Expanded Universe (61 page)

"Colonel Berry had to have remote monitoring for his astronaut patients. For me it may not have been utterly necessary. But it did mean that I was not cluttered with dozens of wires like a fly caught in a web; the microminiaturized sensors were so small and unobtrusive that I never noticed them—yet the nurses had the full picture every minute, every second.

"Another advantage of telemetered remote monitoring is that more than one terminal can display the signals. My wife tells me that there was one at the nursing supervisor's station. Dr. Chater may have had a terminal in his offices—I don't know. But there can't be any difficulty in remoting a hundred yards or so when the technology was developed for remoting from Luna to Houston, almost a quarter of a million miles.

"
Space spinoff in postoperative care:
a
Doppler ultrasound
stethoscope is an impressive example of microminiaturization. It is enormously more sensitive than an acoustic stethoscope; the gain can be controlled, and, because of its Doppler nature, fluid flow volume and direction can be inferred by a skilled operator. Being ultrasound at extremely high frequency, it is highly directional; an acoustic stethoscope is not.

"It generates a tight beam of ultrasound beyond the range of the human ear. This beam strikes something and bounces back, causing interference beats in the audible range. It behaves much like Doppler radar save that the radiation is ultrasound rather than electromagnetic. Thus it is a
noninvasive
way to explore inside the body without the dangers of x-ray . . . and is able to 'see' soft tissues that x-ray can't see.

"Both characteristics make it especially useful for protecting pregnant mothers and unborn babies. I am not departing from the call; babies unborn and newly born, and mothers at term
must
be classed as 'temporarily but severely handicapped.'

"Doppler ultrasound was used on me before, during, and after surgery.

"After my convalescence I was again examined by
computerized axial tomography.
No abnormalities—other than the new plate in my skull.

"This brain surgery is not itself a spinoff from space technology . . . but note how repeatedly space spinoffs were used on me before, during, and after surgery. This operation is
very
touchy; in the whole world only a handful of surgical teams dare attempt it. Of the thousand-odd of these operations to date, worldwide, Dr. Chater has performed more than 300. His mortality rate is far lower than that of any other team anywhere. This is a tribute to his skill but part of it comes from his attitude: he
always
uses the latest, most sophisticated tools available.

"I was far gone; I needed every edge possible. Several things that tipped the odds in my favor are spinoffs from space technology.

"Was it worthwhile? Yes, even if I had died at one of the four critical points—because sinking into senility while one is still bright enough to realize that one's mental powers are steadily failing is a miserable, no-good way to live. Early last year I was just smart enough to realize that I had
nothing
left to look forward to, nothing whatever. This caused me to be quite willing to 'Go-for-Broke'—get well or die.

"Did it work? I have been out of convalescence about one year, during which I've caught up on two years of technical journals, resumed studying—I have long been convinced that life-long learning helps to keep one young and happy. True or not, both my wife and I do this. At present I am reviewing symbolic logic, going on into more advanced
n
-dimensional, non-Euclidean geometries, plus another subject quite new to me: Chinese history.

"But I am working, too; I have completed writing a very long novel and am about halfway through another book.

"I feel that I have proved one of two things: either I have fully recovered . . . or a hole in the head is no handicap to a science-fiction author.

"I must note one spinoff especially important to the aged and the handicapped:
spiritual
spinoff.

"'Man does not live by bread alone.' Any physician will tell you that the most important factor in getting well is the will to live—contrariwise, a terminal patient dies when he gives up the fight.

"I have been in death row three times. The unfailing support of my wife sustained my will to live . . . so here I am. In addition I have believed firmly in space flight for the past sixty-odd years; this has been a permanent incentive to
hang on, hang on!
My wife shares this; she decided years back to die on the Moon, not here in the smog and the crowds. Now that I am well again I intend to hang in there, lead a disciplined life, stay alive until we can
buy
commercial tickets to the Moon . . . and spend our last days in low-gravity comfort in the Luna Hilton, six levels down in Luna City.

"Foolishness? Everyone in this room is old enough to know by direct experience that today's foolishness is tomorrow's wisdom. I can remember when 'Get a horse!' was considered the height of wit. As may be,
anything
that gives one a strong incentive to live can't be
entirely
foolish.

"I get a flood of mail from my readers; a disproportionate part of it is from the very old and the handicapped. It is impossible to be a fan of my fiction and not be enthusiastic for space travel. Besides, they
tell
me so, explicitly, in writing.

"Examples:

"A college professor, blind from birth. He's never
seen
the the stars; he's never
seen
the Moon. The books he reads and rereads—has read to him by his secretary—are about space travel. He went to a lot of trouble to look me up . . . to discuss our space program.

"A teenage boy, tied to a wheelchair, who wrote to ask me whether or not he could become an astronautical engineer—some 'friend' had told him that it was a silly ambition for a cripple. I assured him that an engineer did not need legs even on Earth's surface, advised him in what courses to take, and referred him to a story by Arthur C. Clarke in which a double amputee, both legs, commands a space station.

"A housewife with epilepsy,
grand mal,
who doesn't expect ever to be able to go out into space . . . but finds her greatest interest in life, her major relief from the tedious routine she must follow, in our space program.

"A very large number of elderly people who wrote to me immediately after the first landing on the Moon, all saying, in effect, that they thanked the Lord that they had been spared long enough to see this great day.

"I could add examples endlessly. Just let me state flatly that my files hold proof that the aged retired, the shut-ins and the disabled of all ages get more spiritual lift out of space flight than does any other definable group of our citizens. For many of them the television screen is their only window on the world; something great and shining and wonderful went out of their lives when the Apollo Moon program ended.

