Isaac Asimov

Early Asimov

(Storybook)

Insidious Callisto

The Callistan Menace (1940)
Translation: T. Ginzburg

Damn Jupiter! - Ambroue Whitefield muttered angrily, and I nodded in agreement.

“I’ve been on the routes around Jupiter for fifteen years,” I answered, “and I’ve probably heard these two words a million times.” There must be no better way to relieve one's soul in the entire solar system.

We had just taken a shift from our shift in the instrument compartment of the space reconnaissance vessel Ceres and wearily trudged back to our place.

Damn Jupiter, damned Jupiter! - Whitefield repeated gloomily. - It's too huge. It sticks out here, behind our backs, and pulls, and pulls, and pulls! You have to go the whole way on a nuclear engine, constantly, hourly checking the course. No respite for you, no inertial flight, not a moment of relaxation! Just one damn job!

He wiped away the sweat that had formed on his forehead with the back of his hand. He was a young guy, no older than thirty, and in his eyes one could read excitement, even some fear.

And the point here, despite all the curses, was not about Jupiter. We were least worried about Jupiter. It was Callisto! It was this small light blue moon on our screens, a satellite of the giant Jupiter, that caused sweat to form on Whitefield’s forehead and had been preventing me from sleeping peacefully for four nights. Callisto! Our destination!

Even old Mac Steeden, the gray-moustached veteran who in his youth had walked with the great Peavy Wilson himself, stood watch with a vacant air. Four days away, and there are still ten ahead, and panic is digging its claws into the soul...

All eight of us - the crew of the Ceres - were brave enough in the normal course of things. We did not retreat from the dangers of half a dozen alien worlds. But it takes more than just courage to face the unknown, Callisto, this “mysterious trap” of the solar system.

In fact, only one ominous, precise fact was known about Callisto. In twenty-five years, seven ships, each more advanced than the last, flew there and disappeared. The Sunday newspaper supplements populated the satellite with all sorts of creatures, from super dinosaurs to invisible creatures from the fourth dimension, but this did not clear up the mystery.

Our expedition was the eighth. We had the best ship, for the first time made not of steel, but of a twice as strong alloy of beryllium and tungsten. We had super-powerful weapons and the most modern atomic engines.

But... but still we were only eighth, and everyone understood it.

Whitefield silently fell onto the bed, resting his chin on his hands. His knuckles were white. It seemed to me that he was on the verge of a crisis. In such cases, a subtle diplomatic approach is required.

How did you actually end up on this expedition, Whitey? - I asked. You're probably still a bit green for this kind of thing.

Well, you know how it happens. Melancholy suddenly attacked... After college, I studied zoology - interplanetary flights unusually expanded this field of activity. I was in a good, solid position on Ganymede. But I'm tired of being there, green boredom. I enlisted in the navy, succumbing to an impulse, and then, succumbing to a second impulse, I enlisted in this expedition. - He sighed regretfully. - Now I regret it a little...

You can't leak, guy. Believe me, I am an experienced person. If you panic, you're screwed. And there are only about two months of work left, and then we will return to Ganymede again.

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean,” he said offended. - I... I... He frowned silently for a long time. - In general, I was just exhausted, trying to imagine what awaits us there. These imaginary pictures completely lost my nerves.

Of course, of course,” I assured. - I don't blame you for anything. We've probably all been through this. Just try to pull yourself together. I remember once, on a flight from Mars to Titan, we...

I can write tales as well as anyone, and I particularly liked this fable, but Whitefield silenced me with a look.

Yes, we were tired, our nerves were getting worse; and that same day, as Whitefield and I were working in the pantry, lifting boxes of provisions into the kitchen, Whitey suddenly said, stammering:

I could have sworn that there were more than just boxes in that far corner, that there was something else there.

That's what your nerves did to you. In the corner, of course, the spirits, or Callistans, decided to attack us first.

I'm telling you, I saw it! There's something alive there.

He moved closer. His nerves became so tense that for a moment he even infected me; I suddenly felt creepy in this twilight too.

“You’re crazy,” I said loudly, calming myself with the sound of my own voice. - Let's go have a look there.

We started throwing around lightweight aluminum containers. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Whitefield trying to move the box closest to the wall.

This one is not empty. - Muttering under his breath, he lifted the lid and froze for half a second. Then he stepped back and, stumbling upon something, sat down, still not taking his eyes off the box.

Not understanding what struck him so much, I also looked there - and was stunned, unable to hold back my scream.

A red head stuck out of the box, followed by a dirty boyish face.

“Hello,” said a boy of about thirteen, climbing out. We were still dumbfoundedly silent, and he continued: “I’m glad you found me.” All my muscles are already cramped from this pose.

Whitefield swallowed loudly and convulsively:

Dear God! Boy! "Hare"! And we are flying to Callisto!

