And then Mr. Crumley stuck his head out of the hole and said, “Oh, mercy me, what a perfectly terrible mess. Dear, dear! Come up here, Cullen! Why do you stay down there!”

A great peace descended upon Cullen. “Hail, Mr. Crumley,” he cried. “May you sniff the essence of roses forever.”

Mr. Crumley looked pleased, “Thank you, Cullen.” He waved his hand, and the conductor was beside him-a simple matter of levitation. Once again, Cullen decided in his inmost soul that here was a god.

“And now,” said Mr. Crumley, “we must hurry, hurry, hurry. I’ve lost most of my power when the Disciples rebelled, and my subway car is stuck half-way. I’ll need your help. Hurry!”

Cullen had no time to admire the tiny subway at the end of the tunnel. He jumped off the platform on Crumley’s heels and dashed about a hundred feet down the tube to where the car was standing idle. He wafted into the open front door with the grace of a chorusboy. Mr. Crumley took care of that.

“Cullen,” said Mr. Crumley, “start this thing and take it back to the regular line. And be careful; he is waiting for me.”

“Who?”

“He, the new god. Imagine those fools-no, idiots-thinking they could create a controllable god, when the very essence of godship is uncontrollability. of course, when they made a god to destroy me, they made a Destroyer, and he’ll just destroy everything in sight that I created, including my Disciples.”

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.