"In the universe, I mean. I'm from outside the universe."

Mercedes interrupted again, leaning forward. " Alex, don't you see what he means? Suppose you landed on the New Guinea coast and talked to some natives through television somehow. I mean to natives who had never seen or heard of anyone outside their tribe. Could you explain how television worked or how it made it possible for you to speak to many men in many places at once? Could you explain that the image wasn't you yourself but merely an illusion that you could make disappear and reappear? You couldn't even explain where you came from if all the universe they knew was their own island."

"Well, then, we're savages to him. Is that it?" demanded Johannison.

The visitor said, "Your wife is being metaphorical. Let me finish. I can no longer try to encourage your society to cure itself. The disease has progressed too far. I am going to have to alter the temperamental makeup of the race."

"How?"

"There are neither words nor concepts to explain that either. You must see that our control of physical matter is extensive. It was quite simple to stop all radioactivity. It was a little more difficult to see to it that all things, including books, now suited a world in which radioactivity did not exist. It was still more difficult, and took more time, to wipe out all thought of radioactivity from the minds of men. Right now, uranium does not exist on Earth. No one ever heard of it."

"I have," said Johannison. "How about you, Mercy?"

"I remember, too," said Mercedes.

"You two are omitted for a reason," said the visitor, ''as are over a hundred others, men and women, all over the world."

"No radioactivity," muttered Johannison. "Forever?"

"For five of your years," said the visitor. "It is a pause, nothing more. Merely a pause, or call it a period of anesthesia, so that I can operate on the species without the interim danger of atomic war. In five years the phenomenon of radioactivity will return, together with all the uranium and thorium that currently do not exist. The knowledge will not return, however. That is where you will come in. You and the others like you. You will re-educate the world gradually."

"That's quite a job. It took fifty years to get us to this point. Even allowing for less the second time, why not simply restore knowledge? You can do that, can't you?"

"The operation," said the visitor, "will be a serious one. It will take anywhere up to a decade to make certain there are no complications. So we want re-education slowly, on purpose."

Johannison said, "How do we know when the time comes? I mean when the operation's over."

The visitor smiled. "When the time comes, you will know. Be a.s.sured of that."

"Well, it's a h.e.l.l of a thing, waiting five years for a gong to ring in your head. What if it never comes? What if your operation isn't successful?"

The visitor said seriously, "Let us hope that it is."

"But if it isn't? Can't you clear our minds temporarily, too? Can't you let us live normally till it's time?"

"No. I'm sorry. I need your minds untouched. If the operation is is a failure, if the cure does not work out, I will need a small reservoir of normal, untouched minds out of which to bring about the growth of a new population on this planet on whom a new variety of cure may be attempted. At all costs, your species must be preserved. It is valuable to us. It is why I am spending so much time trying to explain the situation to you. If I had left you as you were an hour ago, five days, let alone five years, would have completely ruined you." a failure, if the cure does not work out, I will need a small reservoir of normal, untouched minds out of which to bring about the growth of a new population on this planet on whom a new variety of cure may be attempted. At all costs, your species must be preserved. It is valuable to us. It is why I am spending so much time trying to explain the situation to you. If I had left you as you were an hour ago, five days, let alone five years, would have completely ruined you."

And without another word he disappeared.

Mercedes went through the motions of preparing supper and they sat at the table almost as though it had been any other day.

Johannison said, "Is it true? Is it all real?"

"I saw it, too," said Mercedes. "I heard it."

"I went through my own books. They're all changed. When this-pause is over, we'll be working strictly from memory, all of us who are left. We'll have to build instruments again. It will take a long time to get it across to those who won't remember." Suddenly he was angry, "And what for, I want to know. What for?"

"Alex," Mercedes began timidly, "he may have been on Earth before and spoken to people. He's lived for thousands and thousands of years. Do you suppose he's what we've been thinking of for so long as-as-''

Johannison looked at her. "As G.o.d? Is that what you're trying to say? How should I know? All I know is that his people, whatever they are, are infinitely more advanced than we, and that he's curing us of a disease."

Mercedes said, "Then I think of him as a doctor or what's equivalent to it in his society."

"A doctor? All he kept saying was that the difficulty of communication was the big problem. What kind of a doctor can't communicate with his patients? A vet! An animal doctor!"

He pushed his plate away.