And we can’t turn back,” I said chokedly. Turning around between Jupiter and a satellite is suicide.

Listen,” Whitefield attacked the boy with unexpected belligerence, “you, head, two ears, who are you anyway and what are you doing here?”

The boy cowered, apparently a little scared.

I'm Stanley Fields. From New Chicago, from Ganymede. I... I ran away into space, like in the books. - And, his eyes sparkling, he asked: “How do you think, Mister, will we have a clash with the pirates?”

Without a doubt, his head was confused by “cosmic boulevard”. At his age, I also read it.

What will your parents say? - Whitefield frowned.

I only have an uncle. I don't think it bothered him that much. - He had already overcome his fear and smiled at us.

Well, what should we do with it? - Whitefield turned to me in confusion.

I shrugged.

Take him to the captain. Let the captain rack his brains.

How will he take it?

What do we care! We have nothing to do with it. And there’s nothing you can do about such a thing.

Together we dragged the boy to the captain.

Isaac Asimov

Azazel (stories)

Isaac Asimov

The stories are written in the form of conversations between Asimov and his friend George, who is able to summon a tiny demon, two centimeters tall, which he calls after the biblical demon "Azazel". George summons Azazel to grant wishes, and everything goes wrong every time.

A DEMON TWO CENTIMETERS HIGH

I met George many years ago at a literary conference. I was then struck by the strange expression of frankness and simplicity on his round, middle-aged face. It immediately seemed to me that this was exactly the person you would want to ask to guard your things when you go swimming.

He recognized me from the photographs on the covers of my books and immediately began joyfully telling me how much he liked my novels and stories, which, of course, allowed me to form an opinion of him as an intelligent person with good taste.

We shook hands and he introduced himself:

– George Knutovicher.

“Knutovicher,” I repeated to remember. - Unusual surname.

“Danish,” he said, “and very aristocratic.” I am descended from Cnut, better known as Canute, a Danish king who conquered England in the early eleventh century. The founder of my family was the son of Canute, but he, of course, was born on the wrong side of the blanket.

“Of course,” I muttered, although I didn’t understand why this was obvious.

“They named him Knut after his father,” George continued. - When he was shown to the king, the august Dane exclaimed: “God and angels, is this my heir?” “Not really,” said the court lady, who was cradling the baby. “He is illegitimate, since his mother is the washerwoman who yours...” “Ah,” the king grinned, “that evening...” And from that moment the baby became call it Whip Party. I inherited this name in a direct line, although over time it turned into Knutovicher.

George's eyes looked at me with such a hypnotic naivety that excluded the very possibility of doubt.

I offered:

- Shall we go have breakfast? - and pointed towards a luxuriously decorated restaurant, which was clearly designed for a plump wallet.

George asked:

– Don’t you think this bistro looks a little vulgar? And on the other side there is a small snack bar...

“I invite you,” I managed to add. George licked his lips and said:

“Now I see this bistro in a slightly different light, and it seems quite cozy to me. I agree. When the hot food arrived, George said:

“My ancestor Knutvecher had a son, whom he named Svein. Nice Danish name.

“Yes, I know,” I said. - King Cnut’s father’s name was Svein Forkbeard. Later this name was spelled "Sven".

George winced slightly.

– Don’t, old man, bring down your erudition on me. I am quite ready to admit that you also have some rudiments of education.

I was ashamed.

- Sorry.

He made a gesture of generous forgiveness with his hand, ordered another glass of wine and said:

“Svain Knutevener was fond of young women - a trait that all Knutovichers inherited from him, and was successful - like all of us, I might add. There is a legend that many women, having parted with him, shook their heads and remarked: “Well, he and Pig.” He was also an archmage. George stopped and asked warily: “Do you know what this title means?”

“No,” I lied, trying to hide my offensive knowledge. - Tell me.

“An archmage is a master of magic,” said George, which sounded like a sigh of relief. - Swine studied the secret sciences and occult arts. In those days it was a respectable occupation, because this vile skepticism had not yet appeared. Swine wanted to find ways to make young ladies tractable and affectionate, which is the adornment of femininity, and to avoid any manifestations of self-will or bad manners on their part.

“Ah,” I said with sympathy.

“He needed demons for this.” He learned to summon them by burning the roots of certain ferns and reciting some half-remembered spells.

– And did it help, Mr. Knutovicher?

- Just George. Of course it helped. Entire teams and hells of demons worked for him. The fact was that, as he often complained, the women of those times were rather stupid and narrow-minded, and they greeted his statements that he was the grandson of a king with mocking remarks about the nature of his origin. When the demon got involved, the truth was revealed to them that royal blood is always royal blood.

I asked:

“And are you sure, George, that’s how it happened?”

