The Early Asimov Volume 3 - By Isaac Asimov Page 0,10

a book publisher only a year.'

'Then why,' asked Graham patiently, 'don't you want to get rid of de Meister?'

'Because he is publicity.'

Graham stared blankly.

'Look! What other writer has a real detective? All the others are fictional. Everyone knows that. But yours - yours is real. We can let him solve cases and have big newspaper write-ups. He'll make the Police Department look silly. He'll make -'

'That,' interrupted Graham, categorically, 'is by all odds the most obscene proposal I have ever had my ears manured with.'

'It will make money.'

'Money isn't everything.'

'Name one thing it isn't...Shh!' He kicked a near-fracture

into Graham's left ankle and rose to his feet with a convulsive smile, 'Mr. de Meister!'

'Sorry, old dear,' came a lethargic voice. 'Cou'dn't quite make it, you know. Loads of engagements. Must have been most borin' for you.'

Graham Dom's ears quivered spasmodically. He looked over his shoulder and reeled backward as far as a person could reel while in a sitting position. Reginald de Meister had sprouted a monocle since his last visitation, and his monocular glance was calculated to freeze blood.

De Meister's greeting was casual. 'My dear Watson! So glad to meet you. Overjoyed deucedly.'

'Why don't you go to hell?' Graham asked curiously.

'My dear fellow. Oh, my dear fellow.'

MacDunlap crackled, 'That's what I like. Jokes! Fun! Makes everything pleasant to start with. Now shall we get down to business?'

'Certainly. The dinner is on the way, I trust? Then I'll just order a bottle of wine. The usual, Henry.' The waiter ceased hovering, flew away, and skimmed back with a bottle that opened and gurgled into a glass.

De Meister sipped delicately, 'So nice of you, old chap, to make me a habitue of this place in your stories. It holds true even now, and it is most convenient. The waiters all know me. Mr. MacDunlap, I take it you have convinced Mr. Dorn of the necessity of continuing the de Meister stories."

'Yes,' said MacDunlap.

'No,' said Graham.

'Don't mind him,' said MacDunlap. 'He's temperamental. You know these authors.'

'Don't mind him,' said Graham. 'He's microcephalic. You know these publishers.'

'Look, old chappie. I take it MacDunlap hasn't pointed out to you the unpleasanter side of acting stubborn.'

'For instance what, old stinkie?' asked Graham, courteously.

'Well, have you ever been haunted?'

'Like coming behind me and saying, Boo!"

'My dear fellow, I say. I'm much more subtle than that. I can really haunt one in modern, up-to-date methods. For instance, have you ever had your individuality submerged?'

He snickered.

There was something familiar about that snicker. Graham suddenly remembered. It was on page 103 of Murder Rides the Range:

His lazy eyelids flicked down and up. He laughed lightly and melodiously, and though he said not a word, Hank Marslowe cowered. There was hidden menace and hidden power in that light laugh, and somehow the burly rancher did not dare reach for his guns.

To Graham it still sounded like a nasty snicker, but he cowered, and did not dare reach for his guns.

MacDunlap plunged through the hole the momentary silence had created.

'You see, Graham. Why play around with ghosts? Ghosts aren't reasonable things. They're not human! If it's more royalties, you want -'

Graham fired up. 'Will you refrain from speaking of money? From now on, I write only great novels of tearing human emotions.'

MacDunlap's flushed face changed suddenly.

'No,' he said.

'In fact, to change the subject just a moment' - and Graham's tone became surpassingly sweet, as the words got all sticky with maple syrup - 'I have a manuscript here for you to look at.'

He grasped the perspiring MacDunlap by the lapel firmly. 'It is a novel that is the work of five years. A novel that will grip you with its intensity. A novel that will shake you to the core of your being. A novel that will open a new world. A novel that will -'

'No,' said MacDunlap.

'A novel that will blast the falseness of this world. A novel that pierces to the truth. A novel-'

MacDunlap, being able to stretch his hand no higher, took the manuscript.

'No,' he said.

'Why the bloody hell don't you read it?' inquired Graham.

'Now?'

'Well, start it.'

'Look, supposing I read it tomorrow, or even the next day. I have to take my cough syrup now.'

'You haven't coughed once since I got here.'

'I'll let you know immediately -'

'This,' said Graham, 'is the first page. Why don't you begin -it? It will grip you instantly.'

MacDunlap read two paragraphs and said, 'Is this laid in a coal-mining town?'

'Yes.'

'Then I can't read it. I'm allergic to coal dust.'

'But it's not real coal dust,