums of art all over the world. Nor was there ever a

charge for any use that might be made of her light-

sculptures.

"I couldn't ask a penny," she said, spreading her

arms wide. "It's free to all. After all, I have no further

310

BAAC ASIMOV

use for it myself." It was true! She never used the

same light-sculpture twice.

When the holograms were taken, she was coopera-

tion itself. Watching benignly at every step, she was

always ready to order her robot servants to help.

"Please, Courtney," she would say, "would you be so

kind as to adjust the stepladder?"

It was her fashion. She always addressed her robots

with the most formal courtesy.

Once, years before, she had been almost scolded by

a government functionary from the Bureau of Robots

and Mechanical Men. "You can't do that," he said se-

verely. "It interferes with their efficiency. They are

constructed to follow orders, and the more clearly you

give those orders, the more efficiently they follow

them. When you ask with elaborate politeness, it is

difficult for them to understand that an order is being

given. They react more slowly."

Mrs. Lardner lifted her aristocratic head. "I do not

ask for speed and efficiency," she said. "I ask good-

will. My robots love me."

The government functionary might have explained

that robots cannot love, but he withered under her

hurt but gentle glance.

It was notorious that Mrs. Lardner never even re-

turned a robot to the factory for adjustment. Their

positronic brains are enormously complex, and once in

ten times or so the adJustment is not perfect as it

leaves the factory. Sometimes the en-or does not show

up for a period of time, but whenever it does, U.S.

Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc., always makes the

adjustment free of charge.

Mrs. Lardner shook her head. "Once a robot is in

my house," she said, "and has performed his duties,

OPUS 200

311

any minor eccentricities must be bome. I will not

have him manhandled."

It Was the worst thing possible to try to explain that

a robot was but a machine. She would -<ay very

stiffly, "Nothing that is as intelligent as a robot can

ever be but a machine. I treat them like people."

And that was thati

She kept even Max, although he was almost help-

less. He could scarcely understand what was expected

of him. Mrs. Lardner denied that strenuously, how-

ever. "Not at all," she would say firmly. "He can take

hats and coats and store them very well, indeed. He

can hold objects for me. He can do many things."

"But why not have him adjusted?" asked a friend

once.

"Oh, I couldn't He's himself. He's very lovable, you

know. After all, a positronic brain is so complex that

no one can ever tell in just what way it's off. If he

were made perfectly normal there would be no way to

adjust him back to the lovabittty he now has. I won't

give that up."

"But if he's maladjusted," said the friend, looking at

Max nervously, "might he not be dangerous?"

''Never," laughed Mrs. Lardner. "I've had him for

years. He's completely harmless and quite a dear."

Actually he looked like all the other robots—smooth,

metallic, vaguely human, but expressionless.

To the gentle Mrs. Lardner, however, they were all

individual, all sweet, all lovable. It was the kind of

woman she was.

How could she commit murder?

The very last person anyone would expect to be mur-

dered would be John Semper Travis. Introverted and

312

ISAAC ASIMOV

gentle, he was in the world but not of it. He had that

peculiar mathematical turn of mind that made it pos-

sible for him to work out in his head the complicated

tapestry of the myriad positronic brainpaths in a ro-

bots mind.

He was chief engineer of U.S. Robots and Mechani-

cal Men,Inc.

But he was also an enthusiastic amateur in light-

sculpture. He had written a book on the subject,

trying to show that the type of mathematics he used

in working out positronic brain-paths might be modi-

fied into a guide to the production of aesthetic light-

sculpture.

His attempt at putting theory into practice was a

dismal failure, however. The sculptures he himself

produced, following his mathematical principles, were

stodgy, mechanical, and uninteresting.

It was the only reason for unhappiness in his quiet,

constrained, and secure life, and yet it was reason

enough for him to be very unhappy indeed. He knew

his theories were right, yet he could not make them

work. If he could but produce one great piece of

light-sculpture—

Naturally, he knew of Mrs. Lardner^s light-

sculpture. She was universally hailed as a genius, yet

Travis knew she could not understand even the sim-

plest aspect of robotic mathematics. He had corre-

sponded with her, but she consistently refused to ex-

plain her methods, and he wondered if she had any at

all. Might it not be mere intuition? But even intuition

might be reduced to mathematics. Finally he man-

aged to receive an invitation to one of her parties. He

simply had to see her.

Mr. Travis arrived rather late. He had made one

OPUS 200                313

last attempt at a piece of light-sculpture and had

failed miserably.

He greeted Mrs. Lardner with a kind of puzzled re-

spect and said, "That was a peculiar robot who took

my hat and coat."

"That is Max," said Mrs. Lardner.

"He is quite maladjusted, and he's a fairly old

model. How is it you did not return it to the factory?"

"Oh, no," said Mrs Lardner. "It would be too much

trouble."

"None at all, Mrs. Lardner," said Travis. "You

would be surprised how simple a task it was. Since I

am with U.S. Robots, I took the liberty of adjusting

him myself. It took no time and you'll find he is now

in perfect working order."

A queer change came over Mrs. Lardner*s face.

Fury found a place on it for the first time in her gen-

tle life, and it was as though the lines did not know

how to form.

"You adjusted him?" she shrieked. "But it was he

who created my light-sculptures. It was the maladjust-

ment, the maUidjustment, which you can never re-

store, that—that—"

It was really unfortunate that she had been showing

her collection at the time and that the Jeweled dagger

from Cambodia was on the marble tabletop before

her.

Travis's face was also distorted. "You mean if I had

studied his uniquely maladjusted positronic brain-

paths I might have learned—"

She lunged with the knife too quickly for anyone to

stop her and he did not try to dodge. Some said he

came to meet it—as though he wanted to die.

314

ISAAC ASIMOV

Short-shorts need not he fiction. On occasion I am

asked to do short nonfiction articles for one outlet or

another, and I particularly enjoy doing them for TV

Guide, since there the opportunity exists for immers-

ing myself in any of a wide variety of subjects.

There was a television special on carious reputed

monsters, for instance, such as the abominable snow-

man, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, and so on. 1

view reports of such objects with the deepest scepti-

cism, and when TV Guide asked for a "backgrounder"

on the program, I produced an article entitled "The

Monsters We Have Lived With," which brought me

angry letters from some readers who didn't want their

monsters taken away from them Just because they

didn't exist.

As it happens, Douhleday occasionally publishes

collections of miscellaneous essays of mine that have

appeared in places other than F & SF. My second

hundred books contain three of these collections, of

which the latest is The Beginning and the End (Book

187), published in 1977. It includes my monster back-

grounder, which is here reproduced in full.

"The Monsters We Have Lived With" (7974)

Mankind has always lived with monsters. That fact

dates back, no doubt, to the time when the early

ancestors of man moved about in constant fear of the

large predators around them. Fearful as the mam-

moths, saber-toothed tigers, and cave bears may have

been, it is the essence of the human mind that still

worse could be imagined.

The dread forces of nature were visualized as super-

animals. The Scandinavians imagined the sun and the

OPUS 200                 315

moon to be pursued forever by gigantic wolves, for

instance. It was when these caught up with their prey

that eclipses took place.

Relatively harmless animals could be magniBed

into terrors. The octopuses and squids, with their writh-

ing tentacles, were elaborated into the deadly Hy-

dra, the many-headed snake destroyed by Hercules;

into Medusa with her snaky hair and her glance that

turned living things to stone; into Scylla with her six

heads, whom Ulysses encountered.

Perhaps the most feared animal was the snake.

Slithering unseen through the underbrush, it came

upon its victim unawares. Its lidless eyes, its cold and

malignant stare, its sudden strike, all served to terror-

ize human beings. Is it any wonder that the snake is

so often used as the very principle of evil—as, for in-

stance, in the tale of the Garden of Eden.

But imagination can improve even on the snake.

Snakes can be imagined who kill not by a bite, but

merely by a look, and this is the "basilisk" (from the

Greek word meaning "little king").

Or else make the snake much larger, into what the

Greeks called Python, and it can represent the original

chaos which had to be destroyed by a god before the

orderly universe could be created. It was Apollo who

killed the Python in the early days of the earth, ac-

cording to the Greek myths, and who then established

the oracle of Delphi on the spot.

Another Greek word for a large snake was "drakon,"

which has become our "dragon." To the snaky length

of the dragon were added the thicker body and

stubby legs of that other dread reptile, the crocodile.

Now we have the monster Tiamat, which the Baby-

Ionian god Marduk had to destroy in order to or-

ganize the universe.

316

ISAAC ASIMOV

Symbolize the burning bite of the venomous snake

and you have the dragon breathing fire. Dramatize

the swift and deadly strike of the snake and you have

the dragon flying through the air.

Some monsters are, of course, animals that have

been misunderstood into beauty rather than horrqr,

The one-homed rhinoceros may have contributed to

the myth of the unicorn, the beautiful one-horned

horse. And the hom of the mythical unicorn is exactly

like the tooth of the real-life narwhal.

The ugly sea cow with its flippered tail, rising half

out the sea and holding a newborn young to its breast

in the human position, may have dazzled shortsighted

sailors into telling tales of beautiful mermaids.

Throughout history, of course, man's greatest enemy

was man, so it is not surprising that man himself

served as the basis for some of the most fearful mon-

sters—the giants and cannibalistic ogres of all sorts.

It may well he that the origin of such stories lies in

the (act that various groups of human beings made

technological advances in different directions and at

different times. A tribe of warriors armed with stone

axes, meeting an army of soldiers in bronze armor and

carrying bronze-tipped spears, will be sent flying in

short order with many casualties. The Stone Age sur-

vivors may well have the feeling that they have met

an army of man-eating giants.

Thus, the primitive Israelite tribes, on first ap-

proaching Canaan and encountering walled cities and

well-armed soldiers, felt the Canaanites to be a race of

giants. Traces of that belief remain in the Bible.

Then, too, a high civilization may fall and those

who follow forget the civilization and attribute its

works to giants of one kind or another. The primitive

Greeks, coming across the huge, thick walls that encir-

OPUS 200                317

cled the cities of the earlier, highly civilized Mycen-

aeans, imagined those walls to have been built by

giant Cyclopes.

Such Cyclopes were later placed in Sicily (where

Ulysses encountered them in the tales told in the Od-

yssey) and were supposed to have but one eye. They

may have been sky gods, and the single eye may rep-

resent the sun in heaven. It may also have arisen from

the fact that elephants roamed Sicily in prehuman

times. The skull of such an elephant, occasionally

found, would show large nasal openings in front

which might be interpreted as the single eye of a

giant.

There can be giants in ways other than physical.

Thus medieval Englishmen had no notion of how or

why the huge monoliths of Stonehenge had been

erected. They blamed it on Merlin's magic. He caused

the stones to fly through the air and land in place.

(The Greeks also had tales of musicians who played

so beautifully that, captivated *by the sweet strains,

rocks moved into place and built a wall of their own

accord.)

But as man's knowledge of the world expanded, the

room available for the dread or beautiful monsters he

had invented shrank, and belief in them faded. Large

animals were discovered—giant whales, moose, Komodo

lizards, okapis, giant squids, and so on. These were,

however, merely animals and lacked the super-terror

our minds had created.

