the floor. He held his head and groaned, 'My corporation! My wife!'
'There's always the Army,' said Graham.
MacDunlap looked up. 'What about Death on the Third Deck, the novel I rejected three weeks ago?'
'That doesn't count. It's past history. It's already affected him.'
'Without being published?'
'Sure. That's the story I mentioned his draft board in. The one that put him in 1 -A.'
'I could think of better places to put him.'
'MacDunlap!' Graham Dorn jumped up, and grappled MacDunlap's lapel. 'Maybe it can be revised.'
MacDunlap coughed hackingly, and stifled out a dim grunt.
'We can put anything we want into it."
MacDunlap choked a bit.
'We can fix things up.'
MacDunlap turned blue in the face.
Graham shook the lapel and everything thereto attached, 'Say something, won't you?'
MacDunlap wrenched away and took a tablespoon of cough syrup. He held his hand over his heart and patted it a bit. He shook his head and gestured with his eyebrows.
Graham shrugged. 'Well, if you just want to be sullen, go ahead. I'll revise it without you.'
He located the manuscript and tried his fingers gingerly on the typewriter. They went smoothly, with practically no creaking at the joints. He put on speed, more speed, and then went into his usual race, with the portable jouncing along merrily under the accustomed head of steam.
'It's working,' he shouted. 'I can't write new stories, but I can revise old, unpublished ones.'
MacDunlap watched over his shoulder. He breathed only at odd moments.
'Faster,' said MacDunlap, 'faster!'
'Faster than thirty-five?' said Graham, sternly. 'OPA* forbid! Five more minutes.'
'Will he be there?'
'He's always there. He's been at her house every evening this week.' He spat out the fine ivory dust into which he had ground the last inch of his incisors. 'But God help you if your secretary falls down on the job.'
'My boy, on my secretary you can depend.'
'She's got to read that revision by nine.'
'If she doesn't drop dead.'
'With my luck, she will. Will she believe it?'
'Every word. She's seen de Meister. She knows he exists.'
Brakes screeched, and Graham's soul cringed in sympathy with every molecule of rubber frictioned off the tires.
He bounded up the stairs, MacDunlap hobbling after.
He rang the bell and burst in at the door. Reginald de
* The Office of Price Administration was in charge of gasoline rationing at this period. Remember 'A' stickers? D.R.B.
Meister standing directly inside received the full impact of a pointing finger, and only a rapid backward movement of the head kept him from becoming a one-eyed mythical character.
June Billings stood aside, silent and uncomfortable.
'Reginald de Meister,' growled Graham, in sinister tones, 'prepare to meet your doom.'
'Oh, boy,' said MacDunlap, 'are you going to get it.'
'And to what,' asked de Meister, 'am I indebted for your dramatic but unilluminatin' statement? Confusin', don't you know.' He lit a cigarette with a fine gesture and smiled.
'Hello, Gramie,' said June, tearfully.
'Scram, vile woman.'
June sniffed. She felt like a heroine out of a book, torn by her own emotions. Naturally, she was having the time of her life.
So she let the tears dribble and looked forlorn.
To return to the subject, what is this all about?" asked de Meister, wearily.
'I have rewritten Death on the Third Deck.'
'Well?'
'The revision,' continued Graham, 'is at present in the hands of MacDunlap's secretary, a girl on the style of Miss Billings, my fiancee that was. That is, she is a girl who aspires to the status of a moron, but has not yet quite attained it. She'll believe every word.'
'Well?'
Graham's voice grew ominous, 'You remember, perhaps, Sancha Rodriguez?'
For the first time, Reginald de Meister shuddered. He caught his cigarette as it dropped. 'She was killed by Sam Blake in the sixth chapter. She was in love with me. Really, old fellow, what messes you get me into.'
'Not half the mess you're in now, old chap. Sancha Rodriguez did not die in the revision.'
'Die!' came a sharp, but clear female voice. 'I'll show him if I died. And where have you been this last month, you two-crosser?'
De Meister did not catch his cigarette this time. He didn't even try. He recognized the apparition. To an unprejudiced observer, it might have been merely a svelte Latin girl equipped with dark, flashing eyes, and long, glittering fingernails, but to de Meister, it was Sancha Rodriguez - undead!
MacDunlap's secretary had read and believed.
'Miss Rodriguez,' throbbed de Meister, charmingly, 'how fascinatin' to see you.'
'Mrs. de Meister to you, you double-timer, you two-crosser, you scum of the ground, you scorpion of the grass. And who is this woman?'
June retreated with dignity behind the nearest chair.
'Mrs.