书名：The Gods Themselves 神们自己 

难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数790L 

作者：Isaac Asimov艾萨克·阿西莫夫 

出版社名称：Spectra 

出版时间：1990 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9780553288100 

商品尺寸：10.6 x 2 x 17.4 cm 

包装：简装 

页数：304The Gods Themselves《神们自己》是伟大的科幻作家阿西莫夫经典的长篇科幻小说，是其近500本作品中首部包揽科幻荣耀星云奖、雨果奖、轨迹奖三奖的传奇之作，收到全球读者疯狂的好评。《神们自己》这个标题出自萧伯纳描写圣女贞德的剧作中的一句话：面对愚昧，神们自己也缄口不言。 ★《神们自己》探究了关于平行宇宙的一切。 ★《神们自己》汇聚了阿西莫夫关于外星人浪漫的爱情生活的所有想象。 ★《神们自己》和“银河帝国：基地”系列有着千丝万缕的关系！ ★一部极富远见的启发过无数科幻作家的经典巨著！ ★《星际穿越》编剧改编阿西莫夫代表作《银河帝国：基地》系列！ ★《生活大爆炸》中的谢耳朵钟爱的科幻巨匠！ ★出版40多年来，《神们自己》对人类的太空探索、世界局势、前沿经济学理论、好莱坞电影产生了深远的影响。 22世纪，地球可以和平行宇宙进行物质交换，从此拥有了源源不绝的能源。但是，只有几个人才知道危险的真相：地球上的一个无人信任的科学家、能源渐渐枯竭的星球上的一个外星人、月球上出生的一个拥有预言能力的人类。只有他们知道，人类即将为看似源源不绝的免费能源付出巨大的代价……

太阳即将毁灭，可是无人倾听。 真相，永远掌握在极少数人的手里。 面对愚昧，神们自己也缄口不言…… In the twenty-second century Earth obtains limitless, free energy from a source science little understands: an exchange between Earth and a parallel universe, using a process devised by the aliens. But even free energy has a price. The transference process itself will eventually lead to the destruction of the Earth's Sun—and of Earth itself. Only a few know the terrifying truth—an outcast Earth scientist, a rebellious alien inhabitant of a dying planet, a lunar-born human intuitionist who senses the imminent annihilation of the Sun. They know the truth—but who will listen? They have foreseen the cost of abundant energy—but who will believe? These few beings, human and alien, hold the key to Earth's survival.

艾萨克·阿西莫夫（1920 ~1992），俄裔美籍作家，全知全能，被全世界读者誉为“神一样的人”。美国政府授予他“国家的资源和大自然的奇迹”这个称号，以表彰他在“拓展人类想象力”上做出的杰出贡献。

阿西莫夫创作力丰沛，一生之中著作近500本，涉及杜威图书分类法的每一个范畴，涵盖人类生活的每一个层面，上天下海、古往今来、从恐龙到亚原子到全宇宙无所不包，从通俗小说到罗马帝国史，从科普读物到远东千年历史，从圣经指南，到科学指南，到两性生活指南，每一部著作都朴实、严谨而又充满幽默风趣的格调。 1972年，阿西莫夫的长篇小说《神们自己》首次登上《银河科幻》杂志，并相继斩获代表了全球科幻界高荣誉的星云奖、雨果奖和轨迹奖等多项大奖。多年来，这部作品被全球科幻迷奉为必读的阿西莫夫集大成之作，同时，也是阿西莫夫本人偏爱的作品。

Isaac Asimov began his Foundation series at the age of twenty-one, not realizing that it would one day be considered a cornerstone of science fiction. During his legendary career, Asimov penned more than 470 books on subjects ranging from science to Shakespeare to history, though he was most loved for his award-winning science fiction sagas, which include the Robot, Empire, and Foundation series. Named a Grand Master of Science Fiction by the Science Fiction Writers of America, Asimov entertained and educated readers of all ages for close to five decades. He died, at the age of seventy-two, in April 1992.