What is left then?

The giant snakes and dragons that once fought with

the gods and terrorized mankind have shrunk to a

possible sea serpent reported to be cowering at the

bottom of Loch Ness.

The giants, the ogres, the monstrous one-eyed can-

318

BAAC ASIMOV

' nibals that towered over our puny race of mortals,

have diminished to mysterious creatures that leave

footprints among the snows of the upper reaches of

Mount Everest or show their misty shapes fugitively in

the depths of our shriveling forests.

Even if these exist (which is doubtful), what a

punv remnant thev represent of the glorious hordes

man's mind and imagination have created.

"I discussed in Opus 100 my struggles to achieve a bit

of humor in my writing. 1 may have succeeded there,

for reviewers often mentioned my sense of humor (as

revealed in my writing) and seemed to do so with ap-

proval.

That may be, hut it was not till my second hundred

books that I produced volumes that dealt with humor

per se or that were specifically humorous books rather

than other kinds of books that fust happened to have a

bit of humor as seasoning.

The first book of this sort that I wrote was Isaac

Asimov's Treasury of Humor (Book 114), a large

compendium of jokes and comments on humor and

joke-telling. Houghton Mifflin published it in 1971.

How I came to write it is described in the introduc-

tion to that book, and this is given here:

from ISAAC ASIMOV*S TREASURY OF HUMOR (1971)

For nearly all my life I have been swapping jokes. At

almost every friendly gathering that I have attended,

there have been two or three people present with a

large repertoire of funny stories and the ability to tell

them with finesse, and so joke-swapping was almost

322

ISAAC ASIMOV

inevitable. Modesty compels me to refrain from saying

that of all those present I generally had the largest

repertoire of jokes and could tell them with the most

finesse, but if I weren't modest I would say so.

This has led to my having been asked, on occasion,

why someone like myself, with pretensions to intellect,

should content himself with endless Joke-telling while

shunning the ardent discussions of politics, philoso-

phy, and literature that might be proceeding in an-

other comer of the room.

To this my answer is threefold, in order of increas-

ing importance:

1) I spend most of my day being intellectual at my

typewriter, and telling jokes on an evening now and

then helps balance the situation.

2) Jokes of the proper kind, properly told, can do

more to enlighten questions of politics, philosophy,

and literature than any number of dull arguments.

3) I like to.

Then, too, as it happens, this whole business of

Joke-telling saved my life not too long ago—

In June 1969, my wife and I, along with another

couple, Howard and Muriel Hirt, were off on a motor

trip that was to end in a vacation. As it happens, vaca-

tions send me into deep melancholy and I had been

achingly apprehensive of this one for weeks. It was

only to last for a weekend but it was to be at an elab-

orate hotel of a type that I detested beyond measure.

With doom hastening closer at every turn of the

whirling wheels, I tried to fight off my gathering mis-

ery by telling Jokes in feverish succession.

Muriel was kind enough to laugh quite a bit, and

then she said, "Listen, Isaac, why don't you write a

jokebook?"

OPUS 200                 323

That made it my turn to laugh.

"Who would publish it?" I asked.

She said, "I thought you said you could get someone

or other to publish anything you wrote."

I do say things like that when I am feeling more

than ordinarily megalomaniac, but that was not what

suddenly began to circle wildly through the tortuous

meshes of my mind.

A new thought arose—

Suppose that while I was ostensibly vacationing,

and while everyone around me was going through the

horrifying ritual of lying in the sun and volleyballing

and hiking and doing whatever other forms of refined

torture are supposed to be fun, I was secretly writing

down Jokes and, in that wav, working on a book.

I would then be having no vacation at alii (Oh,

magic words!)

As soon as we had registered and unpacked, there-

fore, I approached the desk and said, "I would like to

check out a typewriter for the weekend."

This hotel, you must understand, is marvelously

equipped. I do not remember the exact figures, but

the impression I have is that the hotel possesses three

swimming pools, four golf links, seventeen tennis

courts, twenty-eight miles of hiking trails, and

seventy-five thousand beach chairs in serried ranks

and files, each one laden with a vacationer slowly

frying in his own juice. It also has an enormous night-

club, fourteen buildings, and sixty miles of corridors.

With a hotel that has everything, I had no hesitation

in asking for a typewriter.

I was quickly disabused. The desk clerk said, "You

want to check out a what^9

"A typewriteri" I said.

324

ISAAC ASIMOV

He looked blank, and I could see he was wondering

if a typewriter might be anything like a set of golf

clubs.

I said, "Well, then, do you have writing paper?"

He handed me a sheet of writing paper in which

the monogram of the hotel took up half the area, leav-

ing just enough room to write a message to a friend

that might go: "Here I am at the X Hotel, dying."

I said, "Give me about fifty."

He handed them over, and for the next two and a

half days, wherever we were—tramping the corridors,

lying in the sun, sitting in the shade, waiting for food

at the table, enduring the unbelievable, dinning may-

hem at the nightclub—I quietly scribbled jokes on pa-

per while carefully maintaining a fixed smile on my

face to indicate how much I was enjoying the vaca-

tion.

Occasionally, I would overhear someone at a neigh-

boring table say, "Watch out, Sadie, and be careful

what you say. That fellow there is writing down every

word he hears."

It was undoubtedly all that kept me alive.

I finished the vacation with a sheaf of handwritten

Jokes, which I converted into typescript and brought

to Houghton Miffiin as a sample,

And eventually the book was completed and pub-

lished, and here it is!

It would scarcely be suitable to let it go at that. The

book contains 640 jokes {almost all of them quite

clean), and I include several of them here.

OPUS 200               325

from ISAAC ASIMOV'S TBEASUBY OF HUMOR (1971)

Moskowitz had bought a parrot and one morning

found the bird at the eastern side of the cage, with a

small prayer shawl over its head, rocking to and fro

and mumbling. Bending low to listen, Moskowitz was

thunderstruck to discover the parrot was intoning

prayers in the finest Hebrew.

"You're Jewish?" asked Moskowitz.

"Not only Jewish," said the parrot, "but Orthodox.

So will you take me to the synagogue on Rosh Ha-

shanah?"

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was indeed

only two days off, and it would as always usher in the

high-holiday season which would end with Yom Kip-

pur, the Day of Atonement, ten days later.

Moskowitz said, "Of course, I'll take you, but can I

tell my friends about you? It isn't a secret, I hope?"

"No secret at all. Tell anyone you want to." And the

parrot returned to his praying.'

Moskowitz went to all his friends, full of the story

of his Jewish parrot. Of course no one believed him,

and in no time at all Moskowitz was taking bets. By

Rosh Hashanah, he had a hundred dollars, all told,

riding on the parrot,

Grinning, Moskowitz brought the parrot to the syn-

agogue in its cage. He put him in a prominent place

and everyone turned to watch, even as they mumbled

their prayers. Even the rabbi watched, for he had

seven dollars that said the parrot could not pray.

Moskowitz waited. Everyone waited. And the par-

rot did nothing. Moskowitz carefully arranged the

prayer shawl over the bird's head, but the parrot

ducked and the shawl fell off.

After the services, Moskowitz's friends, with much

326

ISAAC ASIMOV

mockery, collected their money. Even the rabbi snick-

ered as he took his profit of seven dollars.

Utterly humiliated, Moskowitz returned home,

turned viciously on the parrot, and said, "Perpare to

die, you little monster, for I'm going to wring your

neck. If you can pray, now's the time."           '

Whereupon the parrot's voice rang out clearly:

"Hold it, you dumb jerk. In ten days it's Yom Kinpur,

when all Jews will sing the tragic, haunting Kol Nidre.

Well, bet everybody that I can sing the Kol Nidre."

"Why? You didn't do anything today."

"Exactly! So for Yom Kippur, just think of the odds

you'll getl"

A young man is reported to have approached the re-

nowned composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (one of

the great musical prodigies of all time) and asked,

"Herr Mozart, I have the ambition to write sympho-

nies, and perhaps you can advise me how to get

started."

Mozart said, 'The best advice I can give you is to

wait until you are older and more experienced, and

try your hand at less ambitious pieces to begin with."

The young man looked astonished. "But, Herr Moz-

art, you yourself wrote symphonies when you were

considerably younger than I."

"Ah," said Mozart, "but I did so without asking ad-

vice."

Young Leah, in the old days of eastern Europe, was

the sole support of her mother, and had been fortu-

nate enough to marry a substantial young man, despite

OPUS 200

327

the miserable state of her dowry. Leah was happy and

her mother was ecstatic.

Imagine her mother's shock, then, when, on the

morning after the wedding, Leah returned in misery

and announced she would not return to her husband.

"I love him madly," she said, "but I had to leave him."

Stubbornly, she refused to give the reason, but

from what she said, it was apparent that the young

man had made some rather sophisticated sexual de-

mands on her.

As the days passed, both mother and daughter grew

more and more miserable, the former out of frustrated

finances, the latter out of frustrated love. Finally, the

mother suggested that they visit the town rabbi, the

beloved Rabbi Joshua of Khaslavich. After all, in such

matters one needed guidance-

They were granted an audience, and when the

rabbi demanded the details and Leah hung back,

Rabbi Joshua said kindly, "Whisper it into my ear, my

daughter. No one will know" but we ourselves and

God/-

She did so, and as she whispered, the rabbi's kindly

brow furrowed, and lightning flashed from his mild

eyes.

"My daughter," he thundered, "it is not fitting for a

Jewish girl to submit to such vile indignities- It would

be a deadly sin, and because of it a curse would be

laid on our whole town."

Back went mother and daughter, disconsolate, and

after a week of continued privation, the mother said,

"You know, our rabbi is a wonderful man, but it is

sometimes wise to get a second opinion. Why not con-

sult Rabbi Samuel of Krichev? He is very highly spo-

ken of as a man of learning."

328

ISAAC ASIMOV

Why not, indeed? They got into the wagon and

bumped their way to the next town. As Leah whis-

pered the tale into Rabbi Samuel's ear, the old man's

earlocks uncurled and turned distinctly grayer. He

said in strangled tones, "My daughter, it was for sins

such as this that the Holy One, blessed be He, sent

down upon the earth a flood in days of yore. You

must not agree to his demands."

Again mother and daughter returned, and now, for

a long time, the dreary round of day-to-day living con-

tinued, until the mother said, "Let us make one final

attempt to obtain guidance. Let us go to the Grand

Rabbi of Vilna. There is no one in the whole world as

wise as he and as learned. And whatever he says we

may accept as the final word."

They bought their railway tickets, which seriously

depleted their meager savings, and rode to Vilna. For

the third time, Leah whispered her story into a rab-

binical ear. The Grand Rabbi listened with equanim-

ity and then said, "My daughter, be guided by your

husband. He is a young and vigorous man, and it is

fitting that you both enjoy yourselves. Have no

qualms concerning this thing."

Leah was thunderstruck. She said, "But, Grand

Rabbi, how can you say this? Rabbi Joshua of Khas-

lavich said it would bring a curse upon our town.

