Isaac Asimov: Short Stories Vol.1

"You'd get a hybrid," said the surgeon, with something that approached fierceness. "You'd get something that is not both, but neither. Isn't it logical to suppose an individual would be too proud of his structure and identity to want to dilute it with something alien? Would he want mongrelization?"

"That's segregationist talk."

"Then let it be that." The surgeon said with calm emphasis, "I believe in being what one is. I wouldn't change a bit of my own structure for any reason. If some of it absolutely required replacement, I would have that replacement as close to the original in nature as could possibly be managed. I am myself; well pleased to be myself; and would not be anything else."

He had finished now and had to prepare for the operation. He placed his strong hands into the heating oven and let them reach the dull red-hot glow that would sterilize them completely. For all his impassioned words, his voice had never risen, and on his burnished metal face there was (as always) no sign of expression.

I Just Make Them Up, See!

Oh, Dr. A. -

Oh, Dr. A. -

There is something (don't go 'way)

That I'd like to hear you say.

Though I'd rather die

Than try

To pry,

The fact, you'll find,

Is that my mind

Has evolved the jackpot question for today.

I intend no cheap derision,

So please answer with decision,

And, discarding all your petty cautious fears,

Tell the secret of your vision!

How on earth

Do you give birth

To those crazy and impossible ideas?

Is it indigestion

And a question

Of the nightmare that results?

Of your eyeballs whirling,

Copyright (r) 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc.

Twirling,

Fingers curling

And unfurling,

While your blood beats maddened chimes

As it keeps impassioned times

With your thick, uneven pulse?

Is it that, you think, or liquor

That brings on the wildness quicker?

For a teeny

Weeny

Dry martini

May be just your private genie;

Or perhaps those Tom and ferries

You will find the very

Berries

For inducing

And unloosing

That weird gimmick or that kicker;

Or an awful

Combination

Of unlawful

Stimulation,

Marijuana plus tequila,

That will give you just that feel o'

Things a-clicking

And unsticking

As you start your cerebration

To the crazy syncopation

Of a brain a-tocking-ticking.

Surely something, Dr. A., Makes you fey And quite outrt. Since I read you with devotion, Won't you give me just a notion Of that shrewdly pepped-up potion Out of which emerge your plots? That wild secret bubbly mixture That has made you such a fixture In most favored s.f. spots-

Now, Dr. A., Don't go away-

Oh, Dr. A. - Oh, Dr. A. -

Rejection Slips

a-Learned

Dear Asimov, all mental laws Prove orthodoxy has its flaws. Consider that eclectic clause In Kant's philosophy that gnaws With ceaseless anti-logic jaws At all outworn and useless saws That stick in modern mutant craws. So here's your tale (with faint applause). The words above show ample cause.

b-Gruff

Dear Ike, I was prepared

(And, boy, I really cared) To swallow almost anything you wrote.

But, Ike, you're just plain shot,

Your writing's gone to pot, There's nothing left but hack and mental bloat.

Take back this piece of junk;

It smelled; it reeked; it stunk; Just glancing through it once was deadly rough.

But Ike, boy, by and by,

Copyright (c) 1959 by Isaac Asiniov.

Just try another try. I need some yams and, kid, I love your stuff.

c-Kindly

Dear Isaac, friend of mine,

I thought your tale was fine.

Just frightful-

Ly delightful

And with merits all a-shine.

It meant a quite full

Night, full,

Friend, of tension

Then relief

And attended

With full measure

Of the pleasure

Of suspended

Disbelief.

It is triteful,

Scarcely rightful,

Almost spiteful

To declare

That some tiny faults are there.

Nothing much,

Perhaps a touch,

And over such

You shouldn't pine.

So let me say

Without delay,

My pal, my friend,

Your story's end

Has left me gay

And joyfully composed.

P. S.

Oh, yes,

I must confess

(With some distress)

Your story is regretfully enclosed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct the situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight.

Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of Biochemistry.

Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never looked back.

In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his future was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had begun his Foundation series.

What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 440 books, distributed through every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity is notorious.

He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous marriage, and lives in New York City.