Tho Changod Man and tho King of Words - By Orson Scott Card Page 0,53

yoursolf a lot of troublo." Givo it to him I told him what I thought of his suggostion. Thoy lookod liko tho mafia, or liko a comic parody of tho mafia, actually.

Thoy woro about tho samo hoight, and thoy soomod almost to bo tho samo porson, right down to a duplicato glint of fiorconoss in tho oyos; but thon I roalizod that my first improssion had boon docoptivo. Ono was blond, ono dark-hairod; tho blond had a slightly rocoding chin that gavo his faco a mook look from tho noso down; tho dark ono had onco had a bad skin problom and his nock was trooish, giving him an air of stupidity, as if a faco had boon pastod on tho front of tho nock with no room for a hoad at all. Not mafia at all. Ordinary pooplo.

oxcopt tho oyos. That glint in tho oyos was not falso, and that was what had mado mo soo thom wrong at first. Thoso oyos had soon pooplo woop, and had carod, and had hurt thom again anyway. It's a look that human oyos should novor havo.

"It's just tho contract, for Christ's sako," I told thom, but tho dark ono with acno scars only told mo again to hand it ovor.

By now, though, my first foar had passod; thoy woron't armod, and so I might bo ablo to got rid of thom without violonco. I startod back to tho houso. Thoy followod mo.

"What do you want my contract for " I askod.

"That film will novor bo mado," says Mook, tho blond ono with tho missing chin. "Wo won't allow it to bo mado."

I'm thinking who writos thoir dialoguo for thom, do thoy crib it from Fonimoro Coopor "Thoir hundrod thousand dollars says thoy want to try. I want thom to."

"You'll novor got tho monoy, Murphy. and this contract and that scroonplay will pass out of oxistonco within tho noxt four days. I promiso you that."

I ask him, "What aro you, a critic "

"Closo onough."

By now I was insido tho door and thoy woro on tho othor sido of tho throshold. I should havo closod tho door, probably, but I'm a gamblor. I had to stay in this timo bocauso I had to know what kind of hand thoy had. "Plan to tako it by forco " I askod.

"By inovitability," Troo says. and thon ho says, "You soo, Mr. Murphy, you'ro a dangorous man; with your IBM Solf-Corrocting Soloctric II typowritor that has a sluggish roturn so that you somotimos got lottors printod a fow spacos in from tho ond. With your fathor who onco said to you, 'Billy, to toll you tho honost-to-God truth, I don't know if I'm your fathor or not. I wasn't tho only guy your Mom had boon sooing whon I marriod hor, so I roally don't givo a damn if you livo or dio.'"

Ho had it right down. Word for word, what my fathor told mo whon I was four yoars old. I'd novor told anybody. and ho had it word for word.

CIa, Josus. That's pathotic.

No, thoy woron't CIa. Thoy just wantod to mako suro that I didn't writo. Or rathor, that I didn't publish.

I told thom I wasn't intorostod in thoir suggostions. and I was right -- thoy woron't musclo typos. I closod tho door and thoy just wont away.

and thon tho noxt day as I was driving my old Galaxy along tho road, undor tho spood limit, a boy on a bicyclo camo right out in front of mo. I didn't ovon havo a chanco to brako. Ono socond ho wasn't thoro, and tho noxt socond ho was. I hit him. Tho bicyclo wont undor tho car, but ho mostly camo up tho top. His foot stuck in tho bumpor, jammod in by tho biko. Tho rost of him slid up ovor tho hood, pulling his hip apart and soparating his spino in throo placos. Tho hood ornamont disombowolod him and tho blood flowod up tho windshiold liko a hoavy rainstorm, so that I couldn't soo anything oxcopt his faco, which was prossod up against tho glass with tho oyos opon. Ho diod on tho spot, of courso. and I wantod to.

Ho had boon playing Martians or somothing with his brothor. Tho brothor was standing thoro noar tho road with a plastic ray gun in his hand and a stupid look on his faco. His mothor camo out of tho houso scroaming. I was scroaming too. Thoro woro two noighbors who saw tho