Rabbi Samuel of Krichev said such sins caused the

flood."

But the Grand Rabbi merely stroked his white

beard and smiled. "My daughter," he said, "what do

those small-town rabbis know about big-city sex?"

Among the Germans, Berlin is considered the very

epitome of Prussian brusqueness and efficiency, while

OPUS 200                329

Vienna is the essence of Austrian charm and slipshod-

dery.

The tale is told of a Berliner visiting Vienna who

was lost and in need of directions. What would such a

Berliner do? He grabbed at the lapel of the first pass-

ing Viennese and barked out, "The post office? Where

is it?"

The startled Viennese carefully detached the other's

fist, smoothed his lapel, and said in a gentle manner,

"Sir, would it not have been more delicate of you to

have approached me politely and to have said, 'Sir, if

you have a moment and happen to know, could you

please direct me to the post office?*"

The Berliner stared in astonishment for a moment,

then growled, "I'd rather be losti" and stamped away.

That very same Viennese was visiting Berlin later

that year, and it turned out that now it was he who

had to search for the post office. Approaching a Ber-

liner, he said politely, "Sir, if you have a moment and

happen to know, could you please direct me to the

post office?"

With machinelike rapidity, the Berliner replied,

"About face, two blocks forward, sharp turn right, one

block forward, cross street, half-right under arch,

sharp left over railroad tracks, past newsstand, into

post office lobby."

The Viennese, more bewildered than enlightened,

nevertheless murmured, "A thousand thanks, kind sir—"

Where upon the Berliner snatched furiously at the

other's lapel and shouted, "Never mind the thanksl

Repeat the instructional"

Pierre was celebrating his silver wedding, and while

all were unrestrainedly merry over the ample liquor

330

ISAAC ASIMOV

provided by the host, Pierre himself remained in the

comer, nursing a drink and following one of the

guests with baleful eyes.

A friend noticed this strange action, all the more

strange on so happy an occasion, and said, "At whom

are you glaring, Pierre my friend?"                '

"At my lawyer, may his soul rot."

"But why are you so angry with him?"

"It is a sad tale. After I had been married ten years,

I decided I had had enough and that the cleanest so-

lution would be to kill my wife. Painlessly, of course,

for I am no monster. Being a methodical man, I ap-

proached my lawyer—that one there—and asked him

of the possible consequences. He told me that

whereas killing a husband is, here in France, a mere

misdemeanor, killing a wife is a felony, and that even

with a most skillful defense I would have to count on

fifteen years in jail. He urged me not to do it and I let

myself be guided by his advice."

"Well, then, why are you angry?**

"Because," said Pierre, "if I had not listened, to his

idiotic advice, on this very day I would have been a

free man at last."

Although Isaac Asimov's Treasury of Humor was the

first humorous book I wrote, it was not the first I

published.

On March 12, 1971, I had lunch with Beth Walker

and Millicent Selsam of Walker and Company to dis-

cuss my ABC's of the Earth. When that was done, the

two editors talked shop and the conversation veered

to The Sensuous Woman and The Sensuous Man, two

sleazy books that were making money out of pruri-

ence.

OPUS 200                331

Beth turned to me and said, "Why don't you write a

dirty book, Isaac?'

I thought of my own propensities and said dryly,

"What do you want me to write? The Sensuous Dirty

Old Man?"

That turned out to be a dreadful thing to say, for

Beth fell in love with the title and hounded me into

doing the hook. She then raced it into print and it

appeared less than ninety days after my original

mocking suggestion, appearing as Book 112.

In no way, of course, way The Sensuous Dirty Old

Man merely sex, I should hope that I don't have to

stoop to try to write and sell a book on the basis of

salacity alone: It was satire and was intended, at all

points, to be more humorous than salacious.

Don't get me wrong. I don't eschew the salacious. 1

merely insist that humor be primary. Thus:

from THE SENSUOUS DIRTY OLD MAN (1971)

Sometime during the 1930s, women, having stripped

off enough layers of frontal textile, discovered that in-

sufficent material was left to protect the delicate tis-

sues of the bosom. To protect these, modem engineer-

ing devised a structure that served to compress the

bosom into firm cone-shaped objects which, far from

requiring protection, could allow unlimited maneuver

without danger. Unavoidably it caught the masculine

eye—or some other part of the male anatomy if he

weren't careful, leaving a nasty bruise.

The service performed to womankind by this new

garment can not easilv be exaggerated. It was first de-

signed by an organization of bioengineers who, al-

though individually anonymous, have become world

332

ISAAC ASIMOV

famous by the corporate title of Bosom Rehabilitation

Associates. The garment they engineered possessing

the small initials BRA on the strap quickly became

known, in consequence, as the "bra."

The gentlemen of B.R.A. carefully labored to give

each woman that firmly jutting profile one would nat-

urally associate with strength of will and character,

and it worked. Manv a woman who in her natural un-

protected state would have slunk into a room, abashed

and uncertain, could, with her bra firmly in place,

walk in, shoulders back and chest thrown out, proudly

aware that every man in the place would at once note

and admire her strength of character.

Every woman felt uplifted by the experience, so the

industry began to speak of the "uplift bra.**

And yet the uplift bra had its troubles. For one

thing, the designers had unaccountably placed its

hooks in the back. In addition, the straps cut the

shoulders, and in hot weather there were such matters

as heat, perspiration, and skin rashes.

Little by little the thought came that it might be

possible to eliminate the bra and allow the contents to

find their natural level; or, as President Nixon so suc-

cinctly put it in discussing this very problem, the time

had come for America to adopt a lower profile.

Certain of the more excitable women determined

not merely to eliminate the bra but to bum it as a

gesture of contempt. The slogan arose: LET'S IGNITE

BRAS. This was abbreviated to L.I.B. and in no time at

all Women's Lib was a power in the land.

The result was, in the light of hindsight, inevitable.

The ladies found themselves back where they had

been in the 1930s and, indeed, worse off than ever.

The sturdier fabrics of a much earlier day, the taffeta

dress and corduroy blouse, had given way to sheer

OPUS 200                 333

synthetics. What had earlier been hidden and pro-

tected by the bra was hidden and protected no longer

by virtually anything. Indeed, the tender caress of the

soft synthetic irritated the delicate bosom surface till

every unevenness was accentuated and softly re-

vealed.

At a time when President Nixon was making one

point very, very clear, the average young girl on the

streets of New York was doing exactly twice as well.

And dirty old men, on those same streets, found

that they had a new target—and new hazards. Without

the constriction of the bra, the average young lady,

moving forward in a healthy free-swinging stride, pre-

sents what can only be described as a moving target.

It is therefore difficult for the dirty old man to get

to the point; for the point shifts. It moves wildly at

the slightest bodily motion. It Jiggles, wobbles, and

dangles; heaves, yaws, and rolls; vibrates, oscillates,

and undulates.

The dirty old man may find himself trying to follow

every movement by use of eye muscles, head muscles,

or both. This is not advisable. Aside from the fact that

in the attempt to concentrate too entirely on the target

he may walk into a wall, the constant movement of

eyes or head or both will induce dizziness, headache,

nausea, and even that dread affliction of the inveter-

ate leerer, watering eyes. The whole complex of symp-

toms makes up the syndrome of "mammamobilism."

Mammamobilism is known to the medical profes-

sion by the euphemistic phrase "nipple shock," but in

this book I have no use for euphemisms and do not

intend to employ them. The general public, the taxi

driver, the construction worker, everyone, says "mam-

mamobilism," and that's what I shall say, too.

The Italians, far wiser than we in their attitude to-

334

ISAAC ASIMOV

ward sex, have no compunctions about using the

phrase. You will recall that in the great opera Rigo-

letto the Duke, when Gilda runs past him jiggling,

claps his hand to his brow and begins the brilliant

tenor aria: "Oh, mammamobile—"

Although you can see that the disease played so nn-

portant a part in the opera written by Joe Green* a

century and a quarter ago, thanks to the extraordinary

equipment of the pasta-consuming coloratura soprano

of his day, it did not strike the American public till

just a few short years ago. Mammambolism is not

amenable to penicillin or to any of the other antibiot-

ics. Prevention, then, is the key. Do not try to follow

the moving target. Fix the eye rather upon some key

portion of the dress pattern and allow the sense of

sight to be titillated sporadically.

Oddly enough, a new career (if you want to caU it

that} started for me quite unexpectedly in 1Q74.

I was returning by ship (I don't fty) from a visit to

Great Britain, and things were a little dull. At the ta-

ble at luncheon, as conversation lagged and as I

looked aimlessly at the ocean outside the window

from my seat in the Queens CriU of the Queen Eliza-

beth II, a limerick occurred to me.

I had made up an occasional limerick in my life but

had never paid much attention to them. This time,

though, the limerick flowed into my mind so easily

that I found myself unable to resist quoting it. 1 he-

B Green, having emigrated to Italy, adopted the Italian

version of his name, Giuseppe Verdi. For reasons known

only to opera huffs, the Italian same is actually better known

today than the name he was bom with in Poughkeepsie,

New York.

OPUS 200                335

gan, without warning, by saying, "There was a young

girl from Decatur."

What conversation there was stopped, and everyone

at the table turned to look at me.

"What went out to sea on a freighter" I said, and

now attention was focused on me with an almost pain-

ful intensity.

"She was screwed by the Master—an utter disaster,"

said I, and paused a little to let the suspense gather,

and then 1 added, "But the crew all made up for it

later."

There was an explosion of laughter.

1 was very pleased and, for the first time, took the

trouble to write down one of my own limericks.

That was fatal, for from that moment on, every time

1 made up a limerick I wrote it down. 'What's more, I

began to concentrate on constructing them. By the

time I had sixteen, I brought them to Walker and

Company with the glad tidings that when I had a

hundred I would make a book out of them, which

Walker might then publish. Sam Walker winced at

that but, like a good sport, agreed.

1 then got to work seriously, using the same crite-

rion 1 had used for The Sensuous Dirty Old Man. A

limerick could be as salacious as necessary, provided

it was more funny than salacious. And 1 added an-

other rule: it could never be physically repulsive.

Before I was through, I had not only a hundred lim-

ericks and a published book (complete with lengthy

introduction and commentary on each limerick) but

four hundred and forty-four limericks and four pub-

lished books.

These were: Lecherous Limericks {Book 166), in

2975; More Lecherous Limericks {Book 177), in 1976;

Still More Lecherous Limericks {Book 185), in 1977;

336

ISAAC ASIMOV

and Limericks: Too Gross (Book 196), in 1978. The

limericks were numbered consecutively through the

three volumes, from 1 to 300, and the happy tale of

the young girl from Decatur was, very appropriately,

given pride of place as number 1.

Here are two limericks from each of the first three

books:

from LECHEROUS LIMERICKS (1975)

Well, Hardly Ever

There was an old maid of Peru

Who swore that she never would screw

Except under stress

Of forcefuLduress

Like, "I'm ready, dear, how about you?"

Impatience

There was a young couple from Florida

Whose passion grew steadily torrider.

They were planning to sin

In a room in an inn.

