For those who keep track of such things, the 'roots' of science fiction fandom
extend at least as far back as the 1930s, when the first fanzines appeared and the
first science fiction conventions were held. Things that happened back then have
influenced the fandom of today, and fandom back then was often a path to a
successful career as a writer or editor. Maybe the most famous and successful
fan-turned-writer from that era was Isaac Asimov, who even late in his life would
still occasionally turn up at a convention. The following article is an anecdotal
and amusing remembrance of him.
 I have lost a friend. When Isaac Asimov
died in early April, the science fiction world of fan and pro alike also lost a
friend.He was quite a guy. I knew him from our
teen-age years of the Futurians in the late 1930s and he was, as for many in and
out of First Fandom, a huge, important part of our science fiction fannish lives.
In those early days, he was known affectionately as "Ike." In later times, however,
he grew to dislike the appellation 'Ike' and I didn't use it for twenty or thirty
years. But a half century ago has drifted back into my mind, and that's why,
lovingly, I have entitled this piece as I have.On April 22, a memorial service was held in
the auditorium of the Society for Ethical Culture, on Central Park West in New York
City, around the corner from where he lived. Several relatives and friends spoke,
and there were probably four hundred persons present to pay homage. The atmosphere
was respectful, not gloomy, and the morning was filled with happy stories of his
life. As Janet, his wife, said, "He was a joyous man. Please remember him that
way."Harlan Ellison was there. Some of the high
moments of convention history were the public encounters between Harlan and Isaac.
The remarks would flow fast and thick, and the audience was enthralled with their
performance. Those occasions were the best attended and most memorable of all the
con programming of the weekend. That Harlan should be one of the speakers at the
memorial service was exactly right. And it was gracious of him, evolving from fan
to pro like us older guys, to specifically single out Sam Moskowitz and me as
knowing Isaac even longer than Harlan himself.Martin Harry Greenberg (the "good" Marty
Greenberg) was also at the memorial service. Marty Harry told the gathering, "He
worked alone. Absolutely." According to Harry, Isaac did his own typing,
personally answered his mail, did his own marketing and business. He tried to
answer all his fan mail. He received a lot of fan mail, but he claimed there were
only three letters he kept: from Dwight D. Eisenhower, Orson Welles, and Tommy
Smothers.How he managed to generate so much material
of such high quality is almost unimaginable, unbelievable to me. Almost
unbelievable except for the obvious reason: Isaac was a tireless worker. He was
proud that he could type 90 words a minute. And he didn't believe in re-writing.
One revision would be enough, after that it was a waste of time when he could be
doing something new.When preparing to write a book, Isaac was
known to spread papers and notes and three-by-five cards out on the floor of his
home and, stripped for action in his underwear, do the necessary sorting. 'Why not
use a computer?' he was asked. Why? -- because he loved the chore. As Marty Harry
Greenberg says, "He had enormous stamina. Writing was as natural to him as
breathing. It was just pure joy.""Writing is my only interest," was Isaac's
boast. "Even speaking is an interruption." That, in itself, is remarkable. He was
the best of speakers. Only Bob Bloch and Harlan Ellison approach his perfection as
an entertaining performer. But even Bob could not compete with the fast thinking,
extemporaneous display of verbal fireworks which Isaac could produce. Bob Bloch
admits to his need for a long and difficult preparation for his guest appearances
and toastmaster responsibilities. Isaac's writings are there in various forms for
us to enjoy at our leisure. But gone forever is the master public speaker which he
was. Those who heard him know how exceptional he was and know how irreplaceable he
will be at sf affairs. One fan who heard him talk at a Philcon not so long ago
admired how organized his off-the-cuff remarks were: "Immensely entertaining,
suitable for publication without any need for change or editing."I was proud to have published his first
book, I, Robot, the marvelous short story collection, in 1950. He stated
that Pebble in the Sky, published in 1950 by Doubleday was actually "...my
second book!" That was technically correct by 'x' weeks -- it took the smaller
Gnome Press company (just "the original" Marty Greenberg and me) longer to get I,
Robot manufactured -- as we did start first. However, I, Robot is the
more famous of the two, and his inscription "For Dave Kyle, who made up for this
lousy title with his clever designs. Isaac Asimov. 12/2/50" was extravagant but
delicious flattery. He came down from Boston on the day we Gnomes were putting
jackets on the books. The three of us then went to his first autographing party,
probably at Steve Takac's book store, where Isaac remembered that "...it was not
exactly an exuberant success. About ten people bought books and I autographed
them." Gnome brought out Foundation the following year.Isaac Asimov's memory was legendary, and the
notations in his lifelong diaries were copious. Stanley Asimov wrote a piece on the
occasion of his brother's April 22 memorial service, which was published in
Newsday as "A Man Who Couldn't Forget." He said that people "...frequently
asked me how Isaac had learned everything that he wrote about. I replied that my
brother had a photographic memory. He could remember everything that he had ever
heard or read. When ordinary people had a memory problem, it was because they
couldn't remember something. Isaac said he had a forgettery problem. He couldn't
forget."I recall the day around 1965 I visited him
in his upstairs writing room at his home just outside of Boston. The room was not
large, but it had the essential elements, the big powerful typewriter and the
shelves of books. In fact, the shelves ran around most of the room, about four feet
in height, and contained, for the most part, copies of the scores upon scores of
books he had written, representing editions in many languages, from scores of
countries. The room was cheerful and uncluttered with an attractive wallpaper with
a rocketship motif. Gertrude, his first wife, had found the design, offered as
something for a child's room, and had chosen it as an appropriate pattern for her
husband.Isaac was proud of all those books of his.
