'Ah, de foolish people,' mused Ullen. 'Dey were happy just like dis when de war started and dere was a parade just like dis - and now anodder one. Silly!' He stumped back to his chair.

Johnnie followed, 'The government is naming a new museum after you, isn't it?'

'Yes,' was the dry reply. He peered helplessly about under the desk, 'De Ullen War Museum - and it will be filled wid ancient weapons, from stone knife to anti-aircraft gun. Dat is your queer Eard sense of de fitness of dings. Where in dun-deration is dat bibliography?'

'Here,' said Johnnie, withdrawing the document from Ul-len's vest pocket. 'Our victory was due to your weapon, ancient to you, so it is fit in a way.'

'Victory! Sure! Until Venus rearms and reprepares and re-fights for revenge. All history shows - but never mind. It is useless, dis talk.' He settled himself deeply in his chair, 'Here, let me show you a real victory. Let me read you some of de first volume of my work. It's already in print, you know.'

Johnnie laughed, 'Go ahead, Ullen. Right now I'm even willing to listen to you read your entire twelve volumes - word for word.'

And Ullen smiled gently. 'It would be good for your intellect,' he said.

 'History,' you will notice, mentions Hitler's end. It was written in the first days of September 1940, when Hitler seemed at the very peak of his success. France was defeated and occupied and Britain was at bay and seemed unlikely to survive. - Still, I had no doubt as to his ultimate defeat. I did not visualize his ending in suicide, however, I thought that like Napoleon and the Kaiser, he would end his life in exile. Madagascar was the place I picked.

 Also mentioned in the story are 'the tiny "Drops of Death," the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen-foot crater wherever they fell.'

 By the time I wrote the story, uranium fission had been discovered and announced. I had not yet yeard of it, however, and I was unaware that reality was about to outstrip my prized science fictional imagination.

 On October 23, 1940, I visited Campbell and outlined to him another robot story I wanted to write, a story I planned to call 'Reason.' Campbell was completely enthusiastic. I had trouble writing it and had to start over several times, but eventually it was done, and on November 18 I submitted it to John. He accepted it on the twenty-second, and it appeared in the April 1941 issue of Astounding.

 It was the third story of mine that he had accepted and the first in which he did not ask for a revision. (He told me, in fact, that he had liked it so well, he had almost decided to pay me a bonus.)

 With 'Reason,' the 'positronic robot' series was fairly launched, and my two most successful characters yet, Gregory Powell and Mike Donovan (improvements on Turner and Snead of 'Ring Around the Sun') made their appearance. Eventually, 'Reason' and others of the series that were to follow, together with 'Robbie,' which Campbell had rejected, were to appear in I, Robot.

 The success of 'Reason' didn't mean that I was to have no further rejections from Campbell.

 On December 6, 1940, influenced by the season and never stopping to think that a Christmas story must sell no later than July in order to make the Christmas issue, I began 'Christmas on Ganymede.' I submitted it to him on the twenty-third, but the holiday season did not affect his critical judgment. He re- jected it.

 I tried Pohl next, and, as was happening so often that year, he took it. In this case, for reasons I will describe later, the acceptance fell through. I eventually sold it the next summer (June 27, 1941, the proper time of year) to Startling Stories, the younger, sister magazine of Thrilling Wonder Stones.

Christmas on Ganymede [6]

Olaf Johnson hummed nasally to himself and his china-blue eyes were dreamy as he surveyed the stately fir tree in the corner of the library. Though the library was the largest single room in the Dome, Olaf felt it none too spacious for the occasion. Enthusiastically he dipped into the huge crate at his side and took out the first roll of red-and-green crepe paper.

What sudden burst of sentiment had inspired the Gany-medan Products Corporation, Inc. to ship a complete collection of Christmas decorations to the Dome, he did not pause to inquire. Olaf's was a placid disposition, and in his self-imposed job as chief Christmas decorator, he was content with his lot.

He frowned suddenly and muttered a curse. The General Assembly signal light was flashing on and off hysterically. With a hurt air Olaf laid down the tack-hammer he had just lifted, then the roll of crepe paper, picked some tinsel out of his hair and left for officers quarters.

Commander Scott Pelham was in his deep armchair at the head of the table when Olaf entered. His stubby fingers were drumming unrhythmically upon the glass-topped table. Olaf met the commander's hotly furious eyes without fear, for nothing had gone wrong in his department in twenty Gany-medan revolutions.

The room filled rapidly with men, and Pelham's eyes hardened as he counted noses in one sweeping glance.

'We're all here. Men, we face a crisis!'

There was a vague stir. Olaf's eyes sought the ceiling and he relaxed. Crises hit the Dome once a revolution, on the average. Usually they turned out to be a sudden rise in the quota of oxite to be gathered, or the inferior quality of the last batch of karen leaves. He stiffened, however, at the next words.

'In connection with the crisis, I have one question to ask.' Pelham's voice was a deep baritone, and it rasped unpleasantly when he was angry. 'What dirty imbecilic troublemaker has been telling those blasted Ossies fairy tales?"

Olaf cleared his throat nervously and thus immediately became the center of attention. His Adam's apple wobbled in sudden alarm and his forehead wrinkled into a washboard. He shivered.

'I - I-' he stuttered, quickly fell silent. His long fingers made a bewildered gesture of appeal. 'I mean I was out there yesterday, after the last - uh - supplies of karen leaves, on account the Ossies were slow and -'

A deceptive sweetness entered Pelham's voice. He smiled.

'Did you tell those natives about Santa Claus, Olaf?'

The smile looked uncommonly like a wolfish leer and Olaf broke down. He nodded convulsively.

'Oh, you did? Well, well, you told them about Santa Claus! He comes down in a sleigh that flies through the air with eight reindeer pulling it, huh?'

'Well - er - doesn't he?' Olaf asked unhappily.

'And you drew pictures of the reindeer, just to make sure there was no mistake. Also, he has a long white beard and red clothes with white trimmings.'

'Yeah, that's right,' said Olaf, his face puzzled.

'And he has a big bag, chock full of presents for good little' boys and girls, and he brings it down the chimney and puts presents inside stockings.'

'Sure.'

'You also told them he's about due, didn't you? One more revolution and he's going to visit us.'

Olaf smiled weakly. 'Yeah, Commander, I meant to tell you. I'm fixing up the tree and -'

'Shut up!' The commander was breathing hard in a whistling sort of way. 'Do you know what those Ossies have thought of?'

'No, Commander.'

Pelham leaned across the table toward Olaf and shouted:

They want Santa Claus to visit them!'

Someone laughed and changed it quickly into a strangling cough at the commander's raging stare.

'And if Santa Claus doesn't visit them, the Ossies are going to quit work!' He repeated, 'Quit cold - strike!'