Who can wait? So they screwed in the corridor.

from MORE LECHEROUS LIMERICKS (1976)

Shutting the Barn Door

There was an effete lazy fop

Who preferred all his women on top.

He said, "I'm no Jerk,

Let them do the work,

But if I get pregnant, I'll stop.**

OPUS 200

You Mean

A. young fellow, divinely endowed,

Once said, very haughty and proud,

When a girl, much too free,

Placed her hand on his knee,

*That isn't my knee. Miss McCloud."

from STILL MORE LECHEROUS LIMERICKS (J977)

Reasons Enough

The virginal nature of Donna

Had for many long years been a goner.

When asked whv she screwed,

She replied, "Gratitude,

Politeness—and just 'cause I wanna."

Emily Post

There was a young man of Connecticut

Who tore off a voung woman's petticoat

Said she, with a grin,

"You will have to get in.

For to do nothing more isn't etiquette."

PART 12

SOCIAL SCIENCES

Until now I Juice carefully followed the order of the

sections as originally given in Opus 100: from Part 1,

Astronomy, to Part 11, Humor.

I would hate, though, to have you think that, having

established a certain diversity in my writings in my

first hundred books, I would allow that diversity to

stand, that I would seek out no new fields for my sec-

ond hundred. That is not so. There are no less than

four additional sections in this present book.

First, the social sciences. This, I must admit, is not

my forte, and consequently I have done very little

writing in this field. It is important, after all, for any

versatile writer to have a keen perception of his limi-

tations. Otherwise, the ease with which he may hop

from subject to subject, and his vanity over being able

to do so, may lure him to write on something he

knows nothing about with diastrous consequences.

To be sure, some of my F & SF essays deal with one

aspect or another of the social sciences—the essays

that I refer to as "controversials" in my correspon-

dence with my editor, Edward L. Ferman. There, how-

ever, I am writing informally to an audience of friends

and giving only my opinions, making no pretense of

speaking authoritatively.

In one instance during my second hundred books,

342

ISAAC ASIMOV

however, I allowed myself to be talked into doing a

book that edges rather far into the social.

Frances Schwartz of Abelard-Schuman phoned me

in 1973 and asked me to do a book on population

aimed at an audience of young people. It is a subject

near to my heart, for I firmly believe that if the world

does not master the population problem, civilization is

very likely going to collapse within half a century..

I agreed to do the book therefore, and it appeared

in 1974 under the imprint of the ]ohn Day Company,

which by then was. a sister house of Abelard-

Schuman. The title is Earth: Our Crowded Spaceship

and it is Book 156. Here is an excerpt:

from EARTH: OUR CROWDED SPACESHIP (1974)

There are many people who are educated and who

know about the world population and the way it is

growing but think there is no danger. They tell them-

selves that people who talk of the danger are foolish

and wrong.

People who don't believe there is a crisis can point

to the Netherlands, for instance. They say that the

Netherlands is prosperous and yet is much more

densely populated than the world average. They say

that it would do no harm to let the whole world be-

come that densely populated. They don't seem to real-

ize that the Netherlands is prosperous because it has

fertile soil and much water; that it makes use of a great

deal of industrial products like fertilizer and insecti-

cides; that it imports a great deal of oil and that it has

no forests to speak of.

There just isn't enough fertile soil and enough water

to make the entire world into one gigantic Nether-

OPUS 200                 343

lands. There isn't enough fertilizer and insecticides

and oil, and we don't really want to cut down all the

forests. Besides, it won't take very long for the earth

to be as densely populated all over as the Netherlands

is now, and if it could be done, how would we stop

the population increase at that point?

Some people think that science will solve all prob-

lems. They say that more people will Just mean more

scientists working on those problems. They don't real-

ize that the problems get worse and worse, faster and

faster, and that sooner or later—probably sooner—

science just won't be able to keep up the pace.

Some people even think that population means

strength. They think that large nations with many

people can conquer neighboring nations with fewer

people. They think that if their own nation does not

increase its population, a neighboring nation which

does increase its population will conquer them. For

this reason, some nations think that thev must have

more and more babies, more and more people, if they

are to remain strong and free.

Even if war is not involved, some people think a

nation with a large population can keep its own cus-

toms, languages, and attitudes better than a nation

with a small population. If a neighboring nation

grows faster, they think, that neighboring nation

might impose its customs, language, and attitudes on

the smaller one, just by outnumbering them.

Actually, this is not so. Very often in history, small

nations have conquered large ones. It's not so much

the size of the army as its organization and the techni-

cal level of its weapons. Thus, Greece took over Persia

in the 300s B.C., Mongolia took over China in the

1200s, and Great Britain took over India in the 1700s,

even though Persia, China, and India were far more

I

344

ISAAC ASIMOV

populous than Greece, Mongolia, and Great Britain.

Then, too, the Greek language and culture in an-

cient times and the English language and culture in

modem times spread over the world even though

those languages were spoken by few people to begin

with.

If a nation wishes to avoid being dominated by its

neighbors, its best chance is to raise its standard of

living and its level of technology. This can be done

best by not allowing its population to grow to such a

point that it is sunk in misery and poverty. In fact,

the worst way in which a nation can try to avoid

being dominated by its neighbor is to increase its pop-

ulation to the point of misery and poverty.

If every nation tries to compete with its neighbors

by raising its population, then the whole world will be

sunk in misery, and poverty. The nations will all de-

cline in a catastrophe that will leave nothing behind

that is worth dominating. No one will have gained any-

thing. Everyone will have lost everything.

Once all this is understood, and people generally

agree that population growth must not be allowed to

continue, they must also come to understand how that

growth can be stopped. Population grows because

more people are being bom than are dying. There are

two ways, then, in which the growth can be stopped.

You can increase the number of people who die until

it matches the number of people who are being born.

Or else you can decrease the number of people who

are born until it matches the number of people who

are dying.

The Brst method—increasing the death rate—is the

usual way in which population is controlled in all

species of living things other than ourselves. It is the

method by which human populations have been con-

OPUS 200                 345

trolled in the past. It is the "natural" method. If there

are too many people, some starve or die of disease or

by violence. If we don't do anything now, it will be

the way population will be controlled in the future.

Billions will die.

Must we let that happen because it is the "natural"

way?

Through all the history of mankind, the human

brain has been bending nature to its will. If we had

really decided that the "natural" way was the right

way, we would never have begun to make tools or

build fires or develop agriculture or study science. It

is because mankind has bent nature to its will that

there are now many, many people who live more com-

fortably and better than people ever have before. We

must continue to work out ways to be more comfort-

able by using the intelligent way, and not just the "nat-

ural" way.

The "natural" way to control population is by rais-

ing the death rate, but we don't want that, for castas-

trophe lies that way. The intelligent way is to reduce

the birth rate. If, say, 40,000,000 people die each year,

then not more than 40,000,000 people should be bom

each year. If fact, we may want to reduce the world

population to some reasonable value, in which case, if

40,000,000 people die each year, we may want only

30,000,000 people to be bom, or only 20,000,000, till

the desired population level is reached.

But how can the birth rate be reduced?

One way is for people to stop mating. This, how-

ever, is not very practical, since people enjoy it too

much to stop. A better way is to let mating continue

but to use methods that keep it from resulting in ba-

bies-

There are a number of different ways in which the

346

ISAAC ASIMOV

birth rate can be made to drop without interfering

with people's pleasure. In the last twenty years, the

birth rate in the United States and in some other

countries has dropped because more and more women

are using pills to keep from having babies they don't

want.

To make sure that mating doesn't result in babies is

called "birth control." It is by adopting methods of

birth control that population growth can be stopped

with the least damage.

There are many difficulties here. Certain religious

organizations are against birth control. Many groups

of people have ways of life that would not fit in easily

with birth control. Then, too, even if birth control

were desired, there are many places in the world

where people are so poor they can't afford to buy the

materials that make it possible.

So you see, it comes down to education again. Peo-

ple not only have to be taught that a problem exists,

they have to be taught exactly how to solve it by birth

control and why it is right to do so. And they must be

given the necessary materials without charge.

PART 13

LITERATURE

Perhaps the most outrageous books among my second

hundred are my annotations of literary classics.

In the first place, it does take a certain amount of

overweening self-assurance for a person whose intel-

lectual expertise is in the sciences to decide to do

large and complicated books on a subject that may

easily be mistaken for literary criticism. Literary cri-

tics (who are bound to be asked to review the books)

are sure to be annoyed at this invasion of their home

turf.

Secondly, the books tend to be elaborate and ex-

pensive and Doubleday (whom I stuck with the publi-

cation thereof) was sure to be forced to risk consider-

able sums on them that they might not earn back.

(Doubleday has never uttered a word of complaint in

the matter, but that doesn't stop me from worrying

about it.)

After my two-volume Asimov's Guide to the Bible,

it was inevitable that I would plan Asimov's Guide to

Shakespeare.

What I did, in the latter case, was to take up each of

Shakespeare's plays in turn, go through it carefully,

describing as much of the plot as was necessary for

my purposes, and quoting those passages that con-

tained historical, mythological, biographical, or geo-

350

ISAAC ASIMOV

graphical allusions. Since these might not he plain to

the reader and might get in the way of a proper un-

derstanding of the text, 1 explained each one.

I did not in the least attempt to discuss the plays as

dramatic vehicles or indulge in true literary criticism.

Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare appeared in ^wo

volumes in 1970 as Books 104 and 105, and here is my

treatment of the opening soliloquy from Richard III,

in volume 2:

from ASIMOV'S GUIDE TO SHAKESPEARE (1970)

Richard III deals with events that immediately follow

Henry VI, Part 3 and it is very likely that Shakespeare

began work on it as soon as he was through with the

Henry VI trilogy. It was probably completed by 1593

at the latest

At that time Shakespeare was still at the beginning

of his career. He had written two narrative poems, a

number of sonnets, a couple of light comedies, and

the Henry VI trilogy, all popular and successful, but

none, as yet, a blockbuster. With Richard til Shake-

speare finally made it big.

It is a play after the manner of Seneca, like Titus

Andronicus, which Shakespeare was also working on

at the time, but infinitely more successful.

Indeed, Richard III was so full of harrowing and

dramatic episodes, and Richard III himself was so

successful a character, so wonderful a villain, with so

much bravery and dry humor mingled with his mon-

strous behavior, that the play pleased all and made it

quite plain that Shakespeare was a new star of bril-

liant magnitude on the literary scene. Indeed, despite

OPUS 200                351

the fact that the play is quite raw compared to the

polished mastery of Shakespeare's later plays, it is still

one of his most popular and successful plays today.

The play opens with Richard of Gloucester, young-

est brother of King Edward IV, alone on the stage. He

sets the time of the scene by saying:

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of 'York;

(Act 1, scene I, lines 1-2)

This ties in well with the final speech in Henry VI,

Part 3, in which Edward IV says happily that the

troubles are all over and that only joy is left.

It was in 1471 that the last serious Lancastrian

threat was smashed at Tewkesbury. Old King Henry

VI and his son. Prince Edward, were dead immedi-

ately after that battle, and no one was left to dispute

the right of King Edward to the throne.