He handed me The Greeks, his most recent one, handsomely produced, and was
pleased to point out that for him it was unusual. "Isaac," I said, "Why the history
of Greece?""Because," he said, "I like the period."
Then he told me of how he had taken the completed manuscript to New York to his
publisher. The unprepared editor was taken aback, and asked and received the same
answer I had."Of course, Isaac," the editor said, "We
will publish it, as we will any book by you, and we will do a fine job. But please,
Isaac, tell us beforehand what you plan." The editor wanted no more strange
surprises.This anecdote perfectly illustrates the way
Isaac Asimov approached his profession. He wrote what he wanted to write. And
invariably his works were published, all with varying degrees of success. One big
regret that his longtime friends had was that he virtually abandoned the field of
science fiction for so much of his writing life.However, there was something else besides
his nearly infallible memory, besides that belief that he was a naturally living
storehouse of knowledge. It was his dedication to keeping diaries. As he wrote,
"With the new year of 1938, a turning point came in my personal life that might have
seemed of the most trivial character. I started a diary...still going on today, and
dozens of annual diaries stand side by side on my shelf like good and faithful
soldiers... They are a series of reference books for me... The worth of the diary,
however, is that it instantly proves that my own memory, excellent though it is and
inordinately proud of it though I am, is not to be relied on in all respects."A personal example of this imprecision is
the date he gives, in his autobiography, as to when we first met. Isaac says that
after the first worldcon on July 2, there was a Futurian meeting on July 4, 1939 --
"...a chance for the exiles to have a microconvention of their own. I met David A.
Kyle for the first time at that meeting." Actually, we already knew each other, but
I had been working on my family's newspapers in Monticello, New York, in 1937-38,
away at the University of Alabama in 1938-39, and therefore was only occasionally a
regular at Futurian get-togethers, and missed seeing him then. The teen-age Isaac
admittedly was so overwhelmed by the 'celebrities' present on that first Nycon day
that, like all us youths, he was too excited to recall so many of the minor
attendees like myself. Isaac on that Sunday, July 2, had been allowed to filter
through the organizers' 'blockade' of the Futurians who were banned from attending
the con on the grounds of being trouble-makers. Isaac considered himself part of
the Futurian gang, but did not believe himself to be an official 'member'. The
organizers were not unaware of his sympathies, but they couldn't exclude all the
'opposition' fans, so only the arbitrarily-labeled 'ringleaders' were banned. Later
in the day, he found that as a newly-published author (especially a Campbell author
as of the July issue of Astounding) he himself was considered a professional
celebrity of sorts rather than just a prominent fan.One recollection I won't take issue with is
his description of the "...very pretty twenty-five year old girl named Ruth Landis"
at her first convention. He said, "She looked, to my dazzled eyes, exactly like
Grace Kelly." How he spirited her off from me on that first day has been told in my
article "Sex in Fandom" {{ ed. note: in Mimosa 10
}}, but strange to say (or perhaps not strange to say), he reported that Dave
"...was completely helpless during the convention" and didn't "...manage to grab
Ruth [until] after the convention," and "...Dave Kyle had the last laugh, however...
eventually he married her."A most enjoyable time in my life connected
with Isaac was the time in 1974 when he visited England -- almost at the exact
moment I had a brush with death. While he was sailing across the Atlantic (don't
forget, he disliked travel, absolutely refused to set foot in an airplane and had
only lately come to accept high seas shipping). I was undergoing an emergency
appendectomy (the British have a different name for it, but I forget what it is).
