From: lydick@SOL1.GPS.CALTECH.EDU (Speaker-to-Minerals)
Subject: Re: Dr. Asimov
Reply-To: lydick@SOL1.GPS.CALTECH.EDU
Organization: HST Wide Field/Planetary Camera
Date: Tue, 7 Apr 1992 10:18:05 GMT

The door to the Place slams open.  In walks a familiar figure:  5'11" tall;
about #210, brown hair, mustache, and beard; blue eyes; thick glasses; 
MedicAlert bracelet on the left wrist.  Yes, it's Carl J Lydick,
Speaker-to-Minerals' alter-ego and doppelganger.  He rushes into the bar, says
"Stay out of this; it's a private matter" to Fast Eddy, and grabs
Speaker-to-Minerals by the belt.  Saying "You're needed elsewhere," he hoists
him over his shoulder and runs out the door.

About an hour later, the two return, this time, each under his own power.  Carl
walks up to the bar and says to Mike, "A round for the house on me, and if a
certain hunk of scrap metal decides to make a joke of it, he's going to be
slag.  And make it the hard stuff.  No exceptions.  A proper toast needs
alcoholic spirits.  Either the hard stuff or nothing for everyone here."
Carrying his shot of Bacardi to the line, as StM does the same, Carl looks
around the place as drinks are distributed.  "And one for yourself, Mike," Carl
demands.  Mike complies.  Carl addresses the assembled Callahanians:  "This is
the second time tonight I've made this toast.  The first time was in my
favorite RL bar (which is where I dragged StM off to).  Not everyone there knew
what I was talking about (though the bartender, who claims to HATE science
fiction DID know what I was talking about), but most of them knew I was
hurting, and offered consolation.  Somehow, every bar at which I become a
regular ends up with a lot of aspects of the Place.  Maybe it's that I don't
frequent other sorts of bars.  Maybe it's the fact that I somehow end up having
some say in which bartenders they hire in the long run.  Whatever.  The toast:
To Isaac Asimov, one of the greatest science fiction writers, and THE greatest
popularizer of science in this century.  May he rest in peace."  Carl and StM
down their shots of rum, and hurl the glasses into the fireplace in unison. 
Carl then turns to StM and ask "Where are these soap boxes you say I'm supposed
to stand on?"

StM answers, "They just grow under your feet.  Be careful, the ceiling in the
Place isn't all that high."

Carl responds, "OK.  In case I get carried away, I've got a pretty hard head. 
I just hope Mike has insurance for his roof."

Addressing the Callahanians, he continues tears running down his cheeks, "I'm
not sure whether I'm crying because Asimov died too early, or because he died
too late.  As best I can tell, he went senile about 5 years ago, when he first
started obviously suffering from congestive heart failure.  Until that point,
his stories (with the exception of _Fantastic_Voyage_, where it wasn't his
fault) were internally self-consistent, and you could pretty much count on the
accuracy of the things he said in his science fact articles in F&SF.  Since
then, the consistency of his stories has been problematic. 
_Fantastic_Voyage_II_, in particular, was NOT up to Asimovian standards.  In
his foreward (or perhaps it was called a preface), he specifically stated that
FVII gave him a chance to rectify gaucheries (no offense intended to lefties)
committed in FV.  He did rectify those problems.  By screwing up the physics in 
new, but equally bad ways.  Likewise, in a number of his science columns for
F&SF, he made inaccurate statements which were not typical of Asimov in his
prime.  He seemed more like Sagan"

StM interjects, "Wash your mouth out."

Carl continues, "No, think about it.  In one of his articles, he uses the speed
of light and the frequency of the variation of intensity of the output of a
celestial object to derive the MINIMUM size of the object.  It's as if he'd
never heard that resonant systems have harmonics."

StM concedes, "Point taken.  Asimov in his prime would have been questioning
that proposition, instead of supporting it."

Continuing, Carl says, "After his bypass surgery, the good doctor seemed to
recover his faculties for a year or two, then the regression began again.  By
about six months ago, things had gotten to the point that Asimov described his
state of health in the editorial in IASFM.  It sounded like a classic case of
congestive heart failure.  How do I know the symptoms of such?  Well, Asimov
himself wrote a description of the disease shortly after his bypass surgery. 
Yet when he wrote the more recent editorial, he didn't seem capable of
recognizing the same symptoms from which he'd suffered a few short years ago.

And THAT'S why I don't know for which reason I'm crying.  I've seen the one
person whom I might describe as my hero reduced from a genius to someone of, at
my best guess, an IQ of about 120."