The "sun of York" (and a sun was one of the sym-

bols of the Yorkist house) was indeed shining.

The sun of York does not satisfy Richard, however.

In a speech that resembles one he had made in the

earlier play, he explains that he is so physically de-

formed that the joys of peace, such as dancing and

lovemaking, are beyond him. He will therefore con-

fine himself to the joys of ambition, and labor to

make himself a king. After all, in Henry VI, Part 3, he

waxed lyrical over the joys of being a king, and it is

not to be wondered at that he should want those joys.

In order to become a king, he must get out of the

way those who have a prior right to the throne.

Among them, of course, is his older brother George of

Clarence. Richard explains in his soliloquy:

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ISAAC ASIMOV

Plots have I laid, inductions [beginnings] dangerous^

By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one again/it the other;

And if King Edward he as true and fust

As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,          '

This day should Clarence closely he mewed up

About a prophecy which says that G

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.

(Act 1, scene 1, lines 32-40)

Shakespeare is here condensing time, for George of

Clarence's final break with his royal brother came in

1477, six years after the climactic Battle of Tewkes-

bury, despite the appearance in the Brst two lines of

the soliloquy that it is the very morrow of the battle

that is in question.

Why did the break between the brothers come?

Well, it required no plot on the part of Richard, really,

for George of Clarence had some of the characteristics

in reality that Richard was later slanderously de-

scribed as having.

It was George who was ambitious and faithless. He

had deserted Edward and sided with Warwick in

1469, and had come back to his allegiance to York, we

may be sure, only out of a feeling that Warwick was

going to lose and that he himself would gain more by

a second double-cross.

Edward had forgiven the twice faithless George,

but that did not prevent George from continuing to

scheme for his own aggrandizement in such a way

that the king was bound, eventually, to suspect his

brother of aiming at the throne.

George did his best, for instance, to keep his hands

on the whole enormous Warwick estate. This may

OPUS 200

353

have been out of mere avarice, but it may also have

been out of a realization of how useful wealth would

be in planning a revolt. He had married Warwick's

elder daughter, Isabella, in the days when he and

Warwick had been friends and allies. The younger

daughter, Anne, had been married to Edward, prince

of Wales, the son of old King Henry. Prince Edward

was now dead and Anne was a widow; and George

was determined to keep her a widow, lest some new

husband insist on a half share in the Warwick estate.

While Anne remained a widow, George controlled it

all, and he kept the poor lady a virtual prisoner to see

to it that the situation would continue.

This intentness on wealth at all costs would natu-

rally disturb Edward.

Then there arose a new matter. Charles the Bold of

Burgundy died in battle in 1477, leaving behind a

twenty-year-old daughter, Mary, as his onlv heir.

(Charles's wife had been Margaret of York, the sister

of George of Clarence, but Mary was his daughter by

a previous wife.)

Burgundy had, for over half a century, been the

wealthiest nation in Europe, and under Charles it had

reached its political peak, for Charles had almost de-

feated France and made an independent kingdom of

his land. Now, with only a young woman to rule Bur-

gundy, its days seemed numbered under the pressure

of France to the west and the Holv Roman Empire to

the east- Unless, that is, some strong independent prince

quickly married Mary and carried on where Charles

the Bold had left off. George of Clarence was now a

widower and he saw himself as husband of Mary and

as the new duke of Burgundy.

King Edward thoroughly disapproved of this

scheme. It seemed to him that if his ambitious, faith-

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ISAAC ASIMOV

less brother became duke of Burgundy, with all the

resources of Burgundy at his call, he would be a

source of endless trouble. He would have the money

to finance plots against Edward and scheme at a dou-

ble throne.

Edward therefore forbade the marriage and the two

brothers became open enemies. It did not take much

more for Edward to begin to suspect George of plot-

ting his death. Two of George's henchmen were ac-

cused of trying to bring about that death by sorcery.

and when George insisted they were innocent, Ed-

ward angrily had his brother arrested and thrown in

the Tower of London.

Whether George was actually plotting Edward's

death we cannot say, but certainly his past and his

character gave cause for suspicion, and in those trou-

bled times that was enough.

And what had been Richard's record through all

this? Well, for one thing, he had remained utterly

faithful to Edward in the hard times when Warwick

had temporarily hurled him from the throne. He had

fought with bravery and distinction at the battles of

Barnet and Tewkesbmy. He had done Edward's dirty

work (probably) in arranging the death of old King

Henry VI in the Tower. In all respects, Richard was

as much the loyal brother as George was the faithless

one.

This helps explain the frustrating manner in which

the characters in Richard 111 fall prey to villainous Rich-

ard, though his villainy is made to appear patent to

all In actual history, you see, he wasn't a villain.

Thus, consider the prophecy that helped set the

king against his brother: that someone with the initial

G would be a traitor to him. (Undoubtedly, there

were prophecies extant of this sort, and of every other

OPUS 200                 355

too, for there are astrologers and prophets everywhere

and at all times, even m our own country now, and

only those prophecies that come true or seem to come

true are later remembered.) The king felt this applied

to George of Clarence; but why not to RiChard of

Gloucester? The king suspected George because

George deserved it; he did not suspect Glouce^er be-

cause the real Gloucester's unshakable loyalty left no

room for suspicion.

We can also ask ourselves whether Richard really

had a hand in raising Edward's suspicions against

George. There is no evidence of that at all until the

later anti-Richard polemicists got to work. They say

that he spoke openly in favor of his brother to the

king in order to hide his secret maneuverings. The

"maneuverings," however, are a later invention pre-

sented even by the polemicists as onlv a matter of sus-

picion, whereas the one fact they admit is that Rich-

ard defended his brother Clarence openly—which

took courage.

By the time Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare had come

out, my marriage had broken up and I found myself

in New fork in a two-room hotel suite and rather at a

loss.

For the first time in my life I needed to consult no

one's taste but my own, so I went to lower Fourth

Avenue to poke around the secondhand bookstores,

something I had always wanted to do.

I came across a Modem Library edition of Lord By-

ron's great'comic epic Don Juan, which I had read (or

had, at least, begun to read} in my college days. I

brought it home in triumph, feeling that I could now

haw something to read at night when I couldn't sleep

356

ISAAC ASIMOV

{and I wasn't sleeping eery well in my lonely hotel

apartment).

The first night, I had hardly managed to read the

seventeen-stanza dedication and the very beginning of

the first "canto before all was lost. I put the book aside

and spent the rest of the night in restless waiting ffff

the morning so that I could begin to annotate it.

I did annotate it, and, unlike my treatment of the

Bible and Shakespeare, 1 quoted the entire epic along

with the annotations. I managed to persuade Double-

day to publish it (which they eventually did—their

own idea—in a very beautiful and expensive edition}.

Asimov's Annotated "Don Juan" (Book 130) was

published in 1972, and I have rarely had such fun

writing a book. Here is the first verse of the first

canto wst to give you a notion of what I was doing:

from ASIMOV'S ANNOTATED "DON JUAN" (1972)

I want a hero: an uncommon want,

When every year and month sends forth a

new one,

Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,1

The age discovers he is not the true one:

Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,

111 therefore take our ancient friend Don

Juan2—

We all have seen him, in the pantomime,

Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.8

Canto 1 was written between September 6 and

November 1, 1818, in Venice, Italy.

1. The gazettes were not then, as now in the Ameri-

can sense of the word, amply newspapers. They were

OPUS 200                357

official weekly journals, publishing statistics of gov-

ernmental interest: movements of the royal family,

lists of honors granted, those killed in battle, and so

on. Byron refers to the gazettes now and then in Don

Juan, chiefly in order to bestow a sardonic glance at

their role as a mmtary obituary list.

2. Don Juan is an "ancient friend" because he was a

well-known figure out of Spanisli folklore. He first re-

ceived recognized literary presentation in the drama

El Bwlador de SecUJa, written in 1630 by the Spanish

dramatist Gabriel Tellez (who wrote under the pseu-

donym Tirso de Molina).

In the original folk tale, Don Juan was the epitome

of the licentious man, who aspired (usually success-

fully) to make love to every woman he met, and who

did so with utter disregard for any law. The climax of

his story is his liaison with a noblewoman and its con-

sequences. He kills the woman's father in a duel. The

father is buried and an effigy.of him is placed over

the tomb. Don Juan, seeing that effigy, mockingly in-

vites it to dinner. The stone figure duly arrives at the

meal and drags the rake and blasphemer to Hell.

Various versions of this legend had already ap-

peared in Spain and elsewhere by Byron's time- Mo-

liere had written a play on the theme and Mozart, an

opera. Byron, with no compunction whatever, utterly

altered the plot in his own version. In fact, all that

Byron left of the traditional Don Juan is his name and

birthplace; nothing more! Don Juan's character is ut-

terly changed. From a heartless blasphemer, seducer,

and libertine (as the world viewed Byron), he be-

comes an innocent, far more sinned against than sin-

ning (as Byron viewed himself). Even the hero's

name was tampered with, for Byron abandoned the

universal "Don Wahn" and called him, with sturdy

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ISAAC ASIMOV

English disregard for the eccentric pronunciations of

foreigners, "Don Joo'un," as we can tell by the fact

that he rhymed Juan with "new one" and "true one."

3. Don Juan was also a favorite in pantomimes and

puppet shows, particularly one adapted from the play

The Libertine by Thomas Shadwell, The climax of/

such shows invariably came at the point where Don

Juan, defiant to the last, is dragged down to Hell by

the devil to the screaming enthusiasm of the audience.

NOT did working on Don Juan in the least sate me.

While it was in press, I did the same for Milton's great

tragic epic Paradise Lost, throwing in Paradise Re-

gained for good measure. In this case, too, I quoted

the entire work along, with the annotations.

Douhledftff did Asimov's Annotated "Paradise Lost"

also, and without a murmur. It was published in 1974

as Book 154.

1 had thought, when I first began to work on Para-

dise Lost, that it would be hard work since I was un-

der the firm impression that I didn't like Milton's

style. I changed my mind, however. Once I immersed

myself in it, I found I loved the long and rolling son-

orittf of those magnificent Latinate sentences of his.

Here's the very first sentence in the epic, one that

rumbles on for sixteen lines of iambic pentameter—

together with my annotations, of course.

from ASIMOV'S ANNOTATED "PARADISE LOST" (1974)

Of Man's First disobedience,1 and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree,2 whose mortal taste

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,

OPUS 200                 359

With loss of Eden,3 till one greater Man*

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,

Sing, Heav'nly Muse,5 that on the secret top

Of Oreb, or of Sinai,6 didst inspire

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,7

In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth8

Rose out of Chaos:9 Or if Sion Hill10

Delight thee more, and Siloa's Brook that flow'd

Fast by the Oracle of God;" I thence

Invoice thy aid to my advent'rous song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar

Above th* Aonian Mount,12 while it pursues

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme.

