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Also by Isaac Asimov

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Introduction

In the first two volumes of my collected stories, I have almost fifty stories printed, and there are still plenty more for future volumes.

I must admit that it fills even me with a kind of awe. I say to myself, ‘Where did I find the time to write all these stories?’—considering that I have also written hundreds of books and thousands of nonfiction essays. The answer is that I’ve been at it for fifty-two years without pausing, so what all these stories mean is that I’ve now gotten to be a rather elderly person.

Another question is, ‘Where did I get all the ideas for these stories?’ I am asked that all the time.

The answer is that in the course of more than half a century of thinking up ideas, the process becomes automatic and, indeed, unstoppable.

I was in bed with my wife last night, and something or other spurred my imagination and I said to her, ‘I’ve just thought of a brand-new frustrated-wish story.’

‘What is it?’ said she.

‘Our hero, who is blessed with a plain wife, asks a genie to grant him a different, beautiful young woman in bed with him every night. He gets it on condition that at no time must he touch, caress, or even just casually bump the young lady’s backside. If he does, the young lady turns into his wife. Each night, in the course of lovemaking, he finds himself unable to stay away entirely from the backside, and the result is that every night he finds himself making love to his wife.’^*

The point is that everything reminds me of a story.

For instance, I was going over a complex set of galley proofs of a book of mine when I received a call from an editor. He wanted a science fiction story in a hurry.

‘I can’t,’ I said, ‘I’m all wrapped up in galleys.’

‘Put them aside.’

‘No,’ I said, and hung up. Still, I couldn’t help but think, as I hung up, how convenient it would be if I owned a robot that could do my galleys for me. At once I did put them aside because I suddenly had a story. You’ll find it here as ‘Galley Slave.’

A fellow writer died young in 1958 and got a nice obituary in the New York Times. Those were early years and no one expected anyone to pay attention to science fiction writers in those days. I took to brooding. When I passed on to the great typewriter in the sky, would the New York Times make mention of that fact, too? Nowadays I know they will but in those days I didn’t. So after I had brooded sufficiently over the matter, I wrote ‘Obituary.’

I had an argument with an editor once, hot and heavy. He wanted me to make a specific change in a story of mine, and I did not want to make it—not out of laziness, but because I thought it would spoil the story. In the end, he had his way (editors usually do) but I got even by writing ‘The Monkey’s Finger,’ which is a good description of what went on.

Sometimes stories arise because other people make some casual remark. ‘Let’s Get Together’ is an example. I don’t feel guilty about lifting ideas from the statements of other people. They’re not going to do anything with them, so why shouldn’t I?

But the point is that stories arise out of anything. You just have to keep your ·eyes and ears open and your imagination working. Once during a train trip, my first wife asked me where I got my ideas from. I said, ‘From anywhere. I can write a story about this train trip.’ And I started writing it longhand. That story does not appear in this collection, however.

—Isaac Asimov

New York City

1991

^* Since my dear wife, Janet, is to me the most beautiful woman in the world-and she knows it-she did not take umbrage at this story, aside from telling me that I had a sick mind.

Not Final!

Nicholas Orloff inserted a monocle in his left eye with all the incorruptible Briticism of a Russian educated at Oxford and said reproachfully, ‘But, my dear Mr Secretary! Half a billion dollars!’

Leo Bimam shrugged his shoulders wearily and allowed his lank body to cramp up stiU farther in the chair, ‘The appropriation must go through, commissioner. The Dominion government here at Ganymede is becoming desperate. So far, I’ve been holding them off, but as secretary of scientific affairs, my powers are small.’

‘I know, but – ‘ and Orloff spread his hands helplessly.

‘I suppose so,’ agreed Birnam. ‘The Empire government finds it easier to look the other way. They’ve done it consistently up to now. I’ve tried for a year now to have them understand the nature of the danger that hangs over the entire System, but it seems that it can’t be done. But I’m appealing to you, Mr Commissioner. You’re new in your post and can approach this Jovian affair with an unjaundiced eye.’

Orloff coughed and eyed the tips of his boots. In the three months since he had succeeded Gridley as colonial commissioner he had tabled unread everything relating to ‘those damned Jovian D. T.’s.’ That had been according to the established cabinet policy which had labeled the Jovian affair as ‘deadwood’ long before he had entered office.

But now that Ganymede was becoming nasty, he found himself sent out to Jovopolis with instructions to hold the ‘blasted provincials’ down. It was a nasty spot.

Bimam was speaking, ‘The Dominion government has reached the point where it needs the money so badly, in fact, that if they don’t get it, they’re going to publicize everything.’

Orloff’s phlegm broke completely, and he snatched at the monocle as it dropped, ‘My dear fellow!’

‘I know what it would mean. I’ve advised against it, but they’re justified. Once the inside of the Jovian affair is out; once the people know about it; the Empire government won’t stay in power a week. And when the Technocrats come in, they’ll give us whatever we ask. Public opinion will see to that.’

‘But you’ll also create a panic and hysteria – ‘

‘Surely! That is why we hesitate. But you might call this an ultimatum. We want secrecy, we need secrecy; but we need money more.’

‘I see.’ Orloff was thinking rapidly, and the conclusions he came to were not pleasant. ‘In that case, it would be advisable to investigate the case further. If you have the papers concerning the communications with the planet Jupiter – ‘

‘I have them,’ replied Bimam, dryly, ‘and so has the Empire government at Washington. That won’t do, commissioner. It’s the same cud that’s been chewed by Earth officials for the last year, and it’s gotten us nowhere. I want you to come to Ether Station with me.’

The Ganymedan had risen from his chair, and he glowered down upon Orloff from his six and a half feet of height.

Orloff flushed, ‘Are you ordering me?’

‘In a way, yes. I tell you there is no time. If you intend acting, you must act quickly or not at all.’ Bimam paused, then added, ‘You don’t mind walking, I hope. Power vehicles aren’t allowed to approach Ether Station, ordinarily, and I can use the walk to explain a few of the facts. It’s only two miles off.’

‘I’ll walk,’ was the brusque reply.

The trip upward to subground level was made in silence, which was broken by Orloff when they stepped into the dimly lit anteroom.

‘It’s chilly here.’

‘I know. It’s difficult to keep the temperature up to norm this near the surface. But it will be colder outside. Here!’

Birnam had kicked open a closet door and was indicating the garments suspended from the ceiling. ‘Put them on. You’ll need them.’

Orloff fingered them doubtfully, ‘Are they heavy enough?’

Bimam was pouring into his own costume as he spoke. ‘They’re electrically heated. You’ll find them plenty warm. That’s it! Tuck the trouser legs inside the boots and lace them tight.’

He turned then and, with a grunt, brought out a double compressed-gas cylinder from its rack in one corner of the closet. He glanced at the dial reading; and then turned the stopcock. There was a thin wheeze of escaping gas, at which Bimam sniffed with satisfaction.