The Good Doctor

Originally published May 8, 1992
There are going to be people far more knowledgeable than I who are going to write–or presumably have already written–essays on the loss of Isaac Asimov, one of the premiere and most visible modern writers of speculative fiction in the country…probably the world.

Since this column represents my very personal, and somewhat selfish, viewpoint of the world, I’m going to take this space to relate the first and last times that I had the opportunity to exchange words with this remarkable man…a man who, through his constant inventiveness, continued output, and sheer intellect, has always been one of my personal heroes.

(And just as a pure digression, which is the signature of this column…yes, of course there are such things as personal heroes, mentors, idols and such. All I was saying with that particular column was that there is a tendency by many people, and particularly the media, to look for ways to tear down those who are better and greater than the norm, as if we, as a nation, feel more comfortable with mediocrity. Just in case, as so often seems to happen, some people didn’t “get” what I was trying to say.)

My two major encounters with the good doctor were separated by a period of about fifteen years. The first was brief, the second much longer. But the first was funnier.

I was nineteen years old. My then-girlfriend Myra (who later became my now-wife, Myra) and I were sitting in Penn Station, New York, waiting for a train down to Philadelphia. As was (and is) customary with Amtrack, things were running late. We were bored, and seated on the floor (since all the chair was occupied.)

It was April 1st.

In an effort to amuse herself, Myra suddenly looked up, pointed with great excitement, and said, “Look! Over there! It’s Ben Bova!”

Thrilled at an opportunity for a break in the monotony–and perhaps a chance to chat with one of my favorite SF writers–my head snapped around and I said, “Where?! Where?!”

She smiled smugly and said, “April Fool.”

Now, as April Fool jokes go, this wasn’t particularly brilliant or even funny…especially if you’re nineteen and fell for it. If you’re nineteen and pulled it on someone, it’s a laugh riot.

I made a face and a muttered “Ha ha, very funny.” We sat there a few more minutes, and then Myra went off to the ladies room.

And Isaac Asimov walked by.

Of course, being a good SF fan and convention goer, I recognized him instantly. I waved and called out, “Hello, Doctor Asimov!”

He smiled, nodded, said, “Hello there,” and walked on past.

A minute or so later, Myra returned and sat on the floor, facing me.

“Guess what!” I said excitedly. “While you were in the women’s room, Isaac Asimov walked past!”

She looked at me with a combination of pity and disdain. How pathetic I must have seemed. Apparently the best comeback I could develop was simply to try and get her back with a rehash of her own joke.

“Really!” I said. “He walked right past! And I said, `Hi, Doctor Asimov,’ and he said `Hi’ back!”

“Yeah, right,” she said, not falling at all for this pathetic trick. “Sure. You bet.”

And in one of those moments that would seem to provide evidence that there is, in fact, a God…Isaac Asimov walked past again.

Myra’s back was to him, but I saw him clearly. So I waved and called out once more, “Hi, Doctor Asimov!”

Myra looked at me patronizingly. Unbeknownst to her, so did Asimov, who probably assumed that I was simply a moron. What was this odd compulsion I had to shout out his name every time I saw him? Nevertheless, he gamely waved back and said, “Hello, again.”

Since Myra was looking right at me, I had full opportunity to see her stunned expression as she recognized his voice. She spun on the ground and stared at him in total shock.

He walked away. I never did find out where he was going or why he was there.

And for going on two decades now, Myra has never had the nerve to try another April fool’s joke on me.

That was the first time.

The last time was under more professional and organized circumstances.

In connection with the yet-to-be-aired Sci-Fi Channel (yeah, I know, I know…everyone hates the term Sci-Fi. Don’t bust my chops about it–I didn’t name the dámņëd channel) the folks who produce such licensed publications as the Official Star Trek Fan Club magazine had obtained the rights to produce a tie-in magazine for the Sci-Fi Channel. The cover feature was to be about Isaac Asimov, and they asked me if I would be interested in conducting the interview.

This was in November of 1990. Because of the many subsequent delays with the start-up of the Channel, the magazine has likewise experienced delays. No sense starting a tie-in magazine if there’s nothing to tie-in with.

But at that time, no one knew that the Sci-Fi Channel was going to have trouble getting off the ground. They gave me Asimov’s phone number and told him that I’d be calling to set up a time.

I knew that Asimov’s health had been flagging. I hadn’t been at any conventions he’d recently attended, but I’d heard that illness had caused him to lose an alarming amount of weight, and that he bore little resemblance to the gregarious, robust personality who had become such a staple of the world of SF. This seemed to be supported when the magazine guys told me that Asimov had wanted to make sure that I would not be bringing a photographer or camera of my own.

When I called Asimov to arrange a convenient time for him, he reiterated the condition. That he didn’t want pictures taken, in and of itself, didn’t bother me. Certainly if he was going to take the time to talk with me, he was well within his rights to make whatever stipulations he desired. But it did make me a bit apprehensive. Asimov was hardly camera shy–he’d been photographed hundreds of times, done commercials and television appearances. If he was suddenly reluctant to be photographed, then what did that mean?

