"Asimov, Isaac - Buy Jupiter and Other Stories" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

"Asimov is a stoutish, youngish-looking man with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a bouncing, jovial, effervescent manner, esteemed among his friends for his generous, warm-hearted nature. Extremely sociable, articulate, and witty, he is a perfect toastmaster. This vein of oral humor contrasts with the sobriety of his stories."
Sobriety!
On the other hand, twelves [sic] years later, Groff Conklin included BUTTON, BUTTON, in his anthology 13 Above the Niqht (Dell, 1965) and he said, in part, "When the Good Doctor... decides to take a day off and be funny, he can be very funny indeed...."
Now, although Groff and Sprague were both very dear friends of mine (Groff is now dead, alas), there is no question but that in this particular case I think Groff shows good taste and Sprague is nowhere.
Incidentally, before I pass on I had better explain that "generous, warm-hearted nature" crack by Sprague, which may puzzle those who know me as a vicious, rotten brute.
Sprague's prejudice in my favor is, I think, all based on a single incident.
It was back in 1942, when Sprague and I were working at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. It was wartime and we needed badges to get in. Anyone who forgot his badge had to buck the bureaucracy for an hour to get a temporary, was docked an hour's pay, and had the heinous misdeed entered on his record.
As we walked up to the gate on this particular day Sprague turned a pastel shade of green and said. "I forgot my badge!" He was up for a lieutenancy in the Navy and he was afraid that even a slight flaw in his civilian record might have an adverse effect on the whole thing.
Well, I wasn't up for anything at all, and I was so used to being sent to the principal's office during my school days that being yelled at by the authorities had no terrors for me.
So I handed him my badge and said, "Go in, Sprague, and pin this on your lapel. They'll never look at it." He went in, and they didn't, and I reported myself as having forgotten my badge and took my lumps.
Sprague has never forgotten. To this day, he goes around telling people what a great guy I am, despite the fact that everyone just stares at him in disbelief. That one impulsive action has given rise to a lifetime of fervent pro-Asimov propaganda. Cast your bread upon the waters-
But, let's move onward.


THE MONKEY'S FINGER

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes," said Marmie Tallinn, in sixteen different inflections and pitches, while the Adam's apple in his long neck bobbed convulsively. He was a science fiction writer.
"No," said Lemuel Hoskins, staring stonily through his steel-rimmed glasses. He was a science fiction editor.
"Then you won't accept a scientific test. You won't listen to me. I'm outvoted, eh?" Marmie lifted himself on his toes, dropped down, repeated the process a few times, and breathed heavily. His dark hair was matted into tufts, where fingers had clutched.
"One to sixteen," said Hoskins.
"Look," said Marmie, "what makes you always right? What makes me always wrong?"
"Marmie, face it. We're each judged in our own way. If magazine circulation were to drop, I'd be a flop. I'd be out on my ear. The president of Space Publishers would ask no questions, believe me. He would just look at the figures. But circulation doesn't go down; it's going up. That makes me a good editor. And as for you-when editors accept you, you're a talent. When they reject you, you're a bum. At the moment, you are a bum."
"There are other editors, you know. You're not the only one." Marmie held up his hands, fingers outspread. "Can you count? That's how many science fiction magazines on the market would gladly take a Tallinn yarn, sight unseen."
"Gesundheit," said Hoskins.
"Look," Marmie's voice sweetened, "you wanted two changes, right? You wanted an introductory scene with the battle in space. Well, I gave that to you. It's right here." He waved the manuscript under Hoskin's nose and Hoskin moved away as though at a bad smell.
"But you also wanted the scene on the spaceship's hull cut into with a flashback into the interior," went on Marmie, "and that you can't get. If I make that change, I ruin an ending which, as it stands, has pathos and depth and feeling."
Editor Hoskins sat back in his chair and appealed to his secretary, who throughout had been quietly typing. She was used to these scenes.
Hoskins said, "You hear that, Miss Kane? He talks of pathos, depth, and feeling. What does a writer know about such things? Look, if you insert the flashback, you increase the Suspense; you tighten the story; you make it more valid."
"How do I make it more valid?" cried Marmie in anguish. "You mean to say that having a bunch of fellows in a spaceship start talking politics and sociology when they're liable to be blown up makes it more valid? Oh, my God."
"There's nothing else you can do. If you wait till the climax is past and then discuss your politics and sociology, the reader will go to sleep on you."
"But I'm trying to tell you that you're wrong and I can prove it. What's the use of talking when I've arranged a scientific experiment-"
"What scientific experiment?" Hoskins appealed to his secretary again. "How do you like that, Miss Kane. He thinks he's one of his own characters."
"It so happens I know a scientist."
"Who?"
"Dr. Arndt Torgesson, professor of psychodynamics at Columbia."
"Never heard of him."
"I suppose that means a lot," said Marmie, with contempt. "You never heard of him. You never heard of Einstein until your writers started mentioning him in their stories."
"Very humorous. A yuk. What about this Torgesson?"
"He's worked out a system for determining scientifically
the value of a piece of writing. It's a tremendous piece of work. It's-it's-"
" And it's secret?"
"Certainly it's secret. He's not a science fiction professor. In science fiction, when a man thinks up a theory, he announces it to the newspapers right away. In real life, that's not done. A scientist spends years on experimentation sometimes before going into print. Publishing is a serious thing."
"Then how do you know about it? Just a question."
"It so happens that Dr. Torgesson is a fan of mine. He happens to like my stories. He happens to think I'm the best fantasy writer in the business."
" And he shows you his work?"
"That's right. I was counting on you being stubborn about this yam and I've asked him to run an experiment for us. He said he would do it if we don't talk about it. He said it would be an interesting experiment. He said-"
"What's so secret about it?"
"Well-" Marmie hesitated. "Look, suppose I told you he had a monkey that could type Hamlet out of its head."
Hoskins stared at Marmie in alarm. "What are you working up here, a practical joke?" He turned to Miss Kane. "When a writer writes science fiction for ten years he just isn't safe without a personal cage."
Miss Kane maintained a steady typing speed.