1. The epic poem Paradise Lost begins immediately

with a statement of purpose. Its story is that told in

the second and third chapters of the biblical book of

Genesis: that of Eve's, then Adam's, disobedience to

God and their violation of the one negative command

given them after their creation. Since Adam and Eve

were the first (and, till then, the onlv) human beings

to exist, according to the biblical account, and since

this was their first disobedience, it was the first dis-

obedience of mankind generally.

2. It was this tree that was involved in the one nega-

tive command given to Adam: "And the Lord God

commanded the man, saying, 'Of every tree of the gar-

den thou mayest freely eat: But of the tree of the

knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it;

for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt

surely die'" (Genesis 2:16-17).

The quotation I have just given is from the Author-

ized Version of the Bible (generally known as the

King James Bible), which was first published in 1611,

fifty-six years before the publication of Paradise Lost.

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ISAAC ASIMOV

It has been the traditional Bible of EngUsh-spealdng

Protestants, both in Milton's time and now, so I will

use it for quotations throughout these notes.

3. It was the land of Eden in which Adam and Eve

existed before their disobedience and from which they

were evicted afterward, as the poem will describe in-

great detail. Specifically it was in a garden in that region

in which they dwelt: "And the Lord God planted a gar-

den eastward in Eden; and there he put the man

whom he had formed" (Genesis 2:8).

It is common, but not correct, to refer to the garden

itself as Eden, as Milton does here. This is not to say

that Milton did not know better, of course. In the con-

stricting bounds of poetry, the necessities of rhyme,

rhythm, or imagery may require a certain departure

from strict accuracy. This is tolerated as "poetic li-

cense."

4. The "greater Man" is Jesus. The New Testament

worked out the doctrine that there was a symmetry in

the story of man. By the sin of one man, Adam. all

mankind was condemned, and by the virtue of one

man, Jesus, all mankind was saved again: "For as by

one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so

by the obedience of one shall many be made right-

eous" (Romans 5:19).

5. Milton draws his sources not only from the Bible

but from Greek and Latin literature, primarily the

great epic poems: Homer's lliad and Odyssey and

Vergil's Aeneid. Paradise Lost is quite obviously and

undeniably an imitation of all of these, particularly

the last. Indeed, so densely packed with classical allu-

sions is Milton's epic, so reverent is its treatment of

classical myths, and so slavish (almost) is its picture

of angels as Homeric heroes, that we are bound to

OPUS 200                361

consider Paradise Lost a pagan translation (and a glo-

riously majestic one) of the biblical creation tale.

It was customary for the pagan epic poets to invoke

the Muse at the start of their poem, the Muse being

the spirit of poetic inspiration. Homer and Vergil both

did so and Milton does so as well.

6. There is a limit, of course, to how pagan the rig-

idly Puritan Milton can allow himself to be. The Muse

must therefore be identified with the revealing and

inspiring Spirit of Cod.

One place where the divine Spirit revealed itself

was at "the secret top of Oreb" (Mount Horeb). Thus

the Bible tells us that Moses, while still in exile in

Midian, "led the flock to the backside of the desert,

and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb.

And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a

flame of fire out of the midst of a bush" (Exodus

3:1-2).

After Moses went to Egypt, at the behest of God,

and then led the Israelites out of Egypt, he brought

them to Mount Sinai; "And the Lord came down upon

Mount Sinai, on the top of the mount: and the Lord

called Moses up to the top of the mount; and Moses

went up" (Exodus 19:20).

Many biblical commentators decided that Horeb

and Sinai are alternate names for the same mountain,

and that is how Milton treats them here.

7. It is Moses who is "that Shepherd" who received

the message of God on Mount Horeb, or Sinai.

Though raised in the palace of Egypt's pharaoh, he

had killed an Egyptian and been forced to flee the

land. He reached Midian and married the daughter of

an important man of the region, one with large herds

of sheep. "Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his fa-

ther in law, the priest of Midian" (Exodus 3:1).

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ISAAC ASIMOV

The teachings of Moses were addressed to the Isra-

elites, who believed themselves divinely chosen to

keep God's commandments and to worship him in. the

correct manner. Thus: "0 ye seed of Israel his servant,

ye children of Jacob, his chosen ones" (1 Chronicles

16:13). Hence the reference to "the chosen Seed."

8. It was Moses, according to a Jewish tradition

adopted by the Christians, who wrote the Brst five

books of the Bible, under the inspiration of God. In

particular, he was supposed to have written the first

verse, which opens with the phrase used here by Mil-

ton: "In the beginning God created the heavens and

the earth" (Genesis 1:1).

9. In the Hebrew tradition, it is stated in the very

first biblical verse that heaven and earth were cre-

ated. The implication was that, before the creation,

nothing existed.

In the Greek tradition, however, chaos existed to

begin with, and even antedated the gods. Chaos was

viewed as matter in formless disorder, so the creation

of the universe in the Greek view consisted of impos-

ing form on formlessness and extracting order out of

disorder.

Milton accepts the pagan view when he speaks of

**how die Heav'ns and Earth/Rose out of Chaos." He

is not, however, entirely without biblical authority, for

the Bible goes on to say after the initial verse, "And

the earth was without form, and void'* (Genesis 1:2).

In other words, even though heaven and earth were

created out of nothing, they appeared as chaos to be-

gin with, and it was out of that that God, in six days,

extracted form and order.

10. "Sion hill" is Mount Zion, which was the height

about which the citv of Jerusalem was built. It was

the fortified center of the city, the site of the ruler s

OPUS 200

363

palace, the place of last defense. It was David's cap-

ture of Mount Zion that placed Jerusalem in Israelite

hands: "Nevertheless David took the strong hold of

Zion" (2 Samuel 5:7). It was on Mount Zion that Da-

vid's son, Solomon, built the Temple. Zion therefore be-

came the religious center of the kingdom as well. It

was on Mount Zion, with its Temple, that the Spirit of

Cod might be thought to be resting.

11. Siloa ("Siloam," in the Greek form) is a tunnel

in Mount Zion through which water was conducted.

The water formed a pool at the base of the mountain

and served as a water supply. Its connection with di-

vine inspiration comes in a tale of the manner in

which Jesus cured a blind man by placing saliva-

caked soil on his eyes, "And said unto him, 'Go, wash

in the pool of Siloam'" (John 9:7). Since the pool was

at the base of the mount on which the Temple stood,

it "flow'd Fast by the Oracle of God."

12. Milton never stays long with biblical allusions,

but always finds himself irresistibly drawn back to

the classical. He moves now from biblical to pagan

sources of inspiration. Aonia is an alternate name for

the Greek district known as Boeotia. The "Aonian

Mount" is Helicon, a mountain in Boeotia sacred to

the Muses and therefore symbolizing a source of po-

etic inspiration.

7n 1975,1 had lunch with James Fixx of Horizon over

the possibility of my doing a piece for it. Fixx was

astonished at the variety of my writing, and since I

don't suffer from overdeveloped humility, I cheerfully

described some of the books I had done and rather

emphasized my annotations—of which I am inordi-

nately proud.

He hadn't heard of them and asked if I could anno-

364

ISAAC ASIMOV

tote a poem for Horizon. I agreed readily, ecen jubi-

lantly, and decided to do Rudyard Kipling's ''Reces-

sional."

Alas Horizon rejected it with, I suspect, something

akin to horror. Fixx had gotten the idea, 1 think, that

my annotations were satirical or humorous and,' of

course, they are completely serious.

I shrugged off the rejection, and since J am strongly

averse to lettinv am/thing I have written go (o waste, I

annotated three dozen other poems and persuaded

Doubled^i to publish Familiar Poems Annotated in

2977 (Book 181). From that book, here is my origi-

nally rejected annotation of "Recessional":

from FAMILIAR POEMS ANNOTATED (J977)

Recessional1

by RUDYARD KiPLiNG2

God of our fathers, known of old,3

Lord of our far-flung battle line,4

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine—®

Lord God of Hosts,6 be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!7

The tumult and the shouting dies,

The captains and the kings depart:8

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.9

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forgetl

Far-called, our navies melt away;10

On dune and headland sinks the fire:11

OPUS 200

365

, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh13 and Tyre!1'

Judge of the Nations,14 spare us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,

Such boostings as the Gentiles15 use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law—16

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart17 that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard,18

All valiant dust'" that bmlds on dust,20

And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard—

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy Mercy on Thy People, LordI21

1. By 1897, the year "Recessional" was written,

Great Britain was at the peak of her power. Victoria

had been queen for sixty years—sixty years that had

seen the nation advancing steadily in population,

prosperity, prestige, and power. Now the nation was

celebrating the Diamond Jubilee, the sixtieth anniver-

sary of Victoria's accession to the throne.

Great Britain ruled over an empire that had been

expanding throughout the nineteenth century and was

still expanding. To symbolize British glory and suc-

cess, Victoria had been promoted to a higher title

and had been made empress of India in 1876. Small

though Great Britain might be in area, she ruled

nearly a quarter of the world directly, and dominated

virtually all the rest financially.

And yet the most famous literary work to emerge

from this ecstatic celebration turned out to be this

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ISAAC ASIMOV

somber poem. Its very name indicates the manner in

which its mood went precisely contrary to that of the

happy nation.

A recession is an act of retiring or withdrawing,

and a recessional is a piece of music plaved at the end

of some performance or ceremony, as the audience is

leaving. The poem, therefore, deals with the possible

decline of the empire; its departure, so to speak, from

the stage of history.

2. Joseph Rudyard Kipling was bom in Bombay, In-

dia, on December 30, 1865, and India was the very

epitome of imperial success. It was India that was the

most populous, the most historic, the most exotic, and

the most impressive of all British possessions. It was

of India that the British monarch became empress. In

the years Kipling spent in India, he grew interested in

Indian life and culture but always from the viewpoint

of a member of a master race.

Kipling came to be viewed as the outstanding liter-

ary spokesman for imperialism—that is, for the view

that men of European descent (and of British descent

in particular) had a kind of natural right to rule over

non-Europeans, and that it was even their duty to do

so. Yet in the midst of the frantic Jubilee celebration,

a chill foretaste of the nemesis of imperialism seemed

to come over him.

He died in London on January 18,1936.

3. The poem is biblical in tone and flavor. The Brit-

ish, in Kipling's view, were God's chosen people, des-

tined for worid rule, and it was impossible for him not

to hark back to that other chosen people, the Israel-

ites. Throughout the poem, the British are made into

the contemporary equivalent of biblical Israel-

Thus, when Moses came to the Israelite slaves in

Egypt with the news that God would rescue them, he

OPUS 200

367

had to assure them that it was no invention of his own

that he was bringing, no unknown deity, but an ances-

tral God of proven work, one that was known of old.

God's instructions to Moses were: "Thus shalt thou

say unto the Children of Israel, the Lord God of Isaac,

and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you" (Exo-

dus 3:15).

And so Kipling, in addressing God, stresses the

same historic continuity, the same ancestral respect-

ability, to lend a more somber note to the prayer.

4. "Far-Sung" indeed! The empires of the past had

been limited in size. The largest had been that of the

Mongols, who from 1240 to 1340 had ruled over most

of Asia and half of Eruope. Even that empire had

been contiguous, however, with all parts land-

connected; it was not truly intercontinental; not truly

a world empire.