His wife said, "Even so. If he brings an end to war-"

"Why should he want to? What are we to him? We're animals. We are are animals to him. Literally. He as much as said so. When I asked him where he was from, he said he didn't come from the 'yard' at all. Get it? The animals to him. Literally. He as much as said so. When I asked him where he was from, he said he didn't come from the 'yard' at all. Get it? The barnyard. barnyard. Then he changed it to the 'universe.' He didn't come from the 'universe' at all. His difficulty in communication gave him away. He used the concept for what our universe was to him rather than what it was to us. So the universe is a barnyard and we're-horses, chickens, sheep. Take your choice." Then he changed it to the 'universe.' He didn't come from the 'universe' at all. His difficulty in communication gave him away. He used the concept for what our universe was to him rather than what it was to us. So the universe is a barnyard and we're-horses, chickens, sheep. Take your choice."

Mercedes said softly, "'The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want...'"

"Stop it, Mercy. That's a metaphor; this is reality. If he's a shepherd, then we're sheep with a queer, unnatural desire, and ability, to kill one another. Why stop us?"

"He said-"

"I know what he said. He said we have great potentialities. We're very valuable. Right?"

"Yes."

"But what are the potentialities and values of sheep to a shepherd? The sheep wouldn't have any idea. They couldn't. Maybe if they knew why they were coddled so, they'd prefer to live their own lives. They'd take their own chances with wolves or with themselves."

Mercedes looked at him helplessly.

Johannison cried, "It's what I keep asking myself now. Where are we going? Where are we going? Do sheep know? Do we know? Can we know?"

They sat staring at their plates, not eating.

Outside, there was the noise of traffic and the calling of children at play. Night was falling and gradually it grew dark.

One memory I have concerning THE PAUSE reinforces my constant delight that I am at the writing end of things and am not part of any other facet of the literary game.

I was in the offices of Farrar, Straus & Young at a time when the anthology was in the early stage of production and the woman who was the in-house editor was agonizing over the t.i.tle of the anthology. It was supposed to be In Time To Come, In Time To Come, but she thought that lacked something and was wondering about alternatives. but she thought that lacked something and was wondering about alternatives.

"What do you think, Dr. Asimov?" she asked and looked at me pleadingly. (People often think I have the answers, when sometimes I don't even have the questions.) I thought desperately and said, "Leave out the first word and make it Time to Come. Time to Come. That strengthens the concept 'time' and makes the t.i.tle seem more science-fictional." That strengthens the concept 'time' and makes the t.i.tle seem more science-fictional."

She cried out at once, "Just "Just the thing," and the thing," and Time to Come Time to Come was indeed the t.i.tle of the anthology when it appeared. was indeed the t.i.tle of the anthology when it appeared.

Well, did the change in t.i.tle improve sales? How would they ever know? How could they be sure it didn't actually hurt sales?

I'm very glad I'm not an editor.

While all this writing was going on, my professional labors at the medical school were doing very well. In 1951 I had been promoted to a.s.sistant professor of biochemistry, and I now had the professorial status to add to my doctorate. This double dose of t.i.tle didn't seem to add to my dignity in the least, however. I continued to have a "bouncing, jovial, effervescent manner," as Sprague would say, and I still do to this day, as anyone who meets me will testify, despite the fact that my "wavy brown hair," while still wavy, is longer and less brown than it used to be.

All that effervescing made it possible for me to get along very well with the students, but perhaps not always so well with a few of the faculty members. Fortunately, everyone was quite aware that I was a science fiction writer. It helped! It seemed to reconcile them to the fact that I was an eccentric and they thereupon forgave me a great deal.

As for myself, I made no attempt to conceal the fact. Some people in the more staid callings use pseudonyms when they succ.u.mb to the temptation to write what they fear is trash. Since I never thought of science fiction as trash, and since I was writing and selling long before I had become a faculty member, I had no choice but to use my own peculiar name on my stories.

Nor did I intend to get the school itself into anything that would hurt its its dignity. dignity.

I had sold my first book, PEBBLE IN THE SKY, some six weeks before I had accepted the job at the medical school. What I did not know was that Doubleday was going to exploit my new professional position in connection with the book. It was only when I saw the book jacket, toward the end of 1949, that I saw what was to be on the back cover.

Along with a very good likeness of myself at the age of twenty-five (which breaks my heart now when I look at it) there was a final sentence, which read: "Dr. Asimov lives in Boston, where he is engaged in cancer research at Boston University School of Medicine."