What I saw him, I knew precisely what it meant. It meant that he was fully aware that his debilitated appearance did not remotely match the accepted image of Doctor Isaac Asimov. He made no bones about it…he knew how ill he was, and he spoke more than once about dying. Certainly as great a visionary as he was capable of looking into his own future and not seeing all that much left to it.

As we spoke, with the tape-recorder whirring, I proceeded very carefully. Despite the fact that it was 11 AM, he was clearly tired. In a room filled with relics of his career, he almost seemed a relic himself. His famous mutton chops and hair were gray/white, and he wore lounging pajamas and a robe. He sat almost immobile throughout much of the conversation, and at first when he spoke it was slow and obviously with great effort. Fatigue hang over him like a cloud.

I proceeded very carefully, not wanting to overtax him. I felt like I was interviewing a china cup, and I decided that there was no way that I was going to go past half an hour in length. He was, quite obviously, no longer the man he was.

Except he was.

As things progressed, more and more flashes of the wit and intelligence and spirit surfaced. Not because I’m a particularly great interviewer, but because he was the particularly great Isaac Asimov. We wound up going closer to an hour.

There were two points at which he became particularly animated–the first was when he was discussing the aborted attempts to produce a movie of “I, Robot”: Talking about Harlan Ellison–for whom it was clear he bore great affection–seemed to bring out the best in him. The second was when talk shifted to politics, and the then-brewing situation with Operation Desert Shield. It was at that point that he became the most vehement; when all the fatigue and debilitation fell away. His voice rose and almost thundered in indignation, and he thudded on the chair for emphasis as he ripped into the past and present administrations, with an air of someone who didn’t like the way things were going at present and was frustrated that he wasn’t going to be around long enough to see them turn more to his liking.

I produce those two sequences for you here. I’m told that he didn’t conduct all that many interviews in the last year or so of his life, so this unpublished excerpt should be something of a rarity. The interview will, naturally, be published in its entirety when the Sci-Fi Channel is eventually a go:

ASIMOV: (continuing from a previous question) …the only reason you’d have to go out to Hollywood would be to make a killing, and often they wind up killing you instead.

ME: One of the most vocal and strident critics, and yet participants in Hollywood, has been Harlan Ellison. And he became involved in the attempted adaptation of “I Robot.”

ASIMOV: I know that very well, and he put out a very good script. It was 90 pecent Harlan Ellison and only 10 percent me, if that…but it was still a very good script. On the one hand it would have cost $30 million to put up on the screen, which at that time was a lot of money. (Laughter) And it was very doubtful that they would get their money back, because the script was not one of these easy Indiana Jones/Star Wars shoot-em-ups. I mean, it required thought. Horrors. Then, too, Harlan is Harlan. He would fight with people. He has no sense of tact whatever.

I argued with him. I said “Harlan, they’re going to want you to change things. The thing to do is say, Yes sir, I’ll do it, wait two to three months, and then bring back the same gøddámņ thing you had and say you made the changes. They’ll never know the difference. But nooooo. They ask for changes, he calls them names. Y’know? One big-shot at the studio…made it quite plain that he hadn’t read the script. He was busy telling Harlan what was wrong with it, but it was obvious that he hadn’t read it…that he had read some treatment that someone had given him. So Harlan told him he had the cranial capacity of an artichoke…which didn’t go over very well…

ASIMOV: (discussing the Strategic Defense Initiative [SDI])…I remember once science fiction writer Jerry Pournelle approached me at a Nebula meeting and asked me, “Why are you against SDI?” And I said, “Because I don’t think it’s going to work.” And he said, “Well so and so…” and he starts naming these scientists, and he says, “Well so and so thinks it’s going to work, and so and so thinks it’s going to work.” He sounded very belligerent. He was larger than I was, taller, wider, stronger, younger, drunker. And he said, “Do you question their expertise?” And I said “No, I don’t question their expertise; all I question is their sanity.” He was shocked. He went away and didn’t kill me.

But it’s true, it’s true. Anyone can persuade Reagan to do anything if only it’s stupid enough. And he did that amongst a great many other stupid things. Unfortunately it’s considered unpatriotic to blame him for our national debt; to blame him for our adverse trade balance; to blame him for the S&L fiasco, to blame him for the (raising his voice) atmosphere of greed that permeated the United States in the 1980s and resulted in having us now act as the world’s policemen when we’re only ticking on two cylinders. And it’s all Reagan; all Reagan and the men who control him.

ME: Do you feel it’s been perpetuated by Bush?

ASIMOV: Oh yes. It’s been completely perpetuated by Bush. Bush isn’t as stupid as Reagan, because it’s impossible to be as stupid as Reagan. But Bush isn’t very much smarter than Reagan. Unfortunately, we are living at a time when we imagine that we are still the United States of the 1950s. And we’re not. The 1950s will never return. We are living in the world of the 1990s, which means that not only is the Federal Government short on money, but every single state, practically, has a shortfall. And in every single state the populace knows only two things: One, they’re not going to be any more taxes, and two, they’re not going to lift their noses out of the trough. But you can’t have it both ways. God knows what’s going to happen.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, fully anticipates making a visit to a bookstore someday in the near year or so, and finding a volume that has mysteriously appeared on the shelves. And the title would be, “Isaac Asimov’s Guide to the Afterlife.” If anyone could pull that off…he could.)