“Of course, because last summer I found his book of recipes for summoning demons.” She was in an old ruined English castle that once belonged to our family. The book listed the exact names of ferns, methods of burning, burning speed, spells, intonations of their pronunciation - in a word, everything. This book is written in Old English, or rather Anglo-Saxon, but since I'm a bit of a linguist...

Here I could not hide some skepticism:

- Are you joking?

He looked at me proudly and bewildered:

- Why did you decide so? Am I giggling? The book is real and I tested the recipes myself.

- And they called the demon.

“Of course,” he said, pointing meaningfully to the breast pocket of his jacket.

- There, in your pocket?

George ran his fingers through his pocket, clearly about to nod, but suddenly felt something, or the lack of something. He reached into his pocket with his fingers.

“Gone,” George said with displeasure. - Dematerialized. But you can't blame him for this. He was here with me last night because he was, you know, curious about this conference. I gave him some whiskey from a dropper and he liked it. Perhaps he even liked it too much, because he wanted to fight with the cockatoo in the cage above the bar, and in his squeaky voice he began to shower the poor bird with vile insults. Fortunately, he fell asleep before the offended party could react. He didn't look his best this morning and I think he went home, wherever that was, to get better.

I was slightly indignant:

“Are you telling me that you carry a demon in your breast pocket?”

– Your ability to immediately grasp the essence is admirable.

- And what size is it?

- Two centimeters.

– What kind of demon is this, two centimeters in size!

“Small,” said George. “But as the old saying goes, a little demon is better than no demon.”

- Depends on what mood he's in.

- Well, Azazel - that's his name - is a pretty friendly demon. I suspect he is looked down upon by his fellow tribesmen, which is why he goes out of his way to impress me with his power. He only refuses to give me wealth, although for the sake of old friendship he should have long ago. But no, he insists that all his power should only be used for the benefit of others.

- Come on, George. This is clearly not a hell of a philosophy.

George put his finger to his lips:

- Hush, old man. Don't say that out loud - Azazel will be incredibly offended. He claims that his country is blessed, worthy and highly civilized, and with reverence he mentions a ruler whose name he does not pronounce, but calls the One-in-All.

– And he actually does good?

- Wherever he can. For example, the story of my goddaughter, Juniper Pen...

- Juniper Pen?

- Yes. I can see in your eyes that you would like to hear about this incident, and I will be happy to tell you about it.

In those days (so George said) Juniper Pen was a big-eyed sophomore, a young, pleasant girl, and was fond of basketball, or rather, the basketball team - all of them were tall and handsome guys.

And most of all from this team, Leander Thompson attracted her girlish dreams. He was tall, well-built, with large hands that so deftly grasped a basketball or any object that had the shape and size of a basketball that somehow Juniper came to mind. At the games, sitting among the fans, she addressed all her screams to him alone.

Juniper shared her sweet dreams with me because, like all young women - even those who were not my goddaughters - she felt a craving for frankness when she saw me. It's probably because of my manner of keeping myself warm but dignified.

“Oh, Uncle George,” she told me, “there’s nothing wrong with me dreaming about the future for Leander and me.” I can already see how he will be the greatest basketball player in the world, the beauty and pride of professional sports, with a long-term contract for a huge amount. I don't want too much. All I need from life is a three-story mansion covered with vines, a small garden reaching to the horizon, several servants - two or three platoons, no more, and a small wardrobe with dresses for any occasion, for any day of the week, for any season, etc. ..

I was forced to interrupt her charming cooing:

“Baby,” I said. - There is a small discrepancy in your plans. Leandre isn't that good of a basketball player, and it doesn't look like he's going to get a huge contract.

“But it’s so unfair,” she pouted. - Why isn't he such a good player?

- Because the world works that way. Why don't you transfer your youthful enthusiasm to some truly cool player? Or, for example, a young Wall Street broker with access to inside...

Isaac Asimov

The Path of the Martians

(Storybook)

The Path of the Martians

The Martian Way (1952)
Translation: A. Iordansky, N. Lobachev

1

Standing in the doorway of the short corridor that connected both cabins of the spaceship, Mario Esteban Rios watched with irritation as Ted Long painstakingly set up the videophone. A hair's breadth clockwise, a hair's breadth counterclockwise, but the image remained lousy.

Rios knew it couldn't get any better. They were too far from Earth and at a disadvantage behind the Sun. But how does Long know this? Rios stood in the doorway for a little longer - sideways and bending his head so as not to rest against the ceiling. Then he burst into the galley like a cork from a bottle.

– Why are you so interested? - he asked.

“I want to catch Hilder,” Long answered.

Sitting down on the corner of the shelf-table, Rios removed a conical tin of milk from the top shelf and pressed it on the top. The tin opened with a soft pop. Shaking the milk slightly, he waited for it to warm up.