Carl orders another round for the house, and again approaches the line.  He
orders  a shot of bitters for himself this time, thinking it somewhat more
appropriate than rum, and toasts, somewhat bitterly:  "To our heros.  May they
have the decency to die tragically, rather than pathetically."  Carl then
slowly fades from view, vanishing back into RL.

StM clears his throat.  "He's got a point.  But mostly he wears a hat so you
can't see it.  Some of you might be interested in James Randi's reaction to the
death of this skeptic, par excellance:

From:	MX%"geller-hotline%hotmomma@uunet.UU.NET"  6-APR-1992 12:25:59.74
To:	CARL
CC:	
Subj:	Isaac Asimov

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Date: Mon, 6 Apr 92 16:26 EDT
From: geller-hotline%hotmomma@uunet.UU.NET (James Randi)
To: broadcast-geller-hotline%hotmomma@uunet.UU.NET
Subject: Isaac Asimov

[While not strictly on the subject of geller, Asimov was a great
leader of the skeptical movement and certainly an enemy of the
irrationality Geller represents.  I felt all readers of this list
would be interested in reading this tribute to Asimov from James
Randi.  Apologies to all those who feel it might be inappropriate. sdb]

	The news came this morning that Asimov has died.  His passing has
to be a loss to the community of skeptics, and I feel that I should share
with you a few observations on the phenomenon he represented.
	In recent months, Dr. Asimov suffered greatly from depression.
He'd undergone a triple bypass operation some two years ago, and I'm told
that depression often follows that procedure.  He'd given up writing and
even corresponding with friends.  My last card from him says merely, "I'm
very ill, and unable to become involved in new projects."  That was very
unlike Isaac.
	A prodigious talent, he possessed the ability to express clearly
and concisely the beauty of science and technology while also sweeping us
away with grand, fabulous scenarios set on imaginary planets in remote
and wonderful galaxies.  Isaac probably wrote more lucidly to express
science to the layman, than any other person we can think of.  Everything
from the Sun to the Bible came under his analytical eye and was the
better for the experience.  All of us were certainly well served by our
teacher.
	He had an ego.  A prodigious ego.  But I've often said that the
man had a perfect right to it.  He was paradoxical in some respects;
while he freely wrote of faster-than-light space vehicles streaking among
the stars, he had a life-long fear of flying here on Earth, and could
often be found standing in New York's Grand Central Station consulting
train schedules, rather than at an airport.
	Years ago, when I timidly wrote him to ask for an introduction to
one of my first books, he graciously replied by postcard (his favorite
form of postal communication) and merely asked how many words would be
required.  Having just seen Isaac on a television interview in which he
used a triple redundancy ("Some authors only write one book or poem, but
it becomes an eternal classic for all time"), and in a feeble attempt at
pulling his side-burns, I wrote back.  "Perhaps," I said, "one who uses
such figures of speech might not be capable of writing an introduction
for my new book!"  Almost instantly a postcard response was before me.
"Then tell me, sir, what horse's ass, when he wished to say, `The
unkindest cut,' would say instead, `The most unkindest cut of all'?"   I
surrendered the field quickly, having been unwise enough to attempt
fencing with Zorro.
	The man will always be with us through his books.  That is his
immortality; he can never be truly gone from among us.  And, for all we
know, that fear of flying may not have kept him from now soaring among
the nebulae and perhaps chasing down an interesting comet for closer
examination.  Thank you for being here, Dr. Asimov, and sharing your wit
and wisdom with us all.  We cannot forget you.
							JR
StM continues, "Asimov is the only person I can think of whose death would be
so troubling as to make Randi speculate in public on the possibility of an
afterlife.  I've got a theory now about that "temple" we found on Nomanissan
Island.  I don't think it was a temple.  I think it was a mausoleum.  We had
trouble reading the inscriptions because they were made with thiotimoline.  I
think we ought to mount another expedition to that site, if we can round up an
appropriate party.  We'll need at leas:
	1)  A science fiction fan (we should have no trouble with this);
	2)  A chemist;
	3)  An historian;
	4)  An English Lit type;
	5)  A biblical scholar
	6)  Several generalists (I can help out here, but can't hope to match
	    the breadth of Asimov's interests).
"As you can easily see, based on this short list of people required for the
expedition, it's pretty obvious why a mausoleum for Asimov might look, to most
people, at first glance, like a temple.  Until you realize that it's Asimov's
mausoleum, it just seems too big to be anything BUT a temple.
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