Part 5 (2/2)

”I,” said Marmie, ”am more than ready.” And he folded his arms.

Little Rollo sat there, a furry little bundle of cataleptic misery, while Dr. Torgesson's soft voice rose and fell in cadence with a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p battle and the subsequent struggles of Earthmen captives to recapture their lost s.h.i.+p.

One of the characters made his way out to the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p hull, and Dr. Torgesson followed the flamboyant events in mild rapture. He read: ”...Stalny froze in the silence of the eternal stars. His aching knee tore at his consciousness as he waited for the monsters to hear the thud and-” aching knee tore at his consciousness as he waited for the monsters to hear the thud and-”

Marmie yanked desperately at Dr. Torgesson's sleeve. Torgesson looked up and disconnected little Rollo.

”That's it,” said Marmie. ”You see, Professor, it's just about here that Hoskins is getting his sticky little fingers into the works. I continue the scene outside the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p till Stalny wins out and the s.h.i.+p is back in Earth hands. Then I go into explanations. Hoskins wants me to break that outside scene, get back inside, halt the action for two thousand words, then get back out again. Ever hear such crud?”

”Suppose we let the monk decide,” said Hoskins.

Dr. Torgesson turned little Rollo on, and a black shriveled finger reached hesitantly out to the typewriter. Hoskins and Marmie leaned forward simultaneously, their heads coming softly together just over little Rollo's brooding body. The typewriter punched out the letter t. t.

”T,” encouraged Marmie, nodding. ”T,” agreed Hoskins.

The typewriter made an a, a, then went on at a more rapid rate: ”take action stalnee waited in helpless hor ror forair locks toyawn and suited laroos to emerge relentlessly-” then went on at a more rapid rate: ”take action stalnee waited in helpless hor ror forair locks toyawn and suited laroos to emerge relentlessly-”

”Word for word,” said Marmie in raptures. ”He certainly has your gooey style.”

”The readers like it.”

”They wouldn't if their average mental age wasn't-” Hoskins stopped.

”Go on,” said Marmie, ”say it. Say it. Say their IQ is that of a twelve-year-old child and I'll quote you in every fan magazine in the country.”

”Gentlemen,” said Torgesson, ”gentlemen. You'll disturb little Rollo.”

They turned to the typewriter, which was still tapping steadily: ”-the stars wh.e.l.led in ther mightie orb its as stalnees earthbound senses insis ted the rotating s.h.i.+p sto od still.”

The typewriter carriage whipped back to begin a new line. Marmie held his breath. Here, if anywhere, would come- And the little finger moved out and made: * Hoskins yelled, ”Asterisk!”

”Marmie muttered, ” Asterisk.” Torgesson said, ” Asterisk?”

A line of nine more asterisks followed.

”That's all, brother,” said Hoskins. He explained quickly to the staring Torgesson, ”With Marmie, it's a habit to use a line of asterisks when he wants to indicate a radical s.h.i.+ft of scene. And a radical s.h.i.+ft of scene is exactly what I wanted.”

The typewriter started a new paragraph: ”within the s.h.i.+p-”

”Turn it off, Professor,” said Marmie.

Hoskins rubbed his hands. ”When do I get the revision Marmie?”

Marmie said coolly, ”What revision?”

”You said the monk's version.”

”I sure did. It's what I brought you here to see. That little Rollo is a machine; a cold, brutal, logical machine.”

”Well?”

”And the point is that a good writer is not a machine. He doesn't write with his mind, but with his heart. His heart.” Marmie pounded his chest.

Hoskins groaned. ”What are you doing to me, Marmie? If you give me that heart-and-soul-of-a-writer routine, I'll just be forced to turn sick right here and right now. Let's keep all this on the usual I'll-write-anything-for-money basis.”

Marmie said, ”Just listen to me for a minute. Little Rollo corrected Shakespeare. You pointed that out for yourself. Little Rollo wanted Shakespeare to say, 'host of troubles,' and he was right from his machine standpoint. A 'sea of troubles' under the circ.u.mstances is a mixed metaphor. But don't you suppose Shakespeare knew that, too? Shakespeare just happened to know when to break break the rules, that's all. Little Rollo is a machine that can't break the rules, but a good writer can, and the rules, that's all. Little Rollo is a machine that can't break the rules, but a good writer can, and must. must. 'Sea of troubles' is more impressive; it has roll and power. The h.e.l.l with the mixed metaphor. 'Sea of troubles' is more impressive; it has roll and power. The h.e.l.l with the mixed metaphor.