- For what? - He threw back the tin and took a noisy sip.

- I wanted to listen.

- A waste of energy.

Long looked at him and frowned.

– It is believed that personal videophones can be used without restrictions.

“Within reasonable limits,” Rios objected.

They exchanged challenging glances. Rios's strong, lean figure, his face with sunken cheeks immediately suggested that he was one of the Martian scavengers - the astronauts who patiently combed the space between Earth and Mars. His blue eyes stood out sharply against his dark, deeply lined face, which in turn seemed a dark spot against the white synthetic fur that lined the raised hood of his faux leather jacket.

Long looked paler and weaker. He was somewhat similar to a terrestrial, although, of course, not a single Martian of the second generation could be a real terrestrial, such as the inhabitants of the Earth. His hood was pulled back, revealing dark brown hair.

– What do you consider reasonable limits? - Long asked angrily.

Rios' thin lips became even thinner.

“This flight is unlikely to even cover our expenses, and if everything continues the same way, any waste of energy is unreasonable.”

“If we’re losing money,” Long said, “wouldn’t it be better for you to go back to your place?” Your watch.

Rios grumbled something, rubbed his overgrown chin, then stood up and, walking silently in heavy soft boots, reluctantly headed towards the door. He stopped to look at the thermostat and turned around in anger.

- It seemed to me that it was hot here. Where do you think you are?

– Four and a half degrees is not too much!

– For you - maybe. Only we are now in space, and not in an insulated mine office.

Rios jerked the thermostat needle all the way down.

– The sun is warm enough.

“But the galley is not on the sunny side.”

- It will warm up!

Rios stepped out the door. Long looked after him, then turned back to the videophone. He didn't touch the thermostat. The image remained unstable, but something could be seen. Long reclined the seat set into the wall. Leaning forward, he waited patiently as the announcer announced the program and the curtain slowly faded away. But then the spotlights picked out a familiar bearded face from the darkness, it grew and finally filled the entire screen.

- My friends! Fellow citizens of the Earth...

2

Entering the control room, Rios managed to notice a flash of a radio signal. It seemed to him that it was a radar pulse, and his hands went cold for a moment. But he immediately realized that this was an illusion generated by a bad conscience. Generally speaking, during his shift he was not supposed to leave the control room, although all scavengers did this. And yet, everyone was haunted by a nightmare vision of a find that turned up precisely in those five minutes that he snatched a cup of coffee, confident that space was clean. And there were times when this nightmare turned out to be a reality.

Rios turned on multi-band scanning. This required extra energy, but it was still better to make sure that there were no doubts left.

Rios turned on the radio, and the screen was filled with the fair-haired head of the long-nosed Richard Svenson, the co-pilot of the nearest ship from the side of Mars.

“Hi, Mario,” Svenson said.

- Great. What's new?

The answer came a little over a second later: the speed of electromagnetic waves is not infinite.

- What a day!

- Is something wrong? - asked Rios.

- There was a find.

- And wonderful.

“If I lassoed her,” Svenson answered gloomily.

- What's happened?

– Turned in the wrong direction, damn it!

Rios knew better than to laugh. He asked:

- How so?

- I am not guilty. The fact is that the container did not move in the ecliptic plane. Can you imagine the idiot pilot who couldn't even reset it correctly? How was I supposed to know? I set the distance to the container, and simply estimated its path based on the usual trajectories. Like any normal person. And he followed the most favorable interception curve. Only after about five minutes I see that the distance is increasing. The impulses returned very slowly. Then I measured its angular coordinates, and it turned out that it was too late to catch up.

- Has anyone caught him?

- No. It is far from the ecliptic plane and will remain there. I'm worried about something else. After all, it was just a small container. But when I think about how much fuel I spent while gaining speed, and then returning to my place! You should have listened to Canute.

Canute was the brother and partner of Richard Swanson.

- Are you furious? - asked Rios.

- Not that word. Almost killed me! But we’ve been here for five months, and here every bast is in line. You know.

- How are you doing, Mario?

Rios pretended to spit.

– About that much for the entire flight. Over the past two weeks - two containers, and each was chased for six hours.

- Big ones?

– Are you laughing, or what? I could drag them to Phobos with one hand. I have never had a worse flight.

– When do you plan to return?

– For me, at least tomorrow. We've only been here two months and I'm already arguing with Long all the time.

The duration of the pause could not be explained only by the delay of radio waves. Then Svenson said:

- Well, how is he? Long that is.

Rios looked back. From the galley came the quiet murmur and crackle of a videophone.

- Can not understand. In the first week after the start of the voyage, he asks me: “Mario, why did you become a garbage man?” I just looked at him and said: “To earn a living, otherwise why not.” What an idiotic question, I wish I knew? Why does a person become a scavenger? And he told me: “That’s not the point, Mario.” He will explain it to me, can you imagine! “You are a scavenger,” he says, “because this is the Martian way.”

