Fortunately, the real Brock was merely amused and didn’t mind at all, but if he had been a nasty person, he might have sued. Sprague would certainly have won out, but he would have been stuck with legal fees, lost time, and much annoyance.
Sometimes I get away with slight misspellings: Baley instead of Bailey; Hari instead of Harry; Daneel instead of Daniel. At other times, I make the names considerably different, especially the first name: Salvor Hardin, Gaal Dornick, Golan Trevize, Stor Gendibal, Janov Pelorat. (I hope I’m getting them right; I’m not bothering to look them up.)
My feminine characters also receive that treatment, though the names I choose tend to be faintly classical because I like the sound: Callia, Artemisia, Noys, Arcadia, Gladia, and so on.
I must admit that when I started doing this, I expected to get irritated letters from readers, but, you know, I never got one. It began in wholesale manner in 1942 with the first Foundation story and in the forty-plus years since, not one such letter arrived. Well, Damon Knight once referred to Noys in a review of The End of Eternity as “the woman with the funny name,” but that’s as close as it got.
Which brings me to the George and Azazel stories again. There I use a different system. The George and Azazel stories are intended to be humorous. In fact, they are farces, with no attempt at or pretense of realism. The stories are outrageously overwritten on purpose. My ordinary writing style is so (deliberately) plain that every once in a while, I enjoy showing that I can be florid and rococo if I choose.
Well, then, in a rococo story, how on Earth can I be expected to have characters with ordinary names, even though the stories are set in the present and (except for Azazel) deal only with Earth people, so that I can’t use nonexistent names?
Instead I use real names, but choose very unusual and pretentious first names. In my George and Azazel stories, characters have been named Mordecai Sims, Gottlieb Jones, Menander Block, Hannibal West, and so on. By associating the outlandish first name with a sober last name, I heighten the oddness of the first. (On second thought, I should have made Ishtar Mistik, Ishtar Smith.)
None of this is, of course, intended as a universal rule. It’s just what I do. If you want to write an SF story, by all means make up a system of your own.
Originality
He shrugged his shoulders and walked away without offering to take the dictionary. He was bright enough to get the point.
There are times, though, when I wonder how well any story of mine would survive what one might call the “Road to Xanadu “ test. (There’s no point in offending fellow writers by analyzing their originality, so I’ll just stick to my own stuff.)
The most original story I ever wrote in my opinion was “Nightfall,” which appeared back in 1941.
I had not quite reached my twenty-first birthday when I wrote it and I have always been inordinately proud of the plot. “It was a brand-new plot,” I said, “and I killed it as I wrote it, for no one else would dare write a variation of it.”
To be sure, it was John Campbell who presented me with the Emerson quote that began the story:
“If the stars would appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the City of God-” and it was Campbell who sent me home to write the reverse of Emerson’s thesis.
Allowing for that, the development and details of the story were mine-or were they?
In 1973, I was preparing an anthology of my favorite stories of the 1930s (the years, that is, before John Campbell’s editorship, so that I named the book Before the Golden Age) and I included, of course, Jack Williamson’s “Born of the Sun,” which had been published in 1934 and had, at that time, fascinated my fourteen-year-old self. I reread it, naturally, before including it and was horrified.
You see, it dealt in part with a cult whose members were furious at scientists for rationalizing the mystic tenets of the believers. In an exciting scene, the cultists attacked the scientists’ citadel at a very crucial moment and the scientists tried to hold them off long enough to get their task done.
I can’t deny having read that story. After all, I still remembered it with pleasure forty years later. Yet only six and a half years after reading it, I wrote “Nightfall” which dealt in part with a cult whose members were furious at scientists for rationalizing the mystic tenets of the believers. In an exciting scene, the cultists attacked the scientists’ citadel at a very crucial moment and the scientists tried to hold them off long enough to get their task done.
No, it wasn’t plagiarism. For one thing I wrote it entirely differently. However, the scene fit both stories and having been impressed by it in Jack’s story, I drew from memory, and used it in my own story automatically-never for one moment considering that I wasn’t making it up out of nothing but had earlier read something very like that scene.
I suppose that any thoroughgoing scholar who was willing to spend several years at the task could trace almost every quirk in “Nightfall” to one story or another that appeared in the science fiction magazines in the 1930s. (Yes, I read them all.) Naturally, he could do the same for any other story written by any other author.
Here’s something even more curious. In a note dated June 27, 1985, a reader sent me an enclosure-a photocopy of a short article from the October 1937 issue of the magazine Sky (now known as Sky and Telescope, I believe).
The article is entitled “If the Stars Appeared Only One Night in a Thousand Years.” It begins with the Emerson quotation and it is by M. T. Brackbill. The author describes what it might be like if the night on which the stars appear were coming. There might be “prostellarists” who believe the stars are coming; and “antistellarists “ who dismiss the whole thing as a fable. And then the night comes and everyone stares entranced at the stars and finally watches them disappear with the dawn, sadly realizing that for a thousand years they will never be seen again.
It’s rather touching, and about the only thing Brackbill misses, that I could see, was the certainty that on that particular night there was bound to be a heavy night-long overcast in various parts of the world, so that millions of people would invariably be disappointed.
The person who sent me the photocopy accompanied it with this note: “Dear Mr. Asimov-I happened to spot this article. I wonder if it was an inspiration for one of the greatest short stories ever written! “
Just an “inspiration“? If the article and “Nightfall” were carefully studied and compared, how many events and phrases in the story might seem to have been inspired or hinted at in the article. I haven’t the heart to do this myself and I hope no one else does.
Unfortunately, neither the name nor address of the person who sent me the article was on the note, and the envelope the whole thing had come in had not been saved. (Please, everyone, if you want an answer, put your name and return address on your letter and not just on the envelope. I frequently discard envelopes without glancing at them except to make sure they are addressed to me.)
In any case, I couldn’t answer him. So I must use this editorial as the only way of reaching him.
The truth is that I never saw the article; never had a hint that it existed until the day I received the note and enclosure from my unknown correspondent. It had not the slightest iota of direct influence on my story.