Therefore for many days during which he wandered around the U.K. I fretted because I
couldn't assist at being his host.Finally came the evening of June 12th when
the science fiction crowd would gather at The Globe pub in central London. As
promised, Isaac showed up and filled the place with excitement. That was my first
time out, recuperating from my operation. How lucky I felt myself to be. So did
Ruth, my wife, who Isaac embraced with as much enthusiasm as he had shown when she
still was a neo-fan at the 1955 Clevention. He felt the atmosphere was that "...of
an impromptu convention." The following Friday night was his scheduled appearance
at Commonwealth Hall in London where he had been scheduled for an address to Mensa,
the high-IQ group. The joy of the moment was not only that I was allowed to attend,
hobbled as I was, but that Arthur C. Clarke, who happened to be in the country, was
there and made the introduction.I've praised Bob Bloch for his witty humor
and Harlan Ellison for his sharp tongue and wit when matched with Isaac, but a
meeting of the titans, Asimov and Clarke, was an exhilarating event of flashing
lightning and rolling thunder. Then too, besides all my British friends and
unexpected Americans like Jay Kay Klein, it was like a dry and sedate Globe
gathering. Best of all, I met Mother Clarke for the first time and Fred, Arthur's
brother, who has become a very dear friend.Arthur started off by saying he wouldn't
"...waste any time introducing Isaac Asimov. That would be as pointless as
introducing the equator, which, indeed, he's coming to resemble more and more
closely." He referred to Isaac as "...an ecological catastrophe. Have you ever
thought of the entire forests this man has destroyed for woodpulp? All those
beautiful trees turned into Asimov books." He ended his remarks by saying, "The
rumour that there is a certain rivalry between us should have been put to rest, once
and for all, in my recent Report on Planet Three. For those of you foolish
enough not to have obtained that small masterpiece, the dedication reads: In
Accordance with the Terms of the Clarke-Asimov Treaty, the Second-Best Science
Writer Dedicates This Book to the Second-Best Science-Fiction Writer."Isaac, in return, revealed "...what kind of
guy Arthur is... When he saw I was perfectly at ease [on the ship from which they
saw the previous year's eclipse] and had overcome my fear of traveling and was
standing there with nothing between myself and the sea but some thin steel, he said,
'Isaac, at great expense I have persuaded the captain of this ship to show The
Poseidon Adventure'. But let us talk about science fiction, which, after all,
is what we both do -- I because I am a great writer, and Arthur because he is a
stubborn writer."There's hardly any argument in science
fiction circles that the three finest contemporary science fiction authors are Isaac
Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, and Arthur C. Clarke. Sometimes Ray Bradbury's name is
coupled with them, but, as more of a poet and fantasy writer, not often. Most
thrilling and satisfying to me is the fact that all four of them were all genuine,
active science fiction fans. All except Bradbury have won Hugo and Nebula awards,
all have been Guests of Honor at World Science Fiction Conventions, and all were or
are extremely popular with fans, not only as writers, but as warm-hearted, generous,
wise, witty, and thoughtful human beings. Fandom is proud of them. It was the
relationship of Clarke and Asimov which was the most remarkable in the special field
of sf. They were the greatest of spirited rivals, full of admiration for each other
and effervescent with delightful humor. On many occasions I enjoyed Isaac as a
mixture of scholar and comic. Once he kept me wide awake with his entertaining
chatter while others slept as I drove a carload of us through the Pennsylvania night
back to New York from the Midwestcon in Ohio. I had a sampling of the repartee
between him and Al Capp, whom I had chosen as a special banquet guest at the 1956
Newyorcon (Nycon II) which I chaired. They drove back together (with Hal Clement
Stubbs) to Boston -- oh, how I wish my ears could have gone along!Asimov could command large fees for his
speaking engagements, yet in later years he did relatively few of them. Despite the
gregarious generosity he displayed with his time and advice, some considered him
parsimonious when it came to money. And, as well organized as his life was, he was
very much a stickler for detail. Some different examples will illustrate the point.
When he was issued a check for a royalty payment which was in round numbers, leaving
off twelve cents, he complained: "I don't want any more money than I earn," he
explained, "but I don't want a penny less." One time Forry Ackerman, as an agent
and with tongue-in-cheek, sent him a pro-rated payment check, plus -- to be exact
-- a half-cent postage stamp.Here's the best story of all: After several
years when he had accumulated royalties, he was owed a great deal by Gnome Press.
He went to New York with a strict admonition from his then wife Gertrude to collect
what Marty Greenberg (Gnome's treasurer) owed him. She indicated that he had better
come back with a payment. Isaac showed up at the Gnome office. Marty confided to
him that the latest shipment of books was being held up because of an unpaid bill
and that if the bill could be paid the books would be released, the orders would be
filled, and cash would flow again so royalties could be paid. Sly Marty could touch
the right buttons. Isaac went back to Boston without any royalty payment. He had a
difficult time keeping Gertrude from knowing that he had, instead of collecting from
Marty, actually lent him some money.A role which Isaac liked to play was that of
"The Sensuous Dirty Old Man," an actual tongue-in-cheek title of one of his books.