– What did he mean by this? - asked Svenson.

Rios shrugged.

- I didn’t ask. And now he sits there and listens to a transmission from Earth on ultramicrowaves. Some kind of groundling Hilder.

- Hildera? He seems to be a politician, a member of the Assembly?

- As if. And Long does something like this all the time. I took fifteen pounds of books with me, all about the Earth. Ballast, and nothing more.

- Well, he is your companion. Speaking of companions: I think I’ll get down to business. If I miss another discovery, there will be a murder here.

Svenson disappeared, and Rios leaned back in his chair and began to follow the smooth green line of the pulse scan. He turned on the multi-scan for a moment. Space was still clear.

He felt a little better. The worst thing is when you are unlucky, but everyone around you catches container after container and containers with any brands except yours are sent to Phobos, to scrap melting plants. In addition, he relieved his soul, and his irritation against Long subsided a little.

In general, he was in vain to contact Long. You should never mess with newbies. They think you need to talk, especially Long with his eternal theories about Mars and its great role in the progress of mankind. That's what he said - all in capital letters: Progress of Humanity, Martian Path, New Handful of Creators. But Rios does not need talk, but finds - two or three containers, and nothing more.

However, he, strictly speaking, had no choice. Long was well known on Mars and made good money. He was a friend of Commissioner Senkov and had already taken part in one or two short garbage flights. You can’t simply refuse a person without testing him, no matter how strange the whole thing may seem. Why did an engineer with a decent job and good income suddenly need to hang around in space?

Isaac Asimov (1920-1992) is a true legend of the “golden age” of American science fiction. He devoted almost his entire life to literature: over four hundred books, including special studies and popular science works, came from his pen. The point, of course, is not the quantity; among science fiction writers there are more prolific ones. But, unlike most of his colleagues, Asimov did not follow hackneyed clichés - he gushed with original ideas, each of which was capable of giving rise to an entire direction in science fiction.

And it's all about him

No matter how trivial it may sound, Asimov’s biography already looks like a fascinating novel. He was born in Soviet Russia, in the town of Petrovichi near Smolensk. This fateful event took place on January 2, 1920, and already in 1923 the Ozimov family (that was the original surname of his parents) emigrated to the United States. Asimov's literary career began sixteen years later with the short story "Lost at Vesta," published in Amazing Stories. Since then, publications have poured in one after another, and Isaac soon became one of the most active figures in American fandom, a regular at forums and conventions, the soul of society, charming and courtly. Literary studies did not interfere with his scientific career. Yesterday's emigrant, he managed to brilliantly graduate from high school, then from the chemistry department of Columbia University, quickly receive an academic degree and by 1979 become a professor at his alma mater.

Michael Whelan, a master of fantasy painting, illustrated many of Asimov's books. These works decorate our article.

However, Isaac Asimov's main achievements undoubtedly lie in the field of literature. Here, however, there was some luck involved. The first person from the world of science fiction that young Isaac personally met was John Wood Campbell. The legendary editor of Astouding SF magazine played an invaluable role in the development of American fiction of the “golden age”, personally nurturing an entire generation of brilliant writers - from Robert Heinlein to Henry Kuttner and Catherine Moore. Campbell not only had an amazing nose for talent, but also literally bombarded his favorites with a whole hail of ideas, many of which were embodied in the novels and stories of those whom we today call SF classics. Of course, John Campbell could not ignore Asimov, although only the ninth of the stories proposed by Isaac saw the light of day on the pages of his magazine. Like many of his comrades, the writer retained a lifelong gratitude to Campbell, the man thanks to whom American science fiction made a giant evolutionary leap in just a few years.

A lot of articles and books have been written about the work of Isaac Asimov - including a two-volume memoir of the writer himself. Just listing his literary awards would take up several pages in neat font. Asimov has won five Hugos (1963, 1966, 1973, 1977, 1983) and two Nebulas (1972, 1976) - the most respected awards in world science fiction. However, what is more important is that his numerous books are still translated and republished all over the world - including works created more than half a century ago.

I am a robot

The first thing that comes to mind when the name Isaac Asimov is heard is the image of a robot in world science fiction. No, of course, Asimov did not invent robots. This word comes from the Czech language, it was first used by Karel Capek in his famous play “R.U.R.”, calling it artificial people intended for the most menial, hard and unskilled work. The very image of an artificial person, alive but devoid of a soul, came to us from stories about the Golem and Frankenstein’s monster. However, it was Asimov who proposed the ideal way to once and for all protect humanity from the very possibility of a “rebellion of the machines.” If in magazine fiction of the 1920s a maddened android was one of the main enemies of humanity (along with beetle-eyed monsters and maniac scientists), then with the advent of “Saint Isaac” the robot turned from a crafty slave into an indispensable assistant and faithful confidant of man. All it took was the introduction of the Three Laws, hardwired, so to speak, into the BIOS of the positronic brain of every intelligent machine!

