I knew Asimov--we lived near each other when I was growing up. Brilliant, upbeat, quite funny and encouraging of misanthropic teens who wanted to be writers. When he died I was far more depressed than when most of my family members moved on.

We had the same publisher for a few books. One day, years later, we both arrived at the publisher's office in New York at the same instant. Sadly, I was virtually ignored as the staff ran to embrace Asimov. (Everything but fireworks were going off in celebration.) The publisher greeted him, saying it was an unexpected pleasure. Asimov said he'd come to fulfill the terms of his publishing contract. He pulled it out and showed everyone where it read that "the publisher shall pay the author an advance upon the singing of the contract." Isaac then began singing the contract, a capella, basso profundo. (He had an enthusiastic voice, but was no Luciano Pavarotti.)

Cheers,

J.