Isaac Asimov - The Backward Look

"The Backward Look" was purchased by George Scithers, and appeared in the September 1979 issue of Asimov's, with an interior illustration by Jack Gaughan .

A good case could be made for the proposition that the late Isaac Asimov was the most famous SF writer of the last half of the twentieth century. He was the author of almost five hundred books, including some of the best-known novels in the genre (I, Robot and the Foundation trilogy, for example); his last several novels kept him solidly on the nationwide bestseller lists throughout the 80s; he won two Nebulas and two Hugos, plus the prestigious Grandmaster Nebula; he wrote an enormous number of nonfiction books on a bewilderingly large range of topics, everything from the Bible to Shakespeare, and his many books on scientific matters made him perhaps the best-known scientific popularizer of our time; his nonfiction articles appeared everywhere from Omni to TV Guide; he was one of the most sought-after speakers in the country, and appeared on most of the late-night and afternoon talk shows of his day, and even did television commercials - and he was also the only SF writer famous enough to have had an SF magazine named after him , Asimov's Science Fiction magazine. A mere sampling ofAsimov's other books, even restricting ourselves to science fiction alone, would include The Stars Like Dust, The Currents of Space, The Gods Themselves, Foundation's Edge, The Robots of Dawn, Robots and Empire, Foundation's Earth, and two expansions of famous Asimov short stories into novel form , The Ugly Little Boy and Nightfall, written in collaboration with Robert Silverberg. His most recent fiction titles include the novel Forward the Foundation, and the posthumous collections Gold and Fantasy.

Asimov was almost as well-known in the mystery field as he was in SF, for novels such as Murder at the ABA as well as for the long-running series of stories about that club of suave amateur investigators, The Black Widowers. He was also one of the most successful practitioners of the art of blending SF and mystery, with his series of stories about SF armchair detective Wendell Urth, as well as what are perhaps still the two most successful hybrid SF/mys-tery novels ever written , The Caves of Steel and The Naked Sun, featuring the robot detective R. Daneel Olivaw .

Here he shows us once again the truth of that old saying, Don't look back - you don't know what may be gaining on you …

If Emmanuel Rubin knew how not to be didactic, he never exercised that knowledge.

"When you write a short story," he said, "you had better know the ending first. The end of a story is only the end to a reader. To a writer, it's the beginning. If you don't know exactly where you're going every minute that you're writing, you'll never get there-or anywhere."

Thomas Trumbull's young guest at this particular monthly banquet of the Black Widowers seemed all eyes as he watched Rubin's straggly gray beard quiver and his thick-lensed glasses glint; and all ears as he listened to Rubin's firm, de-cibelic voice.

The guest himself was clearly in the early twenties, quite thin, with a somewhat bulging forehead and a rather diminutive chin. His clothing almost glistened in its freshness, as though he had broken out a brand-new costume for the great occasion. His name was Milton Peterborough.

He said, a small quiver in his voice, "Does that mean you have to write an outline, Mr. Rubin?"

"No," said Rubin, emphatically. "You can if you want to, but I never do. You don't have to know the exact road you're going to take. You have to know your destination, that's all. Once that's the case, any road will take you there. As you write you are continually looking backward from that known destination, and it's that backward look that guides you."

Mario Gonzalo, who was quickly and carefully drawing a caricature of the guest, making his eyes incredibly large and filling them with a childlike innocence, said, "Come on, Manny, that sort of tight plotting might fit your cockamamie mysteries, but a real writer deals with character, doesn't he? He creates people; and they behave in accordance with their characters; and that guides the story, probably to the surprise of the author."

Rubin turned slowly and said, "If you're talking about long, invertebrate novels, Mario-assuming you're talking about anything at all-it's possible for an experienced or gifted writer to meander along and produce something passable. But you can always tell the I-don't-know-where-I'm-going-but-I'm-going book. Even if you forgive it its amorphous character for the sake of its virtues, you have to forgive it, and that's a strain and a drawback. A tightly-plotted story with everything fitting together neatly is, on the other hand, the noblest work of literature. It may be bad, but it never need ask forgiveness. The backward look-"

At the other end of the room, Geoffrey Avalon glanced with resignation at Rubin and said, "I think it was a mistake, Tom, to tell Manny at the start that the young man was an aspiring writer. It brings out the worst in him, or-at any rate-the longest winded." He stirred the ice in his drink with his forefinger and brought his dark eyebrows together forbiddingly.

"Actually," said Thomas Trumbull, his lined face uncharacteristically placid, ' 'the kid wanted to meet Manny. He admired his stories, God knows why. Well, he's the son of a friend of mine and a nice youngster and I thought I'd expose him to the seamy side of life by bringing him here."

Avalon said, "It won't hurt us to be exposed to youth now and then, either. But I hate being exposed to Rubin's theories of literature.-Henry."

The quiet and smoothly efficient waiter, who served at all the Black Widowers' banquets, was at his side at once without seeming to have moved in order to have achieved that. ' 'Yes, sir?"

"Henry," said Avalon, "what are these strange manifestations?' '

Henry said, "Tonight we will have a buffet dinner. The chef has prepared a variety of Indian and Pakistani dishes."

"With curry?"

"Rather heavy on the curry, sir. It was Mr. Trumbull's special request."

Trumbull flared under Avalon's accusing eye. "I wanted curry and I'm the host."

"And Manny won't eat it and will be unbearable."

Trumbull shrugged.

Rubin was not entirely unbearable but he was loud, and only Roger Halsted seemed unaffected by the Rubinian tirade against all things Indian. He said, "A buffet is a good idea," patted his lips with his napkin and went back for a third help-ing of everything, with a beatific smile on his face.

Trumbull said, "Roger, if you don't stop eating, we'll start the grilling session over your chewing."

"Go ahead," said Halsted, cheerfully. "I don't mind."

"You will later tonight," said Rubin, "when your stomach-wall burns through."

Trumbull said, "And you're going to start the grilling."

"If you don't mind my talking with my mouth full," said Halsted.

"Get started, then."

Halsted said thickly, "How do you justify your existence, Milton?"

"I can't," said Peterborough, a little breathlessly. "Maybe after I get my degrees."

"What's your school and major?"

"Columbia and chemistry."

"Chemistry?" said Halsted. "I would have thought it was English. Didn't I gather during the cocktail hour that you were an aspiring writer?"

"Anyone is allowed to be an aspiring writer," said Peterborough.

"Aspiring," said Rubin, darkly.

"And what do you want to write?" said Halsted.

Peterborough hesitated and said, with a trace of defensive-ness in his voice, "Well, I've always been a science fiction fan. Since I was nine, anyway."