One thing, which The New Yorker also led to was my friendship with Stanley Kubrick. The way that happened is I had written a book review of Arthur Clarke's oeuvre. He wrote me from Sri Lanka and he said he's coming to New York and he said he wanted to meet me. And I was not enthusiastic about it because I thought, well, I don't have anything to say to this fellow, I don't think, and so on. But he came, and we met at the Algonquin again, and I said, 'Well, what are you doing here?' And he said, 'Well, I'm writing the Son Of Doctor Strangelove'. I said, 'Well, what's that?' He said, 'Well, it's a science fiction movie that I'm writing with Stanley Kubrick'. I had seen Doctor Strangelove. In fact, the only movie that I ever saw that I sat through twice, I liked it so much. So he said, 'Well, I'm doing this with Stanley Kubrick and he's a great man, and you should meet him'. I said, 'Well, that's wonderful, I'd love to meet him'. So a meeting was set up. Kubrick was living in New York, on Central Park West, near where I lived during the war in New York. I went to see him and the door opened. I had never met a movie mogul and I took one look and I said, 'God, I know this person'. He looks to me like every eccentric physicist I've known all my life. He is distracted, he's sort of unkempt, not interested in anything but what he's interested in, and I said, I mean, I know this guy. This is… this guy is absolutely my type.