Isaac Asimov - The Early Asimov. Volume 3

'I have rewritten Death on the Third Deck.'

'Well?'

'The revision,' continued Graham, 'is at present in the hands of MacDunlap's secretary, a girl on the style of Miss Billings, my fiancee that was. That is, she is a girl who aspires to the status of a moron, but has not yet quite attained it. She'll believe every word.'

'Well?'

Graham's voice grew ominous, 'You remember, perhaps, Sancha Rodriguez?'

For the first time, Reginald de Meister shuddered. He caught his cigarette as it dropped. 'She was killed by Sam Blake in the sixth chapter. She was in love with me. Really, old fellow, what messes you get me into.'

'Not half the mess you're in now, old chap. Sancha Rodriguez did not die in the revision.'

'Die!' came a sharp, but clear female voice. 'I'll show him if I died. And where have you been this last month, you two-crosser?'

De Meister did not catch his cigarette this time. He didn't even try. He recognized the apparition. To an unprejudiced observer, it might have been merely a svelte Latin girl equipped with dark, flashing eyes, and long, glittering fingernails, but to de Meister, it was Sancha Rodriguez - undead!

MacDunlap's secretary had read and believed.

'Miss Rodriguez,' throbbed de Meister, charmingly, 'how fascinatin' to see you.'

'Mrs. de Meister to you, you double-timer, you two-crosser, you scum of the ground, you scorpion of the grass. And who is this woman?'

June retreated with dignity behind the nearest chair.

'Mrs. de Meister,' said Reginald pleadingly, and turned helplessly to Graham Dorn.

'Oh, you have forgotten, have you, you smooth talker, you low dog. I'll show you what it means to deceive a weak woman. I'll make you mince-meat with my fingernails.'

De Meister back-pedaled furiously. 'But darling -'

'Don't you make sweet talk. What are you doing with this woman?'

'But, darling -'

'Don't give me any explanation. What are you doing with this woman?'

'But darling-'

'Shut up! What are you doing with this woman?'

Reginald de Meister was up in a corner, and Mrs. de Meister shook her fists at him. 'Answer me!'

De Meister disappeared.

Mrs. de Meister disappeared right after him.

June Billings collapsed into real tears.

Graham Dorn folded his arms and looked sternly at her.

MacDunlap rubbed his hands and took a kidney pill.

'It wasn't my fault, Gramie,' said June. 'You said in your books he fascinated all women, so I couldn't help it. Deep inside, I hated him all along. You believe me, don't you?'

'A likely story!' said Graham, sitting down next to her on the sofa. 'A likely story. But I forgive you, maybe.'

MacDunlap said tremulously, 'My boy, you have saved my stocks. Also, my wife, of course. And remember - you promised me one de Meister story each year.'

Graham gritted, 'Just one, and I'll henpeck him to death, and keep one unpublished story forever on hand, just in case. And you're publishing my novel, aren't you, Grew, old boy?'

'Glug,' said MacDunlap.

'Aren't you?'

'Yes, Graham. Of course, Graham. Definitely, Graham. Positively, Graham.'

Then leave us now. There are matters of importance I must discuss with my fiancee.'

MacDunlap smiled and tiptoed out the door.

Ah, love, love, he mused, as he took a liver pill and followed it up by a cough-syrup chaser.

I might make two points about 'Author! Author!' It seems to me that I was rather easier about handling romance in this story than in any previous one. Perhaps this is a reflection of the fact that it was the first story I ever wrote as a married man.

Secondly, there are the very dated references to rationing, the draft, and other social phenomena much on the mind of anyone living through Worjd War II. I had warned Bensen of the existence of these references and of the inability of getting them out of the story by revision since they were integral to the plot. Bensen, however, shrugged them off and in his short introduction to the story said to.the readers, 'And don't worry about the references to the OP A and Selective Service - consider them as part of the historical setting, just as you would a bodkin or a furbelow in a story of an earlier time.'

And I second that statement here.

Had I rested on the pink cloud of gratification that came with the sale of 'Author! Author!' for a few months, the death of Unknown might have disheartened me. It might have seemed to prove that I was not fated to reign ite my career after all, and perhaps - again - everything would have turned out differently.

However, within three weeks of the sale I was at the typewriter again. The new story was 'Death Sentence' and it was science fiction. Writing was still slow work; seven weeks to do a 7,200-word story. On June 29, 1943, however, I sent it off to Campbell, and on July 8, it was accepted - one and a quarter cents per word again.

This meant that when the news of Unknown's demise arrived, it was cushioned by the fact that I already had another story written and sold.

Brand Gorla smiled uncomfortably, 'These things exaggerate, you know.'

'No, no, no!' The little man's albino-pink eyes snapped. 'Dorlis was great when no human had ever entered the Vegan System. It was the capital of a Galactic Confederation greater than ours.'

'Well, then, let's say it was an ancient capital. I'll admit that and leave the rest to an archaeologist.'

'Archaeologists are no use. What I've discovered needs a specialist in its own field. And you're on the Board.'

Brand Gorla looked doubtful. He remembered Theo Realo in senior year - a little white misfit of a human who skulked somewhere in the background of his reminiscences. It had been a long time ago, but the albino had been queer. That was easy to remember. And he was still queer.

'I'll try to help,' Brand said, 'if you'll tell me what you want.'

Theor watched intently, 'I want you to place certain facts before the Board. Will you promise that?'

Brand hedged, 'Even if I help you along, Theor, I'll have to remind you that I'm junior member of the Psychological Board. I haven't much influence.'

'You must do your best. The facts will speak for themselves.' The albino's hands were trembling.

'Go ahead.' Brand resigned himself. The man was an old school fellow. You couldn't be too arbitrary about things.

Brand Gorla leaned back and relaxed. The light of Arcturus shone through the ceiling-high windows, diffused and mellowed by the polarizing glass. Even this diluted version of sunlight was too much for the pink eyes of the other, and he shaded his eyes as he spoke.

'I've lived on Dorlis twenty-five years, Brand,' he said, 'I've poked into places no one today knew existed, and I've found things. Dorlis was the scientific and cultural capital of a civilization greater than ours. Yes it was, and particularly in psychology.'

'Things in the past always seem greater.' Brand condescended a smile. 'There is a theorem to that effect which you'll find in any elementary text. Freshmen invariably call it the 'GOD Theorem.' Stands for "Good-Old-Days," you know. But go on.'

Theor frowned at the digression. He hid the beginning of a sneer, 'You can always dismiss an uncomfortable fact by pinning a dowdy label to it. But tell me this. What do you know of Psychological Engineering?'

Brand shrugged, 'No such thing. Anyway, not in the strict mathematical sense. All propaganda and advertising is a crude form of hit-and-miss Psych Engineering - and pretty effective sometimes. Maybe that's what you mean.'

'Not at all. I mean actual experimentation, with masses of people, under controlled conditions, and over a period of years.'