Robots Have No Tails

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In 1942, when four of these stories were written, under the name of Lewis Padgett, Henry Kuttner and I had been married for two years and were more or less commuting between New York, where our publishing contacts were, and Laguna Beach in California where — so to speak — our hearts were. We loved Laguna, and all that quiet and blue water and clear, clean air. (Remember?)

In later years we worked more and more closely together on almost everything we wrote, and I was rather astounded on rereading the Gallegher stories to realize that not a word of any of them is mine. So I can say without immodesty that I think they’re very fine, very funny, very sane in a nutty kind of way. Also I am impressed, on reading them all together for the first time, by what seems to me a kind of lucidity which I attribute to the fact that I had no hand in them. (My own style tends to get rather murky now and then.) The only part I played in their creation was to hang impatiently over Hank’s typewriter and snatch the pages as they rolled out, enjoying each one and waiting eagerly to snatch at the next as it emerged.

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