I think it would not be amiss to recall these Laws once again. According to the First, a robot cannot cause harm to a person or, through inaction, allow a person to be harmed. According to the Second, one must obey all orders that a person gives, except in cases where these orders contradict the First Law. And finally, according to the Third, a robot must take care of its safety to the extent that this does not contradict the First and Second Laws. The positronic brain is physically incapable of violating any of these principles - it is on them that its structure is based.

Isaac Asimov's first story about robots appeared in 1940 on the pages of a science fiction magazine. The story was called “Strange Buddy”, or “Robbie”, and told about the fate of an unusual robot - touching and very human. This work was followed by a second, third, fourth... And already in 1950, Isaac Asimov’s series of stories “I, Robot” was published as a separate book, which determined the development of the topic of intelligent machines for many years to come.

Foundation and founders

“If only you knew from what rubbish poetry grows, knowing no shame...” wrote Anna Akhmatova. Isaac Asimov's interest in robots was caused by quite prosaic reasons. For all his merits, John Wood Campbell, who for a long time remained Asimov’s main publisher, had radical views and believed that from any conflict with aliens, a representative of the “superior” human race must certainly emerge victorious. These boundaries were too narrow for Isaac, moreover, they contradicted his beliefs. And the writer found a brilliant solution: from now on, in the works that he proposed to Campbell, there were no aliens at all, which means there was no corresponding conflict. However, this does not mean that Asimov completely abandoned the space theme. On the contrary, works whose action took place on distant planets came out from his pen one after another. Only these worlds were inhabited not by “little green men,” but by the same people, descendants of earthly settlers.

The most famous Asimov cycle, which began during this period, was “Foundation” (also known in Russian translations as “Foundation” and “Academy”). The novels, inspired by Edward Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, depict perhaps the most impressive future story in 20th-century science fiction. The First Empire of the human race fell under its own weight. Science and the arts are declining, the army is falling apart, the provinces are declaring themselves independent states, the connection between them is being lost - in a word, new Dark Ages are coming. Of course, the optimist Asimov does not lose faith in progress: sooner or later the world will become united again and the standards of the Second Empire will rise above all worlds. But is it possible to calculate how the situation will develop and reduce the Dark Ages to a minimum? The great mathematician Hari Seldon, the inventor of the science of psychohistory, the creator of the Foundation - a community that would become the embryo of the Second Empire of mankind - takes on this.

The pictures of the death and collapse of the greatest Empire, talentedly drawn by the writer, are impressive. But Asimov’s main discovery in this cycle is, of course, psychohistory itself. “Without trying to predetermine the actions of individuals, she formulated certain mathematical laws according to which human society developed,” this is how the hero of the novel explains its essence. For thousands of years, the creation of such a science has remained the dream of those in power. Today, oracles and fortune tellers, Pythias and augurs, Tarot cards and coffee grounds have been replaced by the eldest child of Progress - almighty Science. Whatever they can use to predict the approximate direction of development of society - at least a few months in advance, until the next elections... Alas, sociologists and political scientists have not learned to confidently predict the future...
As for “Foundation,” the fate of this cycle turned out quite happily. At the 24th WorldCon in 1966, Foundation won the Hugo Award for "best science fiction series of all time." During the voting, Asimov's novels beat out both the most popular "History of the Future" by Robert Heinlein and "The Lord of the Rings" by John R. R. Tolkien, whose name has already made its name in the English-speaking world.

Steel Caves

A fantastic detective story is a very special genre. It combines the features of a traditional detective novel and fantasy, and is therefore often criticized on both sides. Connoisseurs of the detective genre are irritated by fantastic assumptions, fans of science fiction are embarrassed by the rigid structure inevitable for a detective story. However, writers persistently return to this direction, again and again forcing cohorts of elusive criminals and brilliant detectives to take up the case. And one of the generally recognized classics of the fantastic detective story is again considered to be the unsurpassed and many-sided Isaac Asimov.

The novels “Caves of Steel”, “The Naked Sun” and “Robots of the Dawn” about police officer Elijah Bailey and his partner R. Daniel Olivo are, in a sense, a continuation of the “I, Robot” series. The detective story itself is akin to an intricate chess game, but Asimov added an additional unknown to this equation - robots. One of them, the balanced and reserved detective Daniel Olivo, becomes the main character of all the novels of the trilogy. Other robots invariably come under suspicion or become key witnesses in cases that a couple of investigators have to unravel. The move, it should be noted, is the most ingenious. The behavior of thinking machines is strictly determined by the Three Laws - and yet, robots are constantly involved in deadly crimes. Moreover, the difficult foreign policy situation requires finding the culprit in record time...

