Isaac Asimov to Planet Stories, Fall 1941



Unless my well-known naiveté misleads me, it would seem from your answer to this guy Gifford (look who talks about names) that the phrase "I think you are as good as Asimov!" is to be taken as a compliment Well, well how times do change.

Let me tell you a little story—a true one (so there's no charge). It happened a few years ago, when I was widely known throughout the west as the rootinest-tootinest badman that ever took his buttermilk straight.

There wuz three of us in them days, pard. There was good old Monty Sello (darned fine feller—came from Montana) and Tex Ako (a tall gringo, pard, as came from Texas); and me, Brook Asimov (I come from Brooklyn, you understand, the garden spot of the universe).

Babblin' Brook Asimov I was knowed in them days. Babblin' Brook Asimov, as brave, bold and beautiful a bimbo as ever broke a bronc, busted a bank, or bummed a bite; beknown to billions as the Big Bad Boy from Brooklyn, beloved because of my brilliant bombast and boring banalities—

Yet get the idea, Pard?

We wuz tough men in them days and our favorite hangout was Ed's Saloon over in Crooked Gulch. Day after day I would sit there sluggin' my buttermilk till the poisonous fumes filled my head and laid me unconscious on the table, a bleary wreck of a good man. (It wuz a gal, pard, that did it, but that's another story.) And while I sat there, alone, broodingly misanthropic, the rest of the place rang to the coarse shouts of the badmen. The air was blue with tobacco smoke, and filled with the reek of buttermilk, lemonade and sarsaparilla. More than one hombre, vice stamped over his evil face, chewed gum openly, and one sin-drenched soul called loudly for a cherry-coke.

Into this vile den of iniquity (to coin a phrase) walked Bandy-legs Gooch, Terror of the West. Up he strode to my pal, Tex.

"Pard," he said, with that deceiving quiet that is the true mark of the leopard about to spring, "I been hearing things about you—things I don't like."

Tex's eyelids flickered. "Yeah?" he said, laying down his cards. His hand hovered about the butt of his famous pearl-handled.22.

"Yeah!" came the lightning retort, for Bandylegs was widely known for the sharpness of his wit. "I heared as you done cast doubts upon me as a good shot."

"I think," answered Tex coolly, "that you are a no-good hoss-thief, a liar to boot, the doggonedest yellowest-livered coward in the West, and a son of a (censored) besides."

"Never mind all that," grunted Bandy-legs, "I don't mind picayune palaver like that. I fights only for real insults. What did you say about my shootin' eye."

"I said, you wuz as good as Asimov."

A purple flush passed over the villain's face as he heard those dread words and a pause of utter horrified silence fell over every one of the hardened criminals present.

It lasted a bare instant, and then there was a pistol shot and Tex went down; a bullet hole right between his eyes. Bandy-legs said thickly, "No one insults me like that without gittin' shot."

The sheriff lifted himself out from under the table and said, "Let 'im go, boys. We all done heard what Tex said. It was a clear case of provocation. No jury would convict."

Two hours later, I crawled out of the rain barrel and buried Tex. He was a great guy. After that, I went back to Brooklyn and started writing science-fiction.

And now the phrase for which fifty-two men have died (I counted them) has become a compliment, or something; At that, though, maybe I'm speaking too soon. This guy Gifford might still kill Ye Editor. It's still a fact that no jury will convict.

Incidentally, Dearly Beloved Editor, whatever else you; have or haven't got, you've got one of the best letter columns in current science-fiction. I like it. And that reminds me that I wish people would quit wasting valuable votes on my letters. After all, I should be disqualified as a professional, and if no one else will do it, I hereby do it myself.

Score on the Asenion business: (a) people who called me Asenion since last time—6,349,203; (b) people who called me that while within reach—7; (c) people killed dead—6.

The reason I killed only six was because the seventh was lame, so—being kind-hearted and not dead to the finer things—I merely smiled gently and broke his crutches over his head.

If Mrs. Margaret Wells will come within reach, I will kiss her (provided her husband is not too much bigger than I am) for her kind thoughts, but please don't blame Dearly Beloved Editor for not printing an Asimov story every issue. I haven't been submitting anything—on account of because I've hardly been writing anything on account of because—I'm trying to get through with school on account of because—Aw, nuts.

Anyway, as soon as May is over and I get my M.A. (a chorus of Columbia professors say—Oh, yeah?????) I'll really start writing—at least until the army grabs me. (We need someone to stop Hitler.) As a matter of fact, it has just occurred to me that tomorrow morning at nine I take my second series of tests for that damn degree. What the devil am I doing writing letters anyway? (I'm a nut!—Tsk, tsk, must everyone agree that enthusiastically?)

Incidentally, Dearly Beloved Editor, this letter seems to have nothing to do with Planet. I'll fix that and then you can print the letter. I love Planet. I love Planet. I love Planet. There! .
 * Thanks for the "love."