"No good!" said Lamont, sharply. "I didn't get anywhere." He had a brooding look about him that went with his deep-set eyes and the slight asymmetry of his long chin. There was a brooding look about him at the best of limes, and this was not the best of limes. His second formal interview with Hallam had been a greater fiasco than the first. "Don't be dramatic," said Myron Bronowski, placidly. "You didn't expect to. You told me that." He was tossing peanuts into the air and catching them in his plump-lipped mouth as they came down. He never missed. He was not very tall, not very thin. "That doesn't make it pleasant. But you're right, it doesn't matter. There are other things J can do and intend to do and, besides that, I depend on you. If you could only find out-" "Don't finish, Pete. I've heard it all before. All I have to do is decipher the thinking of a non-human intelligence." "A better-than-human intelligence. Those creatures from the para-Universe are trying to make themselves understood." "That may be," sighed Bronowski, "but they're trying to do it through my intelligence, which is better than human I sometimes think, but not much. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, I lie awake and wonder if different intelligences can communicate at all; or, if I've had a particularly bad day, whether the phrase 'different intelligences' has meaning at all." "It does," said Lamont savagely, his hands clearly bailing into fists within his lab coat pockets. "It means Hallam and me. It means that fool-hero, Dr. Frederick Hallam and me. We're different intelligences because when I talk to him he doesn't understand. His idiot face gets redder and his eyes bulge and his ears block. I'd say his mind stops functioning, but flack the proof of any other state from which it might stop." Bronowski murmured, "What a way to speak of the Father of the Electron Pump." "That's it. Reputed Father of the Electron Pump. A bastard birth, if ever there was one. His contribution was least in substance. I know." "I know, too. You've told me often," and Bronowski tossed another peanut into the air. He didn't miss. It had happened thirty years before. Frederick Hallam was a radiochemist, with the print on his doctoral dissertation still wet and with no sign whatever of being a world-shaker. What began the shaking of the world was the fact that a dusty reagent bottle marked "Tungsten Metal" stood on his desk. It wasn't his; he had never used it. It was a legacy from some dim day when some past n habitant of the office had wanted tungsten for some long-forgotten reason. It wasn't even really tungsten any more. It consisted of small pellets of what was now heavily layered with oxide-gray and dusty. No use to anyone. And one day Hallam entered the laboratory (well, it was October 3, 2070, to be exact), got to work, stopped shortly before 10 A.M., stared transfixed at the bottle, and lifted it. It was as dusty as ever, the label as faded, but he called out, 'God damn it; who the hell has been tampering with this?" That, at least, was the account of Denison, who overheard the remark and who told it to Lamont a generation later. The official tale of the discovery, as reported n the books, leaves out the phraseology. One gets the impression of a keen-eyed chemist, aware of change and instantly drawing deep-seated deductions. Not so. Hallam had no use for the tungsten; it was of no earthly value to him and any tampering with it could be of no possible importance to him. However, he hated any interference with his desk (as so many do) and he suspected others of possessing keen desires to engage in such interference out of sheer malice. No one at the time admitted to knowing anything about the matter. Benjamin Allan Denison, who overheard the initial remark, had an office immediately across the corridor and both doors were open. He looked up and met Hallam's accusatory eye. He didn't particularly like Hallam (no one particularly did) and he had slept badly the night before. He was, as it happened and as he later recalled, rather pleased to have someone on whom to vent his spleen, and Hallam made the perfect candidate. When Hallam held the bottle up to his face, Denison pulled back with clear distaste. "Why the devil should I be interested in your tungsten?" he demanded. "Why should anyone? If you'll look at the bottle, you'll see that the thing hasn't been opened for twenty years; and if you hadn't put your own grubby paws on it, you would have seen no one had touched it." Hallam flushed a slow, angry red. He said, tightly, "Listen, Denison, someone has changed the contents. That's not the tungsten." Denison allowed himself a small, but distinct sniff. "How would you know?" Of such things, petty annoyance and aimless thrusts, is history made.