The list of Asimov's fantastic detective stories is not limited to the trilogy. However, it was she who entered the annals and became a constant role model. And not only in the USA and England, but also in Russia. “Steel Caves” was first published in Russian in 1969, in one of the volumes of Detlit’s “Library of Adventures”, with a foreword by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky - and immediately sold in three hundred thousand copies. Not every modern bestselling author can boast of such success. And, in general, deservedly so: although hundreds of writers have tried their hand at the field of fantastic detective fiction over the past years, Asimov’s works still remain an ideal example of the genre.

The Beginning of Eternity

Another direction in which the American writer left a clear mark is chronoopera, literature about time travel. The time machine has been a staple theme in SF since time immemorial. In modern science fiction, there are an astronomical number of variations on this theme, including many classics: “And a Sound of Thunder…” by Ray Bradbury, “Time Patrol” by Poul Anderson, “Let the Dark Never Fall” by Sprague De Camp... But “The End of Eternity” by Isaac Azimova occupies one of the most honorable places in this series. Just as one can easily recognize a poet from Bradbury’s texts, one can easily recognize a natural scientist in the author of “The End of Eternity.” Having meticulously and ruthlessly logically examined the situation with time travel, Azimov designed an organization that would inevitably arise in a world where going to the past or future is no more difficult than going to your aunt in Saratov.

Eternity is a kind of totalitarian state that exists outside the main time stream and uses a time machine to correct history. Its main goal is to preserve society unchanged, to insure ordinary people from global disasters and upheavals. And at the same time, maintaining the status quo, Eternity deprived humanity of the future and actually froze the progress of civilization for millennia. Alas, it is global shocks, wars and disasters that force society to move forward. Complete peace leads civilization to decay and death...

Not all writers share Isaac Asimov's skepticism. For more than half a century, Eternity has been revived again and again in the novels of other authors, under new names: Time Patrol (in Paul Anderson), Sand Center (in “Dinosaur Coast” by Keith Laumer), and so on and so forth. Most of these organizations, however, do not so much correct the history of mankind as monitor its integrity. The fear of the anarchy that would reign in a time crowded with travelers without visas is too great. If one butterfly, crushed in the past, comes back to haunt the present with a change in the political system in America, how can the history of another Yankee, showing up at the court of King Arthur with a machine gun at the ready, be able to distort the history?.. It was this fear that Isaac Asimov felt before others - and played brilliantly in his novel .

Classics and contemporaries

Asimov Monument Design (by Michael Whelan)

Undoubtedly, Isaac Asimov’s contribution to the collection of ideas and plots of science fiction is not limited to this. He invented a planet whose inhabitants see the stars only once every few millennia and was the first to send his heroes to a microcosm; he suggested that Neanderthals had telepathy and described the development of computing systems in an ironic way; back in the 1950s he spoke about the threat of nuclear war and contacts with the inhabitants of a parallel world...

Today, several thousand science fiction novels are published annually in the USA and England, and a good third of these works can be classified as SF. But in order to understand what “science fiction writers” prefer to write about, it is not at all necessary to read all these books. If you are interested in what ideas Western fiction writers are actively developing today, re-read Asimov's collected works. I assure you: all the diversity of modern science fiction is reflected in his works, like the ocean in a drop of water.