"Even if a space program had no other spinoff, isn't
that
sort worth 5¢ a day?"

Later: No, to most citizens of the United States the entire space program plus all its spinoffs is not worth even 5¢ per day; the polls (and letters to Congress) plainly show it. And they won't believe that 5¢ figure even if you do the arithmetic right in front of their eyes. They will still think of it as "all that money" being "wasted" on "a few rocks."
It is easy to prove that the space program paid for itself several times over in terms of increased gross national product . . . and in new technology . . . and in saved lives. But they won't believe any of that, either. 
NASA has two remarkable records: first, a space program far more successful than anyone had dared hope; and, second, the most incredibly bumbling, stupid, inept public relations of any government agency. 
A Congressman's counsel pointed out to me that NASA and other government agencies were by law not permitted to advertise themselves. Oh, come off it!—it does not matter whether a man is called a "public information aide" or a flack; a press agent defines himself by what he does. The man who was NASA's boss flack all during the Moon program had the endearing manners of Dennis the Menace. He's gone now—but the damage he did lives on, while our space program is dying. 
Still . . . if you aren't willing to give up and start studying Mandarin or possibly Japanese, you can write to your congressman and to both your senators and tell them how you feel about it. If you do, send copies to Don Fuqua (Democrat, Lower House) and to Barry Goldwater, Sr. (Republican, Upper House). A strong space program has many friends in both parties and in both houses—but it is necessary to let them know that they have friends. 
 

One would think that a "prophet" unable to score higher than 66% after 30 years have elapsed on 50-year predictions would have the humility (or the caution) to refrain from repeating his folly. But I've never been very humble, and the motto of my prime vocation has always been: "L'audace! Toujours l'audace!"
So the culprit returns to his crime. Or see Proverbs XXVI, 11. And hang on to your hats! 
 

 

"It does not pay a prophet to be too specific."
 

—L. Sprague de Camp

"You never get rich peddling gloom."
 

—William Lindsay Gresham

The late Bill Gresham was, before consumption forced him into fiction writing, a carnie mentalist of great skill. He could give a cold reading that would scare the pants off a marble statue. In six words he summarized the secret of success as a fortuneteller. Always tell the mark what he wants to hear. He will love you for it, happily pay you, then forgive and forget when your cheerful prediction fails to come true—and always come back for more.

Stockbrokers stay in business this way; their tips are no better than guesses but they are
not
peddling dividends; they are peddling happiness. Millions of priests and preachers have used this formula, promising eternal bliss in exchange for following, or at least giving lip service to, some short and tolerable rules, plus a variable cash fee not too steep for the customer's purse . . . and have continued to make this formula work
without ever in all the years producing even one client who had actually received the promised prize.
 

Then how do churches stay in business? Because, in talking about "Pie in the Sky, By and By," they offer happiness and peace of mind
right here on Earth.
When Karl Marx said, "Religion is the opium of the people," he was not being cynical or sarcastic; he was being correctly descriptive. In the middle nineteenth century opium was the
only
relief from intolerable pain; Karl Marx was stating that faith in a happy religion made the lives of the people of the abyss tolerable.

Sprague de Camp is Grand Master of practically everything and probably the most learned of all living practitioners of science fiction and fantasy. I heard those words of wisdom from him before I wrote the 1950 version of "Pandora' Box." So why didn't I listen? Three reasons: 1) money; 2) money; and 3) I thought I could get away with it during my lifetime for predictions attributed to 2000 A.D. I never expected to live that long; I had strong reasons to expect to die young. But I seem to have more lives than a cat; it may be necessary to kill me by driving a steak through my heart (sirloin by choice), then bury me at a crossroads.

Still, I could have gotten away with it if I had stuck to predictions that could not mature before 2000 A.D. Take the two where I
really
flopped,
#5
and #16.
In both cases I named a specific year short of 2000 A.D.
Had I not ignored Mr. de Camp's warning, I could look bland and murmur, "Wait and see. Don't be impatient," on all in which the prediction does not look as promising in 1980 as it did in 1950.

Had I heeded a wise man on 2 out of 19 I could today, by sheer brass, claim to be batting a thousand.

I have made some successful predictions. One is "The Crazy Years." (Take a look out your window. Or at your morning paper.) Another is the water bed. Some joker tried to patent the water bed to shut out competition, and discovered that he could not because it was in the public domain, having been described in detail in
Stranger in a Strange Land
. It had been mentioned in stories of mine as far back as 1941 and several times after that, but not until
Stranger
did the mechanics of a scene require describing how it worked.

It was
not
the first man to build water beds who tried to patent it. The first man in the field knew where it came from; he sent me one, free and freight prepaid, with a telegram naming his firm as the "Share-Water Bed Company." Q.E.D.

Our house has no place to set up a water bed. None. So that bed is still in storage a couple of hundred yards from our main house. I've owned a water bed from the time they first came on market—but have never slept in one.

I designed the water bed during years as a bed patient in the middle thirties: a pump to control water-level, side supports to permit one to float rather than simply lying on a not-very-soft water-filled mattress, thermostatic control of temperature, safety interfaces to avoid all possibility of electrical shock, waterproof box to make a leak no more important than a leaky hot water bottle rather than a domestic disaster, calculation of floor loads (important!), internal rubber mattress, and lighting, reading, and eating arrangements—an attempt to design the perfect hospital bed by one who had spent too
damned
much time in hospital beds.

Nothing about it was eligible for patent—nothing new—unless a sharp patent lawyer could persuade the examiners that a working assemblage enabling a person to sleep on water involved that—how does the law describe it?—"flash of inspiration" transcending former art. But I never thought of trying; I simply wanted to build one—but at that time I could not have afforded a custom-made soapbox.