I winced. The matter had been profitable, but it was easily the worst movie ever made by the worst set of idiots you could find even in Hollywood. I kept hoping no one would see it.
A hundred sixty-three books is no record, of course, but I never met anyone for whom writing is as painless as it is for Asimov. And he’s aware of it and his pleasure over it can be rather disgusting to see.
He crossed the room once, at a book-and-author luncheon, and someone muttered in my ear, «There goes Asimov pushing his self-assurance ahead of him like a wheelbarrow.» (The same might be said of his abdomen, of course.) Someone else once said that Asimov walked as though he expected the air to part in front of him.
Actually, my own theory is that he lives so much of the time inside his own head that he is unaware of the outside world, so that when he seems to be utterly self-possessed, it’s just that he’s unaware that there’s anything to be disturbed about.
I said to him, «What are you doing here, Isaac? Why aren’t you home writing a book?»
He groaned. «In a way that’s what I’m doing here. Doubleday wants me to write a mystery novel entitled Murder at the ABA. I don’t know what I was thinking of when I signed up.»
«Why did you sign?»
«What did you expect me to do? I’ve signed so many contracts, it’s a reflex action with me. And they want a completed manuscript by August. I’ve got three months on the outside.»
«That’s all right. It will only take you a weekend, won’t it?»
Asimov made himself a cold-cut sandwich on a giant scale and demolished half of it at a bite. With most of the bite gone, he said, «The worst of all my literary troubles is the fact that I’m not allowed to have any literary troubles. If you said you had to do a book faster than you could do it, everyone would soak your jacket with sympathetic tears. When I say it, I get cheap jokes. The same cheap joke every time, I might add.»
This from a man who thinks Darius Dust is epigrammatic wit.
I didn’t break down in tears. «Just the same you’ll do it. You’ve done mysteries before, haven’t you?»
It was a pretty safe assumption. The man has written on every subject imaginable and if ever anyone didn’t look it, it’s Asimov. He looks stupid at first sight. And when you hear him tell endless jokes, hug every girl in reach, and never by any chance say anything thoughtful, you’re convinced of it. It takes considerable time before you find out that the man is so secure in his intelligence that he never troubles to display it.
Which annoys the hell out of me, actually.
«Of course I’ve done mysteries before,» he said indignantly. «I’ve written straight mysteries and science fiction mysteries; novels and short stories; for adults, for teen-agers, and for grade-schoolers.»
«Then what’s the trouble?»
«I’ve got to give this local color. I’ve got to hang around here for four days and see what’s happening.»
«You’re doing it, aren’t you?»
«But I can’t see what’s happening. In my whole life, I’ve never seen anything that goes on around me.»
«Then how have you written a hundred sixty-three books?»
«Published,» he said. «I have eleven in press… Because my books are without description. I have an unornamented style.»
«In that case, get someone to help you.»
It was odd that I should say that, for at that moment, I couldn’t possibly have supposed that matters would end up in such a way that I would help him.
After all, he did manage to do the book in time. You’re reading it—Murder at the ABA by Isaac Asimov.
It’s just that it’s my story and I am first-person while he is third-person. And since I’ve left the writing entirely in his hands and don’t entirely trust him, the agreement is that I am to be allowed to add any comments of my own (within reason) in the form of footnotes where I consider him too far off base.
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For instance, I can point out that while Asimov is sticking to the outline, he’s dramatizing me into total distortion. I am five feet five and not five feet two. The subtle (or not so subtle) saturation of the story with my supposed pygmy complex is just designed to make him shine by contrast.
Darius Just
Just is five feet five if you count his elevator shoes! I’m not supposed to be literal here anyway. This is a work of fiction and I will take any liberties I choose with the facts. And as for making myself shine, I ask anyone who knows me to read these last few pages in which I figure and testify that I am sticking to Just’s ridiculous attitudes vis-a-vis myself at some considerable cost to my self-respect
Isaac Asimov
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He had finished his platter and by that time the room was considerably more crowded than it had been when we had entered. It was quite hopeless to expect to see Giles in that mess. The noise level had become uncomfortable and the filth of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
There was still time to leave, and then Asimov would have had to make up his own story—but I didn’t budge because I hadn’t had my coffee yet. There was always something to prevent the evasion of Fate.
I said, «Do you want some coffee, Isaac?»
«Sure, but let me go get it. I need the exercise.»
That wasn’t it at all, of course. He came back with coffee for both of us and five assorted cookies for himself. At least he didn’t offer me any of them.
He dipped the chocolate-covered one in the coffee, transferred it expertly to his mouth without losing a drop, and said, «And what are you doing here, Darius? You don’t look particularly ecstatic.»
«I’ve no reason to look ecstatic,» I said. «I’ve had a hell of a day and I don’t intend to go into details.»
«Considering that you have no family responsibilities at all and write only one book every three years, what can possibly give you a hell of a day?»
I could almost believe he was serious in that question, but I ignored it anyway and said, «You haven’t by any chance seen Giles Devore at the convention?»
«Yes, I have.»
I was astonished. I was not expecting that answer. «In here?»
«No, at the registration booth. He’s autographing books tomorrow morning. At the same time with me, in fact.»
«I know he’s autographing books,» I said. I swear I said it in the flattest possible way, without any hint of hidden meanings. In fact, I was cooling down and—who knows?—everything might have come to nothing, when Asimov stirred up my resentment against Giles for no reason I could see except to amuse himself, and laid his flagstone.
His blue eyes glittered and his eyebrows lifted and fell rapidly. (For someone who claims to see nothing of the world outside himself, he can have an unerring touch for the sore spot on the soul.)
He said, «I’m glad he’s your protege and not mine. I don’t know about you, but I would find it sickening to have a protege zoom past me.»
«He’s not my protege,» I said.
«Listen, that first book of his was written out of your vest pocket. Everyone knows it—and the more fool, you.»
«Why? For helping?»
«No, of course not. For expecting gratitude.»
I shrugged but, inside, where he couldn’t see, I burned.
Damn it, I had expected gratitude, and whether that made me a fool or not, the lack of it made me furious.