That seemed to stir Asimov. He leaned over to whisper something to Sullivan and was duly recognized.
«I do not think,» he said, «that the problem of the refusal-to-believe on the part of magicians is a serious one. It is paralleled by a far greater, far greater, and far more intense refusal-to-disbelieve on the part of almost everybody else.»
«I do not wish to speak specifically of Mr. Geller, though this applies to him, for it is true of anyone who invades the area lying outside the narrow and constricted boundaries of what scientists will, without serious argument, accept.»
«The parascientific fringes are intrinsically glamorous, they are exciting and delightful, and they court belief. Millions will grant the belief and will not be deterred by anything scientists will say, especially since scientists cannot counter with anything equally evocative but can only grumble a spoilsport ‘It isn’t so!’
«In fact, so eager are people to believe the essentially incredible that they will resent, even with violence, any effort to advance evidence in favor of disbelief. If some mystic, with a wide and ardent following, were to disown all his previous statements, if he were to declare his miracles frauds, and his beliefs charlatanry, he would lose scarcely a disciple, since one and all would say he had made his statements under compulsion or under a sudden stroke of lunacy. The world will believe anything a mystic will say, however foolish, except an admission of fakery. They actively refuse to disbelieve.
«Is there, therefore, anything to be accomplished by arguing against mystics, or by trying to analyze their beliefs rationally? As a healthful exercise to improve and strengthen one’s own rationality, certainly. As a hope to reform fools, never.
«But it doesn’t matter. My own attitude is to bid the world, believe! All of you—believe! Believe whatever you want, for in doing so, whatever misery you bring upon yourself and others, you will nevertheless never affect reality. Though all earth’s four billion swear from top to bottom and left to right that the earth is flat and though they kill anyone who dares suspect it might be an oblate spheroid with a few minor irregularities, the earth will nevertheless remain an oblate spheroid with a few minor irregularities.»
There was a polite patter of applause and the hour came to an end. I didn’t applaud—even though I once again marveled at how easily, and I suspect unconsciously, Asimov could shift from the essential triviality of his social personality to the intense intelligence of his professional one, and back again—since Asimov’s little speech took all my painfully gathered grounds for certainty and shook them badly.
I believe in the murder of Giles Devore and so far had refused to accept any reasons advanced to support the contrary. Were there any conceivable reasons I would accept, or was I a true believer, dedicated to my belief though the heavens fall? If Giles himself were to rise from the dead and swear that he had not been killed but had slipped in the bathtub, would I not reject that, too? Would I not say that whatever had happened, whatever the attack, it had been so sudden and came from a source so trusted that Giles himself was mistaken and took murder for accident?
And if I were a true believer, would my belief, however firm and inalienable, in the least change reality?
7 ISAAC ASIMOV 12:15 P.M.
I looked up and again Asimov was standing before me.
I said, «That was a very eloquent little speech you made at the end. I was impressed.» (I must have remained in a brown study for longer than I had thought, for the audience had dispersed and only a handful remained at the door, talking to Charles Berlitz.)
Asimov grinned broadly, as he always does to any compliment, from anyone about anything, and grew mellow enough to say, «Well, then, come have lunch with me, if you have nothing better to do.»
Since lunch with him had been my hoped-for aim in attending the talk, I said, «Sure thing!» Politeness forced me to say, «What about your panelist friends?»
«They’re off,» he said. «They just came in for the panel.»
«In that case, in default of anything better for you, I will join you for lunch.»
«Come on,» he said. «Don’t be falsely humble.» (That remark was hard to take, coming from him, but I managed.) Apparently he had not yet come to the end of his good humor, for he added, «And lunch is on me.»
I might have argued the point, but, frankly, the offer was so uncharacteristic of him that it took my breath away—so in default of objection on my part, lunch was on him.
–––––––––––––-
This sentence went in only after prolonged argument. I defy anyone who knows me to say honestly that I ever allow anyone to pick up a check except under overwhelming pressure. The remarks made a little later concerning my eating habits are grossly exaggerated, too.
Isaac Asimov
All right, I admit that my remark about Asimov’s parsimony is hyperbolic. However, as to his eating habits—
In an earlier footnote, Asimov suggested you look at my photo on a book jacket to settle a point. On the same note, I suggest you have lunch with Asimov. If you can get anything more than a monosyllable out of him while he has food in front of him, I’ll pay the tip. If you can finish before he does, without choking to death in your haste, I will pay for the whole meal.
Darius Just
–––––––––––––-
It was Asimov’s idea that we leave the hotel and find a Chinese restaurant. I was delighted. I had had my surfeit of fried chicken and I was precisely in the mood for pressed duck and sweet-and-sour pork. Off we went.
During the five-block walk, Asimov said, «Say, do you remember that little girl with the breasts that tackled you Sunday night?»
«I remember,» I said grimly.
«She didn’t know who you were when she handed it to you, you know. She came to see me just as the autographing session was about to start yesterday and apologized very humbly—which was nice of her. Then she asked who you were and you should have seen her turn sick when I told her you were Darius Just.»
«Not Dry as Dust?»
Asimov laughed, as he recognized, once again, the wit of this play on words. «Don’t be so damned sensitive,» he said. «Anyway, look her up, and give the poor thing a chance to make it up to you.»
«She already has,» I said, «so we can forget it.»
Asimov seemed taken aback at my tone of voice, but nothing takes him aback for longer than a second and a half, and in no time he was talking again. During the remainder of the walk, he prattled on about articles he had written denouncing astrology and various other lunatic-fringe beliefs and the letters these had educed. I answered in a desultory fashion, preferring to concentrate on my own thoughts, and finally we reached the restaurant, which, as so many Chinese places seem to be, was a kind of haven of dimness and quiet—something I welcomed.
Once we had taken our seats, Asimov fell to studying the menu, and insisted on ordering for both of us, which suited me fine since he got the pressed duck and sweet-and-sour pork I had casually mentioned as we sat down, plus some soup and hors d’oeuvres. The waiter took it, after favoring us with a look of contempt when his invitation that we submerge ourselves swinishly in a variety of alcoholic beverages was haughtily rejected.
I said, «You seem in high spirits, Isaac.»
He said, «Well, I did my autographing stint yesterday and my panel today and now, after lunch, I can go home, take care of my mail, and get to work on an article that’s about due.»