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Isaac Asimov
The Bicente
Here I am with another collection of science fiction stories, and I sit here and think, with more than a little astonishment, that I have been writing and publishing science fiction now for just three-eighths of a century. This isn't bad for someone who only admits to being in his late youth-or a little over thirty, if pi
It seems longer than that, I imagine, to most people who have tried to follow me from book to book and from field to field. As the flood of words continues year after year with no visible signs of letting up, the most peculiar misapprehensions naturally arise.
Just a few weeks ago, for instance, I was at a librarian's convention signing books, and some of the kindly remarks I received were:
"I can't believe you're still alive!"
"But how can you possibly look so young?"
"Are you really only one person?"
It goes even beyond that. In a review of one of my books [ASIMOV ON CHEMISTRY (Doubleday, 1974), and it was a very favorable review.] in the December 1975 Scientific American, I was described as: "Once a Boston biochemist, now label and linchpin of a New York corporate authorship-"
Dear me! Corporate authorship? Merely the linchpin and label?
It's not so. I'm sorry, if my copious output makes it seem impossible, but I'm alive, I'm young, and I'm only one person.
In fact, I'm an absolutely one-man operation. I have no assistants of any kind. I have no agent, no business manager, no research aides, no secretary, no stenographer. I do all my own typing, all my own proofreading, all my own indexing, all my own research, all my own letter writing, all my own telephone answering.
I like it that way. Since I don't have to deal with other people, I can concentrate more properly on my work, and get more done.
I was already worrying about this misapprehension concerning myself ten years ago. At that time, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (commonly known as F amp; SF) was pla
That poem appeared in the special issue and it has never appeared anywhere else-until now. I'm going to include it here because it's appropriate to my thesis. Then, too, seven years after the poem appeared, I recited it to a charming maiden, who, without any sign of mental effort, immediately suggested a change that was so inevitable, and so great an improvement, that I have to get the poem into print again in order to make that change.
I originally called the poem I'M IN THE PRIME OF LIFE, YOU ROTTEN KID! Edward L. Ferman, editor of F amp; SF, shortened that to THE PRIME OF LIFE. I like the longer version much better, but I decided it would look odd on the contents page, so I'm keeping the shorter version. (Heck!)
The Prime of Life
The change I mentioned occurs in the first line of the second stanza. I had it read, originally, "Why, stars above, it's Asimov," but the aforementioned maiden saw at once it ought to be "mazel tov." This is a Hebrew phrase meaning "good fortune" and it is used by Jews as a joyful greeting on jubilant occasions-as a meeting with me should surely be..
Ten years have passed since I wrote the poem and, of course, the impression of incredible age which I leave among those who know me only from my writings is now even stronger. When this poem was written, I had published a mere 66 books, and now, ten years later, the score stands at 175, so that it's been a decade of constant mental conflagration.
Just the same, I've kept my old-time spark even yet. My step is still light and my eye is still bright. What's more, I'm as suave in my conversations with young women as I have ever been (which is very suave indeed). That bit about my hair being "thick and dark" must be modified, however. There is no danger of baldness but, oh me, I am turning gray. In recent years, I have grown a generous pair of fluffy sideburns, and they are almost white.
And now that you know the worst about me, let's go on to the stories themselves or, rather (for you are not quite through with me), to my introductory comments to the first story.
The begi
She was managing editor of Galaxy in those days.
On March 21, 1971, she married that lovable old curmudgeon Lester del Rey, and knocked off all his rough edges in two seconds flat. At present, as Judy-Ly