I thought about that for quite a while, then decided to do the straightforward thing. I asked to see Dean James Faulkner, and I put it to him frankly. I was a science fiction writer, I said, and had been for years. My first book was coming out under my own name, and my a.s.sociation with the medical school would be mentioned. Did he want my resignation?

The dean, a Boston Brahmin with a sense of humor, said, "Is it a good book?"

Cautiously, I said, "The publishers think so."

And he said, "In that case the medical school will be glad to be identified with it."

That took care of that and never, in my stay at the medical school, did I get into trouble over my science fiction. In fact, it occurred to some of the people at the school to put me to use. In October 1954 the people running the Boston University Graduate Journal Boston University Graduate Journal asked me for a few hundred words of science fiction with which to liven up one of their issues. I obliged with LET'S NOT, which then appeared in the December 1954 issue. asked me for a few hundred words of science fiction with which to liven up one of their issues. I obliged with LET'S NOT, which then appeared in the December 1954 issue.

LET'S NOT.

Professor Charles Kittredge ran in long, unsteady strides. He was in time to bat the gla.s.s from the lips of a.s.sociate Professor Heber Vandermeer. It was almost like an exercise in slow motion.

Vandermeer, whose absorption had apparently been such that he had not heard the thud of Kittredge's approach, looked at once startled and ashamed. His glance sank to the smashed gla.s.s and the puddling liquid that surrounded it.

"Pota.s.sium cyanide. I'd kept a bit, when we left. Just." m case...

"How would that have helped? And it's one gla.s.s gone, too. Now it's got to be cleaned up....No, I'll do it."

Kittredge found a precious fragment of cardboard to scoop up the gla.s.s fragments and an even more precious sc.r.a.p of cloth to soak up the poisonous fluid. He left to discard the gla.s.s and, regretfully, the cardboard and cloth into one of the chutes that would puff them to the surface, a half mile up.

He returned to find Vandermeer sitting on the cot, eyes fixed gla.s.sily on the wall. The physicist's hair had turned quite white and he had lost weight, of course. There were no fat men in the Refuge. Kittredge, who had been long, thin, and gray to begin with, had, in contrast, scarcely changed.

Vandermeer said, "Remember the old days, Kitt."

"I try not to."

"It's the only pleasure left," said Vandermeer. "Schools were schools. There were cla.s.ses, equipment, students, air, light, and people. People."

" A school's a school as long as there is one teacher and one student."

"You're almost right," mourned Vandermeer. "There are two teachers. You, chemistry. I, physics. The two of us, everything else we can get out of the books. And one graduate student. He'll be the first man ever to get his Ph.D. down here. Quite a distinction. Poor Jones."

Kittredge put his hands behind his back to keep them steady. "There are twenty other youngsters who will live to be graduate students someday."

Vandermeer looked up. His face was gray. "What do we teach them meanwhile? History? How man discovered what makes hydrogen go boom and was happy as a lark while it went boom and boom and boom? Geography? We can describe how the winds blew the shining dust everywhere and the water currents carried the dissolved isotopes to all the deeps and shallows of the ocean."

Kittredge found it very hard. He and Vandermeer were the only qualified scientists who got away in time. The responsibility of the existence of a hundred men, women, and children was theirs as they hid from the dangers and rigors of the surface and from the terror Man had created here in this bubble of life half a mile below the planet's crust.

Desperately, he tried to put nerve into Vandermeer. He said, as forcefully as he could, "You know what we must teach them. We must keep science alive so that someday we can repopulate the Earth. Make a new start."

Vandermeer did not answer that. He turned his face to the wall.

Kittredge said, "Why not? Even radioactivity doesn't last forever. Let it take a thousand years, five thousand. Someday the radiation level on Earth's surface will drop to bearable amounts."

"Someday."

"Of course. Someday. Don't you see that what we have here is the most important school in the history of man? If we succeed, you and I, our descendants will have open sky and free-running water again. They'll even have," and he smiled wryly, "graduate schools such as those we remember."

Vandermeer said. "I don't believe any of it. At first, when it seemed better than dying, I would have believed anything. But now, it just doesn't make sense. So we'll teach them all we know, down here, and then we die... down here." down here."

"But before long I ones will be teaching with us, and then there'll be others. The youngsters who hardly remember the old ways will become teachers, and then the youngsters who were born here will teach. This will be the critical point. Once the native-born are in charge, there will be no memories to destroy morale. This will be their life and they will have a goal to strive for, something to fight for...a whole world to win once more. If, If, Van, Van, if if we keep alive the knowledge of physical science on the graduate level. You understand why, don't you?" we keep alive the knowledge of physical science on the graduate level. You understand why, don't you?"