. It was only after the opening of the age of explora-

tion that world empires became possible. In the

course of the sixteenth century, Portugal and Spain

each established trading posts on every continent and

took over large land areas in the Americas. Indeed,

from 1580 to 1640 Spain took over Portugal and com-

bined both empires. These Iberian empires could only

be held together feebly, however, in the days of sail-

ing ships, especially since the home nations were in

the grip of a depressed and declining economy.

It was with the coming of industrialization that a

real gap opened between those nations that could im-

pose colonialization and those that must suffer it.

Great Britain, which was the first to industrialize.

forged on to outstrip tile earner world empires in ex-

tent, far outstrip them in population, and far, far out-

strip them in power.

Of the previous world empires, it had been said

368

ISAAC ASIMOV

that the sun never set upon them. At every moment

during earth's rotation some region forming part of

the empire was on the day-lit portion of the globe.

The earlier examples were forgotten, however, in the

greater example of the newer empire. Throughout

the nineteenth century, it was common to say that "thfe

sun never set upon the British Empire." And it was

easy to begin to believe this in the figurative sense,

too—that the sun of history and power would never set

and that the British Empire would remain basking in

an eternal noon.

5. Again a reference to the wide extent of the Brit-

ish Empire. The palm is a characteristic tree of the

tropics, and the pine the characteristic tree of the north-

ernmost forests. The palm trees of India and the pine

forests of Canada were both under the rule of the

government in London. (Canada had dominion status

and considerable self-rule, to be sure.)

6. The ancient peoples all had war gods, lords of the

hosts (armies), and why not? When did a people need

their god more than when they were meeting their en-

emies in battle (and when, presumably, the enemies

were busily calling upon their gods for help). Kipling

specifically recognizes the role of God as generalis-

simo when he refers to him earlier as "Lord of our

far-flung battle line."

In the Bible, the Creator is sometimes spoken of as

"God of hosts" or "Lord of hosts" when the divine role

on the battlefield, or as an agent of destruction, is to

be emphasized. Thus, when the Bible describes the

manner in which God will inflict military defeat upon

the Egyptians, it says, "And the Egyptians will I give

over into the hand of a cruel lord; and a fierce king

shall rule over them, saith the Lord, the Lord of hosts"

(Isaiah 19:4).

OPUS 200                 369

Again, in a plea to reverse the civil war that is giv-

ing the enemy an opportunity to destroy Israel, we

have, "Turn us again, 0 Lord God of hosts, cause thy

face to shine; and we shall be saved" (Psalms 80:19).

7. To the biblical writers, the military defeat and

physical destruction of a land are the direct result of

forgetting what is due to God, since God's people can-

not suffer defeat except as punishment by an angry

and forgotten Cod. Thus, the Bible quotes God as say-

ing: "For Israel hath forgotten his Maker, and build-

eth temples; and Judah hath multiplied fenced cities,

but I will send a fire upon his cities, and it shall de-

vour the palaces thereof (Hosea 8:14).

8. Tumult and shouting evoke a picture of the

clamor of battle, and "captains" and "kings" are the

leaders of armies. There is a biblical passage describ-

ing the war horse that is reminiscent of these lines:

"He saith among the trumpets. Ha, ha; and he smel-

leth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains

and the shouting" (Job 39:25).

But the noise dies and the warriors depart. Military

glory alone is insufficient, for the wars end and there

must be something to maintain the nation afterward.

These two lines also evoke the "tumult and the

shouting" of the Jubilee, the gathering of royalty and

of military notables from every European nation.

The noise of the Jubilee has to die, too, and the cele-

brants must depart, and what then?

9. It is a common biblical notion that it is not the

proud, the powerful, and the arrogant who are cared

for by God, but the humble, the repentant, and the

unassuming. The former are too apt to be tempted

into feeling they have no need of God and are there-

fore likely to forget Him. The latter cannot forget

Him because they have nowhere else to turn.

370

ISAAC AS1MOV

Thus: 'The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a

broken heart; and saveth such as be of contrite spirit"

(Psalms 34;18). Again: "The sacrifices of God are a

broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, 0 God,

thou wilt not despise" (Psalms 51:17).

10. Great Britain's prime defense was its navy. It was'

through its navy's defeat of the Spanish Armada in

1588 that England became an important power on the

stage of the modern world. It was because its navy

patrolled and controlled the waters about itself that

Great Britain was held inviolate from the armies of

Philip II of Spain and of Louis XIV and Napoleon of

France—armies that would have destroyed the nation,

could they have but set foot on it.

What's more, it was British control of the sea be-

yond its own waters that controlled the trade of the

world, poured wealth into the unblockaded island,

and, in the end, wore out and frustrated all the Conti-

nental conquerors and left their land victories useless.

But what if Great Britain, foolishly vainglorious, at-

tempted tasks too great for her, or entered into tasks

without careful forethought and planning? The navy,

"far-called" (that is, spread thin over the waters of a

worldwide empire, too thin) would melt away. The

links binding the empire would be broken, and the

homeland itself would be left defenseless before the

attack of armies that could not be prevented from

landing.

11. Dunes are sandy ridges common along sea-

shores. Headlands are spits and capes, bits of land jut-

ting out into the sea. Lighthouses on such places

guide incoming ships at night or in fogs. They are

necessary for a maritime nation, whose ships are its

life line. They are unnecessary once a navy no longer

exists, since trade can no longer be protected once the

OPUS 200                371

life line is cut And with the life line cut, the sinking

of the fire in the lighthouses becomes a symbolic way

of representing the dying of the nation.

12. Nineveh was the capital of the Assyrian Empire

in the seventh century B.C. during the days of its

greatest glory. Under Ashurbanipal, it became not

only the military center of western Asia, but the cul-

tural center as well. It might have seemed to the

proud warrior caste of Assyria that their power and

rule were eternal, yet Ashurbanipal died in 627 B.C.

with his empire essentially intact, and •within twenty-

five years it was all gone, forever.

Nineveh fell to Chaldean rebels from within the

empire and to Median horsemen from without in 612

B.C. It was never rebuilt, and two centuries later,

when a Creek army passed that way, they had to ask

what the mounds were.

13. Tyre is a particularly close approximation to

Great Britain. It, too, was a naval power, with a citadel

on an island that could not be forced while its ships

controlled the seas about it. Tyre, too, built up a vast

network of trading posts and flung its merchantmen

and warships far out, from end to end of the Mediter-

ranean and even into the Atlantic.

Tyre's prosperity declined slowly as it adjusted to

the realities of the mighty Asian empires of Assyria

and its successors. Finally, in 323 B.C., Tyre was be-

seiged by Alexander the Great, who filled in the sea

between the island and the coast. He took the city

after nine months and destroyed it. It exists to this

day as a small coastal city in Lebanon, but no shadow

of its former glory remains.

14. This title, given to God, harks back to the bibli-

cal passage in which Abraham attempts to dissuade

God from destroying Sodom with indiscriminate anger

372

ISAAC ASIMOV

against its inhabitants. After all, there may be some

people of Sodom who are righteous. Abraham said,

"That be far from thee to do after this manner, to slay

the righteous with the wicked; and that the righteous

should be as the wicked, that be far from thee: Shall

not the Judge of all the earth do right?" (Genesis

18:25).

15. It is the wild overweening pride, the "hubris" of

the Jubilee, that makes Kipling uneasy. The behavior

is not British in his opinion, but is more suited to

other and inferior people (a viewpoint which is itself

an example of hubris, of course).

"Gentiles" are, strictly speaking, related members of

a tribe or clan (from the Latin word "gens," meaning

tribe or clan). Any group that considers itself in a spe-

cial relationship to God, or as having a special signifi-

cance in history, is likely to lump all other people as

Gentiles, as members of the (other) tribes. Thus, to

Jews, all non-Jews are Gentiles; and to Mormons, all

non-Mormons are Gentiles.

To Kipling, with his attitude that the British are the

modem Israelites and the new-chosen of Cod, all non-

British are Gentiles, and therefore inferior beings who

know no better than to indulge in vainglorious boast-

ings. That the British should do that as well would be

shameful.

16. The agreement, or covenant, by which the Isra-

elites became the chosen of God, required that, in ex-

change, they obey the Law as delivered to Moses on

Mount Sinai. Thus, God says, "Now, therefore, if ye

will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant,

then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all

people" (Exodus 19:5).

To be "without the Law," then, is not to be of the

elect. Again, there is the flavor of inferiority about

OPUS 200

373

those not chosen. They are not British (Israelite), and

therefore they are "lesser breeds."

17. The word "heathen" is used in the English trans-

lation of the Bible for those who did not worship the

God of Israel: "Why do the heathen rage—" (Psalms

2:1). The word means those of the heath, or back-

woods, who are unsophisticated and cling to primitive

traditions and worship,

18. The "reeking tube" is the gun barrel generally,

of all sizes, and the "iron shard" is the bullet or other

ob'ect fired from it. The trust in force exclusively,

without regard to moral justification, is exemplified

in a Jingle that became current in Great Britain after

the invention of a new and improved machine gun by

the American inventor Hiram Stevens Maxim in 1884:

Whatever happens, we have got

The Maxim-gun, and they have not

Ironically enough, even as Kipling wrote, the word

"reeking" became obsolete.

For six hundred years the chemical explosive used

on the battlefield to prooel bullets and balls had been

gunpowder. That had produced smoke, soot, and reek-

ing odors that fouled the pms, choked the gunners,

and obscured the battlefield. In the last decades of

the nineteenth centurv, however, smokeless powders

were developed. In the wars of the twentieth century,

various smokeless powders were used, and though the

"tube" grew steadily more deadly, it was no longer

"reeking."

19. From the biblical view, man was a creature

compounded of dust: "And the Lord God formed man

of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nos-

trils the breath of life" (Genesis 2:7). In battle, man

374

ISAAC ASIMOV

might display valor, but that did not dignify his ori-

gins; he was merely "valiant dust," a phrase William

Shakespeare uses in Much Ado About Nothing.

20. This is a reference to the biblical parable of the

"foolish man, who built his house upon the sand: And

the rain descended, and the Roods came, and the'

winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell"

(Matthew 7:26-27).

21. The last plea is, or course, biblical: "Be merci-

ful, 0 Lord, unto thy people Israel—" (Deuteronomy

21:8), and Kipling here directly equates the British

with Israel.

Yet God chose not to have mercy, for immediately

after 1897, the year of the Diamond Jubliee, the Brit-

ish Empire began its decline.

Even while the Jubilee was being celebrated, Brit-

ish imperialism was pressing hard on the independent

Boer territories north of British dominions in South

Africa. In 1899 this turned into open war, which, to

British surprise and humiliation, lasted nearly three

years. The British won in the end after they had suffi-

ciently reinforced their armies, but world sympathy

was with the Boers.

The British, surprised at being cast in the role of

villains, and cast down at finding they had not a

friend in the world, lost the euphoria of 1897, and it

was never, quite, to return.

One more hH of literature remains to be mentioned,

something rather widely removed from the great liter-

ary classics 1 have referred to.

