Cullen worked quickly. He knew how to start car 30990; any conductor would. He raced to the other end of the car for the control lever, snatched it off, and returned at top speed. That was all he needed. There was power in the rail; the lights were on; and there were no stop signals between him and God’s Country.
Mr. Crumley lay himself down on a seat, “Be very quiet. He may let you get past him. I’m going to blank myself out, and maybe he won’t notice me. At any rate, he won’t harm you-I hope. Dear, dear, since this all started in section four, things are such a mess.”
Eight stations passed before anything happened and then came Utopia Circle station and-well, nothing really happened. It was just an impression-an impression of people all around him for a few seconds watching him closely with a virulent hostility. It wasn’t exactly people, but a person. It wasn’t exactly a person either, but just a huge eye, watching-watching-watching.
But it passed, and almost immediately Cullen saw a black and white “Flatbush Avenue” sign at the side of the tunnel. He jammed on his brakes in a hurry, for there was a train waiting there. But the controls didn’t work the way they should have, and the car edged up until it was in contact with the cars before. With a soft click, it coupled and 30900 was just the last car of the train.
It was Mr. Crumley’s work, of course. Mr. Crumley stood behind him, watching. “He didn’t get you, did he? No-I see he didn’t.”
“Is there any more danger?” asked Cullen, anxiously.
“I don’t think so,” responded Mr. Crumley sadly. “After he has destroyed all my creation, there will be nothing left for him to destroy, and, deprived of a function, he will simply cease to exist. That’s the result of this nasty, slipshod work. I’m disgusted with human beings.”
“Don’t say that, “ said Cullen.
“I will,” reported Mr. Crumley savagely, “Human beings aren’t fit to be god of. They’re too much trouble and worry. It would give any self-respecting god grey hairs and I suppose you think a god looks very dignified all grey. Darn all humans! They can get along without me. From now on, I’m going to go to Africa and try the chimpanzees. I’ll bet they make much better material.”
“But wait, “ wailed Cullen. “What about me? I believe in you.”
“Oh, dear, that would never do. Here! Return to normal.”
Mr. Crumley’s hand caressed the air, and Cullen, once more a God-fearing Irishman, let loose a roar in the purest Gaelic and made for him.
“Why, you blaspheming spalpeen-”
But there was no Mr. Crumley. There was only the Dispatcher, asking very impolitely-in English-what the blankety-blank hell was the matter with him.
I am sorry to say that I have no clear memory, at this time, what parts of the story are mine and what parts are Pohl’s. Going over it, I can say, “This part sounds like me, this part doesn’t,” but whether I’d be right or not I couldn’t swear.
Fantasy Book was a very borderline publication that lasted only eight issues. “The Little Man on the Subway” was in the sixth.
An amusing fact about this issue of a small magazine that had to make do with what it could find among the rejects of the field was that it included “Scanners Live in Vain,… by Cordwainer Smith. This was Smith’s first published story and he was not to publish another for eight years or so. In the 1960s, Smith (a pseudonym for a man whose real identity was not made clear until after his death) became a writer of considerable importance, and this first story of his became a classic.
While working on “The Little Man on the Subway” I was also doing another “positronic robot” story, called “Liar!” In this one, my character Susan Calvin first appeared (she has been a character in ten of my stories up to the present time and I don’t eliminate the possibility that she will appear yet again).
It was while Campbell and I were discussing this story, by the way, on December 16, 1940, that the “Three Laws of Robotics” were worked out in full. (I say it was Campbell who worked them out and he says it was I-but I know I’m right. It was he.)
“Liar!” was accepted at once by Campbell, at the end of January, without revision, and appeared in the May 1941 issue of Astounding. It was my fourth appearance in that magazine. The fact that it appeared the month after “Reason” helped fix the “positronic robot” stories in the readers’ minds as a “series… “Liar!” eventually appeared in I, Robot.