"Of course I understand," said Vandermeer irritably, "but that doesn't make it possible."

"Giving up will make it impossible. That's for sure."

"Well. I'll try," said Vandermeer in a whisper.

So Kittredge moved to his own cot and closed his eves and wished desperately that he might be standing in his protective suit on the planet's surface. Just for a little while. Just for a little while. He would stand beside the sh.e.l.l of the ship that had been dismantled and cannibalized to create the bubble of life here below. Then he could rouse his own courage just after sunset by looking up and seeing; once more, just once more as it gleamed through the thin, cold atmosphere of Mars, the bright, dead evening star that was Earth.

Some people accuse me of getting every last bit of mileage out of everything I write. It's not a deliberate policy of mine, actually, but I must admit that the mileage does seem to mount up. Even as long ago as 1954 it was happening.

I had written LET'S NOT for my school, and, of course, I was not paid for it and didn't expect to be. Shortly thereafter, though, Martin Greenberg of Gnome Press asked me for an introduction for a new anthology he was planning, All A bout the Future, All A bout the Future, which was slated for publication in 1955. which was slated for publication in 1955.

I did not really like to refuse because I liked Martin Greenberg, even though he was years behind in his royalty payments. On the other hand, I did not wish to reward him with more material, so I compromised.

"How about a little story instead?" I said, and offered him LET'S NOT. He ran it as one of the introductions (the other, a more conventional one, was by Robert A. Heinlein) and, wonder of wonders, paid me ten dollars.

In that same year another turning point was. .h.i.tting me. (Odd how many turning points there are in one's life, and how difficult it is to recognize them when they come.) I had been writing nonfiction to a small extent ever since the days of my doctoral dissertation. There were scientific papers dealing with my research, for instance. These were not many, because I was not long in finding out that I was not really an enthusiastic researcher. Then, too, writing the papers was a dreadful ch.o.r.e, since scientific writing is abhorrently stylized and places a premium on poor quality.

The textbook was more enjoyable but in writing it I had been constantly hampered and tied down because of my two collaborators-wonderful men, both, but with styles different from my own. My frustration led me to a desire to write a biochemistry book on my own, not for medical students but for the general public. I looked upon it as only a dream, however, for I could not really see past my own science fiction.

However, my collaborator, Bill Boyd, had written a popular book on genetics, Genetics and the Races of Man Genetics and the Races of Man (Little-Brown, 1950), and in 1953 there came from New York one Henry Schuman, owner of a small publishing house named after himself. He tried to persuade Bill to write a book for him but Bill was busy and, being a kindhearted soul, tried to let Mr. Schuman down easily by introducing him to me, with the suggestion that he get (Little-Brown, 1950), and in 1953 there came from New York one Henry Schuman, owner of a small publishing house named after himself. He tried to persuade Bill to write a book for him but Bill was busy and, being a kindhearted soul, tried to let Mr. Schuman down easily by introducing him to me, with the suggestion that he get me me to write a book. to write a book.

Of course, I agreed and wrote the book promptly. When publication time rolled around, however, Henry Schuman had sold his firm to another small firm, Abelard. When my book appeared, then, it was THE CHEMICALS OF LIFE (Abelard-Schuman, 1954) .

It was the first nonfiction hook that ever appeared with my name on it and no other; the first nonfiction book I ever wrote for the general public.

What's more, it had turned out to be a very easy task, much easier than my science fiction. I took only ten weeks to write the book, never spending more than an hour or two a day on it, and it was intense fun. fun. I instantly began to think of other, similar nonfiction books I could do, and that began a course of action that was to fill my life-though I did not have any inkling at the time that this would happen. I instantly began to think of other, similar nonfiction books I could do, and that began a course of action that was to fill my life-though I did not have any inkling at the time that this would happen.

That same year, too, it began to look as though a second offspring was on its way. This one also caught us by surprise and created a serious problem.

When we had first moved into our Waltham apartment, in the spring of 1951, there were just the two of us. We slept in one bedroom, and the other bedroom was the office. My book THE CURRENTS OF s.p.a.cE (Doubleday, 1952) was written in that second bedroom.

After David was born and grew large enough to need a room of his own, he got the second bedroom and my office was moved into the master bedroom, and that's where THE CAVES OF STEEL (Doubleday. 1953) was written.