”Now, when you tell me to s.h.i.+ft the scene, you're following mechanical rules on maintaining suspense, so of course little Rollo agrees with you. But I know that I must break the rules to maintain the profound emotional impact of the ending as I see it. Otherwise I have a mechanical product that a computer can turn out.”

Hoskins said, ”But-”

”Go on,” said Marmie, ”vote for the mechanical. Say that little Rollo is all the editor you'll ever be.”

Hoskins said, with a quiver in his throat, ” All right, Marmie, I'll take the story as is. No, don't give it to me; mail it. I've got to find a bar, if you don't mind.”

He forced his hat down on his head and turned to leave. Torgesson called after him. ”Don't tell anyone about little Rollo, please.”

The parting answer floated back over a slamming door, ”Do you think I'm crazy? ...”

Marmie rubbed his hands ecstatically when he was sure Hoskins was gone.

”Brains, that's what it was,” he said, and probed one finger as deeply into his temple as it would go. ”This sale I enjoyed. This sale, Professor, is worth all the rest I've ever made. All the rest of them together.” He collapsed joyfully on the nearest chair.

Torgesson lifted little Rollo to his shoulder. He said mildly, ”But, Marmaduke, what would you have done if little Rollo had typed your version instead?”

A took of grievance pa.s.sed momentarily over Marmie's face. ”Well, d.a.m.n it,” he said, ”that's what I thought thought it was going to do.” it was going to do.”

IN THE MONKEY'S FINGER, by the way, the writer and editor were modeled on a real pair, arguing over a real story in a real way.

The story involved was C-Chute, C-Chute, which had appeared in the October 1951 which had appeared in the October 1951 Galaxy Galaxy (after the argument) and which was eventually included in my book NIGHTFALL AND OTHER STORIES. I was the writer, of course, and Horace Gold was the editor. (after the argument) and which was eventually included in my book NIGHTFALL AND OTHER STORIES. I was the writer, of course, and Horace Gold was the editor.

Though the argument and the story are authentic, the people are caricatured. I am nothing at all like the writer in the story and Horace is certainly nothing at all like the editor in the story. Horace has his own peculiarities which are far more interesting than the ones I made' up for fictional purposes, and so have I-but never mind that.

Of all the stories I have written that have appeared once and then never again, this next is the one I talk about most. I have discussed it in dozens of talks and mentioned it in print occasionally, for a very good reason which I'll come to later.

In April 1953 I was in Chicago. I'm not much of a traveler and that was the first time I was ever in Chicago (and I have returned since then only once) .I was there to attend an American Chemical Society convention at which I was supposed to present a small paper. That was little fun, so I thought I would liven things up by going to Evanston, a northern suburb, and visiting the offices of Universe Science Fiction. Universe Science Fiction.

This magazine was then edited by Bea Mahaffey, an extraordinarily good-looking young woman. (The way I usually put it is that science fiction writers voted her, two years running, the editor to whom they would most like to submit.) When I arrived in the office on April 7, 1953, Bea greeted me with great glee and at once asked why I had not brought a story for her with me.

”You want a story?” I said, basking in her beauty. .'I'll write you a story. Bring me a typewriter.”

Actually, I was just trying to impress her, hoping that she would throw herself into my arms in a spasm of wild adoration. She didn't. She brought me a typewriter.

I had to come through. Since the task of climbing Mount Everest was much in the news those days (men had been trying to scale it for thirty years and the seventh attempt to do so had just failed) I thought rapidly and wrote EVEREST .

Bea read it, liked it, and offered me thirty dollars, which I accepted with alacrity. I promptly spent half of it on a fancy dinner for the two of us, and labored-with so much success to be charming, debonair, and suave that the waitress said to me, longingly, that she wished her son-in-law were like me. the waitress said to me, longingly, that she wished her son-in-law were like me.

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