The sale of two “positronic robot” stories, “Reason” and “Liar!” virtually back to back put me all on fire to do more of the same. When I suggested still another story of the sort to Campbell on February 3, 1941, he approved, but he said he didn’t want me, this early in the game, tying myself down too completely into a rigid formula. He suggested I do other kinds of stories first. I was a good boy; I obeyed.
On that very day, in fact, I decided to try fantasy again. I wrote a short one (1,500 words) called “Masks,” and heaven only knows what it was about, for I don’t. I submitted it to Campbell for Unknown on February 10, and he rejected it. It is gone; it no longer exists.
Later that month I also wrote a short story called “The Hazing,” intended for Pohl. I submitted it to him on February 24, and he rejected it at once. Eventually I submitted it to Thrilling Wonder Stories. They requested a revision, I obliged, and they accepted it on July 2 9, 1941.
The Hazing
The Campus of Arcturus University, on Arcturus’s second planet, Eron, is a dull place during mid-year vacations and, moreover, a hot one, so that Myron Tubal, sophomore, found life boring and uncomfortable. For the fifth time that day, he looked in at the Undergraduate Lounge in a desperate attempt at locating an acquaintance, and was at last gratified to behold Bill Sefan, a green-skinned youngster from Vega’s fifth planet.
Sefan, like Tubal, had flunked Biosociology and was staying through vacation to study for a make-up exam. Things like that weave strong bonds between sophomore and sophomore.
Tubal grunted a greeting, dropped his huge hairless body-he was a native of the Arcturian System itself-into the largest chair and said:
“Have you seen the new freshmen yet?”
“Already! It’s six weeks before the fall semester starts!”
Tubal yawned. “These are a special breed of frosh. They’re the very first batch from the Solarian System-ten of them.”
“Solarian System? You mean that new system that joined the Galactic Federation three-four years ago?”
“That’s the one. Their world capital is called Earth, I think.”
“Well, what about them?”
“Nothing much. They’re just here, that’s all. Some of them have hair on the upper lip, and very silly it looks, too. Otherwise, they look like any of a dozen or so other breeds of Humanoids.”
Itwas at this point that the door flew open and little Wri Forase ran in. He was from Deneb’s single planet, and the short, gray fuzz that covered his head and face bristled with agitation, while his large purple eyes gleamed excitedly.
“Say,” he twittered breathlessly, “have you seen the Earthmen?”
Sefan sighed. “Isn’t anyone ever going to change the subject? Tubal was just telling me about them.”
“He was?” Forase seemed disappointed. “But-but did he tell you these were that abnormal race they made such a fuss over when the Solarian System entered the Federation?”
“They looked all right to me,” said Tubal.
“I’m not talking about them from the physical standpoint,” said the Denebian disgustedly. “It’s the mental aspect of the case. Psychology! That’s the stuff?” Forase was going to be a psychologist some day.
“Oh, that! Well, what’s wrong with them?”
“Their mob psychology as a race is all wrong,” babbled Forase. “Instead of becoming less emotional with numbers, as is the case with every other type of Humanoid known, they become more emotional! In groups, these Earthmen riot, panic, go crazy. The more there are, the worse it is. So help me, we even invented a new mathematical notation to handle the problem. Look!”
He had his pocket-pad and stylus out in one rapid motion; but Tubal’s hand clamped down upon them before the stylus so much as made a mark.
Tubal said, “Whoa! I’ve got a walloping lulu of an idea.”
“Imagine!” murmured Sefan.
Tubal ignored him. He smiled again, and his hand rubbed thoughtfully over his bald dome.
“Listen,” he said, with sudden briskness. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
Albert Williams, late of Earth, stirred in his sleep and became conscious of a prodding finger exploring the space between his second and third ribs. He opened his eyes, swiveled his head, stared stupidly; then gasped, shot upright, and reached for the light switch.
“Don’t move,” said the shadowy figure beside his bed. There was a muted click, and the Earthman found himself centered in the pearly beam of a pocket Hash.
He blinked and said, “Who the blasted devil are you?”
“You are going to get out of bed,” replied the apparition stolidly. “Dress, and come with me.”