When Isaac Asimov was born, he was surprised to discover that he was born on the territory of Soviet Russia in the town of Petrovichi near Smolensk. He tried to correct this mistake, and three years later, in 1923, his parents moved to New York Brooklyn (USA), where they opened a candy store and lived happily ever after, with sufficient income to finance their son’s education. Isaac became a US citizen in 1928.
It's scary to think what would have happened if Isaac had stayed in the homeland of his ancestors! Of course, it is possible that he would take the place of Ivan Efremov in our science fiction literature, but this is unlikely. Rather, things would have turned out much more gloomy. And so he trained as a biochemist, graduating from Columbia University's chemistry department in 1939, and taught biochemistry at Boston University School of Medicine. Since 1979 - professor at the same university. He never forgot his professional interests: he is the author of many scientific and popular science books on biochemistry. But this is not what made him famous throughout the world.
The year he graduated from university (1939), he made his debut in Amazing Stories with the story “Captured by Vesta.” A brilliant scientific mind was combined in Asimov with dreaminess, and therefore he could not be either a pure scientist or a pure writer. He began writing science fiction. And he was especially good at books in which it was possible to theorize, to build intricate logical chains that suggested many hypotheses, but only one correct solution. These are fantastic detective stories. Asimov's best books somehow contain a detective element, and his favorite heroes - Elijah Bailey and R. Daniel Olivo - are detectives by profession. But even novels that cannot be called 100% detective stories are devoted to uncovering secrets, collecting information, and brilliant logical calculations by unusually smart characters endowed with correct intuition.
Asimov's books take place in the future. This future stretches over many millennia. Here are the adventures of “Lucky” David Starr in the first decades of exploration of the Solar System, and the settlement of distant planets, starting with the Tau Ceti system, and the formation of the mighty Galactic Empire, and its collapse, and the work of a handful of scientists united under the name of the Academy to create a new, a better Galactic Empire, and the growth of the human mind into the universal mind of Galaxia. Asimov essentially created his own Universe, extended in space and time, with its own coordinates, history and morality. And like any creator of the world, he showed a clear desire for epicness. Most likely, he did not plan in advance to turn his science fiction detective story “Caves of Steel” into an epic series. But now the sequel has appeared - “Robots of the Dawn” - it already becomes clear that the chain of individual crimes and accidents that Elijah Bailey and R. Daniel Olivo are investigating are connected with the destinies of humanity.
And yet, even then, Asimov hardly intended to connect the plot of the “Caves of Steel” cycle with the “Academy” trilogy. It happened naturally, as it always does with an epic. It is known that at first the novels about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were not connected with each other, much less with the story of Tristan and Isolde. But over time they came together into something common. It’s the same with Asimov’s novels.
And if an epic cycle is created, then it cannot but have a central epic hero. And such a hero appears. It becomes R. Daniel Olivo. Robot Daniel Olivo. In the fifth part of the “Academy” - the novel “The Academy and the Earth” - he already takes the place of the Lord God, the creator of the Universe and the arbiter of human destinies.
Asimov's robots are the most amazing thing created by the writer. Asimov wrote pure science fiction, in which there is no place for magic and mysticism. And yet, not being an engineer by profession, he does not really amaze the reader’s imagination with technical innovations. And his only invention is more philosophical than technical. Asimov's robots and the problems of their relationships with people are a subject of special interest. It feels like the author thought a lot before writing about this. It is no coincidence that even his science fiction competitors, including those who spoke unflatteringly of his literary talent, recognized his greatness as the author of the Three Laws of Robotics. These laws are also expressed philosophically, and not technically: robots should not harm a person or, by their inaction, allow harm to come to him; robots must obey human orders unless this contradicts the first law; robots must protect their existence if this does not contradict the first and second laws. Asimov does not explain how this happens, but he does say that no robot can be created without observing the Three Laws. They are laid down in the very basis, in the technical basis of the possibility of building a robot.
But already from these Three Laws a lot of problems arise: for example, a robot will be ordered to jump into a fire. And he will be forced to do this, because the second law is initially stronger than the third. But Asimov's robots - at least Daniel and others like him - are essentially people, only artificially created. They have a unique and unrepeatable personality, an individuality that can be destroyed at the whim of any fool. Asimov was a smart man. He himself noticed this contradiction and resolved it. And many other problems and contradictions that arise in his books were brilliantly resolved by him. It seems that he enjoyed posing problems and finding solutions.
The world of Asimov's novels is a world of bizarre interweaving of surprise and logic. You will never guess what force is behind this or that event in the Universe, who opposes the heroes in their search for truth, who helps them. The endings of Asimov's novels are as unexpected as the endings of O'Henry's stories. And yet, any surprise here is carefully motivated and justified. Asimov does not and cannot have any mistakes.
Individual freedom and its dependence on higher powers are also intricately intertwined in Asimov’s Universe. According to Asimov, there are many powerful forces at work in the Galaxy, much more powerful than people. And yet, in the end, everything is decided by people, specific people, like the brilliant Golan Trevize from the fourth and fifth books of the Academy. However, what ultimately happens there is still unknown. Asimov's world is open and ever-changing. Who knows where Asimov’s humanity would have come had the author lived a little longer...
The reader, having entered someone else's alarming, huge and full of confrontation Asimov's Universe, gets used to it as to his own home. When Golan Trevize visits the long-forgotten and desolate planets of Aurora and Solaria, where Elijah Bailey and R. Daniel Olivo lived and operated many thousands of years ago, we feel sadness and devastation, as if we are standing on ashes. This is the deep humanity and emotionality of such a seemingly personal and speculative world created by Asimov.
He lived a short life by Western standards - only seventy-two years and died on April 6, 1992 at the New York University Clinic. But over these years he wrote not twenty, not fifty, not one hundred and not four hundred, but four hundred and sixty-seven books, both fiction, scientific and popular science. His work has been recognized with five Hugo Awards (1963, 1966, 1973, 1977, 1983), two Nebula Awards (1972, 1976), as well as many other prizes and awards. One of the most popular American science fiction magazines, Asimov's Science Fiction and Fantasy, is named after Isaac Asimov. There is something to envy.