In keeping with his role, there was always the threat of an Asimov pinch on some
resilient portion of a female anatomy. My daughter Kerry at Nebula Awards banquets
was always prepared for evasive action. A young woman, Melanie Donovan, who had
been raised as a neighbor of mine outside Potsdam, New York, thought Isaac was
charming just on the telephone. She had gone to the big city to be an editor of
children's books. Her phone discussions with him on a proposed project were
sprinkled with spur-of-the-moment limericks especially for her. Ribald, of course.
(His Lecherous Limericks and its companion books are legendary.) Later, when
they met at an ABA convention and she introduced herself, she received the official
Asimov seal of friendship -- a strategic pinch. Although he played this role, it
was well-known that whereas he could be the aggressor, in earlier days on many
occasions when he found himself a victim, the hunted instead of the hunter, he would
literally flee. One time Judy Merril cornered him, called his bluff, and I will
always remember how near terror he seemed to be.For a futuristic and science writer, he had
a strange complex. He hated to fly -- in fact, he couldn't fly. He had "profound
acrophobia" -- fear of heights. His self-limiting use of modern transportation was
a thing he shared in common with Ray Bradbury, who was even worse with automobiles.
Now I myself, a veteran Air Force retiree, shunned air travel after World War II for
a long time because it was scary. Heights still make me uneasy. That's why I was
impressed by a remarkable change in him after he and Janet moved into their
Manhattan high-rise apartment. Their place was big and with many large windows
giving a grand view of Central Park looking east. Isaac was very pleased with this
panoramic view. To show it off, he opened a door and had me step outside. We were
on a flimsy, so it seemed to me, fire escape platform, all slatted steel and minimal
metal railings. I moved back quickly in secret horror. "Isaac," I said, "It's like
living in an airplane with a porch! How can you stand it?" He was completely
blasé about my comment -- I don't remember any response. I was thoroughly
surprised and have thought about that moment and his sky-high apartment ever
since.One day when I was visiting in Isaac's
apartment, the telephone rang. I didn't listen to the conversation, but when he
hung up, he turned to me and with great glee said, "I have just agreed to sell my
Foundation series rights for three-quarters of a million dollars!" He smiled,
satisfaction written all over his face. "That Marty Greenberg!" he chortled, adding
an unfavorable comment. "If he had treated me right... He could have shared. Now
he gets nothing." I don't remember the exact words, but I do remember the idea
expressed.I was dumfounded. Almost a million dollars!
Gnome Press had originally published the Foundation trilogy in hard covers --
Gnome had scored again in publishing history, but... "Isaac," I said gently,
"Remember, I was the other half of Gnome."It didn't seem to register -- his moment was
so exciting, so satisfying that he paid no attention to my one feeble, spontaneous,
half-protesting comment. Isaac has gone on record with his thoughts: "Sometimes I
stop to think of the money Marty could have made if he had made a real attempt to
sell [the rights], and had given me regular statements and paid me on time, so that
I would write still more books for him. Other authors got their books away from him
eventually, and almost each one of those books were classics in the field. Marty
had been sitting on a gold mine and had not been aware of it. He went for the
short-term pin money."Oh, my! I sometimes stop to think of the
money I could have made, too, if I had paid attention to Marty's management while I
was away up near Canada developing my radio stations. I never expected the
Foundation series to become the universal success it has become, obviously.
The original dust jacket, an attempt to capture the sweep of his epic tale, was one
of my first published artworks since the days of my black-and-white illustrations
for the old pulp sf magazines in the early 1940s.That the Foundation series should,
after so many years, bring Isaac his first Hugo was certainly fitting. He was never
more proud than when he got that achievement award. He had been a fixture at sf
cons for years, and during those times he had often fondled the rocketship trophies
and passed them out to the winners. From time to time he would remark, with
characteristic good humor, on the frustration of the moment. I remember his
good-natured banter with Arthur C. Clarke when Clarke's story "The Star" won the
Hugo at the 1956 Newyorcon. That day ten years later, in 1966, when he actually got
one to take home, he bubbled over with pleasure: "A special Hugo for the best
all-time series, Foundation."Isaac's final words, of the dozens of
millions of words he wrote, are simple and direct: "To my Gentle Readers who have
treated me with love for over thirty years, I must say farewell... It has always
been my ambition to die in harness with my head face down on a keyboard and my nose
caught between two of the keys, but that's not the way it worked out... I have had a
long and happy life and I have no complaints about the ending, thereof, and so
farewell -- farewell."Already I miss him very much.  All illustrations by Joe Mayhew |
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