Somehow, almost accidentally, 1 found myself in-

volved with the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of

lovable eccentrics who find no pleasure greater than

opus 200

375

reading, rereading analyzing, and discussing the sixty

stories and novels that involve Sherlock Holmes plus

all the simple and arcane side-issues thereof.

Drawn in, I found myself producing items of Sher-

lockian interest.

Otto Penzler, a hook collector and the proprietor of

Mysterious Press, a small house given over to items of

specialized interest to mystery fans, suggested in July

1977 that I write sixty limericks, one for each of the

items in the Sherlock Holmes canon. Since I was

about to make a small trip on the Queen Elizabeth II

and wanted desperately to keep myself busy while

doing so (I have an aversion to pure vacationing], I

agreed.

The sixty limericks that resluted, all written on the

QE II, were put together as Asimov's Sherlockian

Limericks {Book 19l}, which was published on Janu-

ary 6, 2978, Sherlock Holmess one hundred twenty-

fourth birthday (by BSI reckoning) and the day of

that year's meeting of the Bakef Street Irregulars.

Here is the last of my Sherlockian limericks:

from ASIMOV'S SHERLOCKIAN LIMERICKS (1978)

Farewell, Sherlock! Farewell, Watson, too.

First to last, you've been loyal and true.

Of the human totality

Who've lived in reality

There've been none quite as real as you.

PART 14

MYSTERIES

Although the list of mif second hundred hooks is dis-

turbingly short on science fiction, things aren't alto-

gether bad. At least, I have begun to write fiction in

addition.

This is not to say I was a complete stranger to the

mystery story in my first hundred books. A number^of

my science fiction stories were mysteries, including

my two novels The Caves of Steel and The Naked

Sun.

1 wrote only one "straight" mystery among my first

hundred books. The Death Dealers, but that involved

scientists and science all the way through. Even the

gimmick was a chemical one. The small number of

straight mystery short stories 1 wrote were similarly

I-   saturated with science and scientists.

From 1971 onward, however, I have written no less

than thirty straight mystery short stories that had

nothing to do with science—rather old-fashioned mys-

teries in the ratiocinative tradition of Agatha Christie

and John Dickson Carr. The first twelve of them were

collected in Tales of the Black Widowers {Book 155},

which Doubleday published in 1974, and the next

twelve in More Tales of the Black Widowers (Book

178), which they published in 1976. The remaining

380

ISAAC ASIMOV

six, along with six more yet to he written, will some-

day (f hope) be included in a third hook.

How I came to write these mysteries T explain in

the introduction to Tales of the Black Widowers.

from THE TALES OF THE BLACK WIDOWERS (1976)

But then, back in 1971, I received a letter from that

gorgeous blond young ladv Eleanor Sullivan, who is

managing editor of EUery Queen's Mystery Magazine

(or EQMM, for short), asking if I would consider

writing a short story for the magazine. Of course, I

Jubilantly agreed, because I thought that if they asked

for one, they couldn't possibly have the cruelty to re-

ject it once written, and that meant I could safely

write my own kind of storv—very cerebral.

I began revolving plot possibilities in my head

rather anxiously, for I wanted something with a rea-

sonable twist to it and Agatha Christie, all by herself

had already used virtually all possible twists.

While the wheels were slowly turning in the recesses

of my mind, I happened to be visiting the actor David

Ford (who was in both the Broadway and Hollywood

versions of 1776). His apartment is filled with all

kinds of interesting oddities, and he told me that he

was convinced once that someone had taken some-

thing from his apartment, but he could never be sure

because he couldn't tell whether anything was miss-

ing.

I laughed and all the wheels in my head, heaving a

collective sigh of relief, stopped turning. I had my

twist.

I then needed a background against which to dis-

play the twist, and here we have something else.

OPUS 200                381

Back in the early 1940s, legend has it, a man mar-

ried a lady who found his friends unacceptable, and

vice versa. In order to avoid breaking off a valued

relationship, those friends organized a club, without

officers or bylaws, for the sole purpose of having a

dinner once a month. It would be a stag organization

so that the husband in question could be invited to

join and his wife legitimately requested not to attend.

(Nowadays, with women's lib so powerful, this might

not have worked.)

The organization was named the Trap-Door Spiders

(or TDS, for short) probably because the members

felt themselves to be hiding.

Thirty years have passed since the TDS was organ-

ized, but it still exists. It is still stag, though the mem-

ber whose marriage inspired the organization is long

since divorced. (As a concession to male nonchauvin-

ism, a cocktail party was given on February 3, 1973, at

which the TDS wives could meet one another—but

this did not become an annual custom.)

Once a month the TDS meets, always on a Friday

night, almost always in Manhattan, sometimes in a

restaurant, sometimes in a member's apartment. Each

meeting is co-hosted by two volunteers who bear all

the expenses for the occasion and who may each bring

a guest. The average attendance is twelve. There are

drinks and conversation from 6:30 to 7:30 P.M.; food

and conversation from 7:30 to 8:30 P.M.; and just con-

versation thereafter.

After the meal each guest is grilled on his interests,

his profession, his hobbies, his views, and the results

are almost always interesting, often fascinating.

The chief among the general eccentricities of the

TDS are these: (1) Ever)' member is addressed as

"Doctor" by the others, the title going along with the

382

ISAAC ASIMOV

membership, and (2) each member is supposed to try

to arrange for a mention of the TDS in his obituary.

I had been a guest myself on two different occa-

sions, and when I moved to New York in 1970, I was

elected to membership.

Well, then, thought I, why not tell my mystery story

against the background of the meeting of an organiza-

tion something like the TDS? My club would be called

the Black Widowers and I would cut it in half to make

it manageable—six people and one host

Naturally, there are differences. The members of

the TDS have never, in real life, attempted to solve

mysteries, and none of them is as idiosyncratic as the

members of the Black Widowers. In fact, the members

of the TDS are, one and all, lovable people, and there

is a mutual affection that is touching to see. There-

fore, please be assured that the characters and events

in the stories in this book are my own invention and

are not to be equated with anyone or anything in the

TDS, except insofar as they may seem intelligent or

lovable.

In particular. Henry, the waiter, is my own inven-

tion and has no analogue, however remote, in the TDS.

Most of the Black Widowers stories appeared in EUery

Queen's Mystery Magazine (EQMM) and a few in

F & SF. Three of the stories in each book, however, did

not see prior publication, and I will choose one of

them to include here, complete, as a sampling of the

group. It is "Earthset and Evening Star."

OPUS 200

"Earthset and Evening Star" (1976)

383

Emmanuel Rubin, whose latest mystery novel was

clearly proceeding smoothly, lifted his drink with sat-

isfaction and let his eyes gleam genially through his

thick-Iensed glasses.

"The mystery story," he pontificated, "has its rules,

which, when broken, make it an artistic failure, what-

ever success it may have in the marketplace."

Mario Gonzalo, whose hair had been recently cut to

allow a glimpse of- the back of his neck, said, as

though to no one, "It always amuses me to hear a

writer describe something he scrawls on paper as

'art.'" He looked with some complacency at the car-

toon he was making of the guest for that month's ban-

quet session of the Black Widowers.

"If what vou do is the definition of art," said Rubin,

"I withdraw the term in connection with the writer's

craft. One thing to avoid, for instance, is the idiot

plot."

"In that case," said Thomas Trumbull, helping him-

self to another roll and buttering it lavishly, "aren't

you at a disadvantage?"

Rubin said loftily, "By 'an idiot plot,' I mean one in

which the solution would come at once if an idiot in-

vestigator would but ask a logical question, or if an

idiot witness would but tell something he knows and

has no reason to hide."

Geoffrev Avalon, who had left a neatly cleaned

bone on his plate as the only evidence of the slab of

roast beef that had once rested there, said, "But no

skilled practitioner would do that, Manny. What you

do is set up some reason to prevent the asking or tell-

ing of the obvious."

"Exactly," said Rubin. "For instance, what I've been

384

ISAAC ASIMOV

writing is essentially a short story, if one moves in a

straight line. The trouble is the line is so straight, the

reader will see its end before I'm halfway. So I have

to hide one crucial piece of evidence, and do it in such

a way that I don't make an idiot out of it So I invent

a reason to hide that piece, and in order to make the'

reason plausible I have to build a supporting structure

around it—and I end with a novel, and a damn good

one." His sparse beard quivered with self-satisfaction.

Henry, the perennial waiter at the Black Widowers'

banquets, removed die plate from in front of Rubin

with his usual dexterity. Rubin, without turning, said,

"Am I right. Henry?"

Henry said softly, "As a mystery reader, Mr. Rubin,

I find it more satisfying to have the piece of informa-

tion delivered to me and to find that I have been in-

sufficiently clever and did not notice."

"I fust read a mystery," said James Drake in his

softly hoarse smoker's voice, "in which the whole

point rested on character one being really character

two, because the real character one was dead. I was

put on to it at once because, in the list of characters at

the start, character one was not listed. Ruined the

story for me."

"Yes," said Rubin, "but that wasn't the author's

fault Some flunky did that. I once wrote a story that

was accompanied by one illustration that no one

thought to show me in advance. It happened to give

away the point."

The guest had been listening quietly to all this. His

hair was just light enough to be considered blond, and

it had a careful wave in it that looked, somehow, as

though it belonged there- He turned ras rather narrow

but clearly good-humored face to Roger Halsted, his

neighbor, and said, "Pardon me, but since Manny

OPUS 200                385

Rubin is my friend, I know he is a mystery writer. Is

this true of the rest of you as well? Is this a mystery

writers' organization?"

Halsted, who had been looking with somber ap-

proval at the generous slab of Black Forest torte that

had been placed before him as dessert, withdrew his

attention with some difficulty and said, "Not at all.

Rubin is the only mystery writer here. I'm a mathe-

matics teacher myself; Drake is a chemist; Avalon is a

lawyer; Gonzalo is an artist; and Trumbull is a code

expert with the government.

"On the other hand," he went on, "we do have an

interest in this sort of thing. Our guests often have

problems they bring up for discussion, some sort of

mystery, and we've been rather lucky—"

The guest leaned back with a small laugh. "Nothing

of the sort here, alas. Of the mystery, the murder, the

fearful hand clutching from behind the curtain, there

is nothing in my life. It is all very straightforward,

alas; very dull. I am not even married." He laughed

again.

The guest had been introduced as Jean Servais, and

Halsted, who had attacked the torte with vigor and, in

consequence, felt a friendly glow filling him, said,

"Does it matter to you if I call you John?"

"I would not strike you, sir, if you did, but I pray

you not to. It is not my name. Jean, please."

Halsted nodded. "I'll try. I can manage that zh

sound, but getting it properly nasal is another thing.

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

Doubleday

Basic Books

Doubleday

Houghton Mifflin

AEC

1972

1972

1972

1972

1972

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

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

Doubleday 1975

Houghton Mifflin 1975

Walker 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

Doubleday   1978

Walker Doubleday Norton 1978 1978 1978

Walker Doubleday Lothrop Houghton MifiUn Doubleday    1978 1978 1979 1979 1979