by Jerry Sohl
After all, I didn'tknow anything about literature.
Sometimes, when he'd get stuck, he'd get down and pace the living roomrug. Other times he'd massage his tail, which was as long as he,smoothing it with his tongue and meticulously arranging every hair onit.
"It's lovely, don't you think?" he often asked.
And I'd say, "If you spent as much time working on this story as youdo admiring your tail, we'd get something done."
]
"Sorry," he'd say, hopping on my shoulder again. "Where were we?"
I'd read the last page and we'd be off again.
* * * * *
One day, Trlk crawled on a shelf to watch me shave, whiffed theshaving lotion bottle, became excited and demanded I put a drop of itin front of him. He lapped it up, sank blissfully back on his tail andsighed.
"Wonnerful," he squeaked. "Shimply wonnerful." He hiccupped.
I let him sleep it off, but was always careful with the lotion afterthat.
Days stretched into weeks, my money was running low and the apartmentsuperintendent was pressing me for payment of the month's rent. I kepttelling him I'd pay as soon as the first checks came in.
But only rejection slips came. First one, then two, then half a dozen.
"They don't even read them!" Trlk wailed.
"Of course they read them," I said. I showed him the sheets. They werewrinkled from handling.
"The post office did that," he countered.
I showed him coffee spots on one page, cigarette burns on another.
"Well, maybe--" he said, but I don't think anything would haveconvinced him.
When the last story came back, Trlk was so depressed, I felt sorrierfor him than I did for myself.
It was time. We had been working hard. I got out a bottle.
I poured a little lotion for Trlk.
The next afternoon, we tackled the problem in earnest. We went to thelibrary, got a book on writing and took it home. After reading it fromcover to cover, I said, "Trlk, I think I've found the trouble withyour stories."
"What is it?"
"You don't write about things you know, things that happened to you,that you have observed." I showed him where it advised this in thebook.
His eyes brightened. We went right to work.
This time the stories glowed, but so did my cheeks. The narratives allinvolved a man who lived in a hotel room. They recounted the seeminglyendless love affairs with his female visitors.
"Why, Trlk!" I exclaimed. "How come you know about things like this?"
* * * * *
He confessed he had lived with such a man, a freelance writer whonever made the grade with his writing, but who had plenty of girlfriends who paid the freight.
"He had a way with women," Trlk explained.
"He certainly had," I said, reading again the last page he haddictated.
"He finally married an older woman with money. Then he gave up tryingto write."
"I don't blame him," I said wistfully.
"I had to find another writer. This time I decided to try a newspaper.That's where I ran into you."
"Don't remind me."
Things got better after that. We began to get a few checks frommagazines. They were small checks, but they paid a few bills.
The big blow fell, however, when Mr. Aldenrood, the superintendent,came roaring upstairs one day clutching a sheaf of papers.
"This stuff!" he screamed, waving the sheets before me. "The kidsfound it in the waste paper. They're selling them a dime a sheetaround the neighborhood."
"They're worth more than that," I said, regretting that Trlk and Ihadn't burned our rough drafts.
"You're going to move," Mr. Aldenrood said, "at the earliest possibleinstant." His face was apoplectic. "I'm giving you notice rightnow--thirty days!" He turned and went out, muttering, "The idea ofanybody committing to paper--" and slammed the door.
Two days later, I was seated at the typewriter, smoking a cigaretteand waiting for Trlk as he paced back and forth on the rug, tiny pawsclasped behind his back, talking to himself and working out a storyangle at the same time, when suddenly there appeared on the carpetnext to him a whole host of creatures just like him.
I nearly gulped down my cigarette.
Trlk let out a high-pitched screech of joy and ran over to them. Theywound their long tails around each other, clasped and unclasped them,twined them together. It seemed a sort of greeting. Meanwhile, theykept up a jabber that sounded like a 33-1/3 rpm record being played 78rpm.
Finally, the biggest one detached himself from the group and gave Trlka tongue-lashing that would have done justice to a Phipps. Trlk hunghis head. Every time he tried to say something, the big one wouldstart in again.
* * * * *
At length the leader turned to me. "My name is Brknk, pronouncedburk-neck and spelled b-r-k-n-k."
"And I'm Larry Weaver," I said, hoping they weren't relatives who weregoing to stay. "That's pronounced Lar-ree--"
"I know. We're from Sybilla III. Tourists. We include Earth in ouritinerary. It has some of the quaintest customs of all the inhabitedplanets we visit. We're terribly sorry for all the inconveniences ourwayward Trlk here has caused you."
"It was nothing," I said with a lightness I didn't feel.
"Trlk had threatened to run off many times. He has a craze forself-expression and your literature fascinates him. He has aninsatiable thirst--"
"I know."
* * * * *
He turned to Trlk. "It's against the rules of the Galactic Tours tomake yourself visible to any of the inhabitants along the way. Youknow that. And it's a prime offense to interfere with their lives. Doyou realize how many rules you have broken, how long we have beenlooking for you?"
"He did the best he could," I said hopefully. "As a matter of fact, wewere having considerable success with his--a literary project."
"I understand you lost your job because of him. Is that right?"
"Yes, but I encouraged him." I hoped there was some way I could easethe sentence.
"Trlk has committed grievous wrongs, Mr. Weaver. We must make it up toyou."
"Oh?" Here was an angle I hadn't expected.
"What can we do for you?"
I considered a moment. "You mean a wish or something?"
Brknk laughed. "Nothing like that. We're not magicians."
"Well, I could stand a little cash."
"I'm sorry," he said, and did look pained. "We can't interfere inbusiness. We don't have any of your currency and we are forbidden toduplicate or steal it."
He frowned and studied me. Suddenly his face brightened. He bawledorders and several smaller Sybillians rushed forward and startedscampering all over me. One of them nipped a piece of flesh out of myarm.
"Ouch!" I yelped, rubbing the spot. "What are you doing?"
"You humans are a proud race," Brknk explained. "I'll give you reasonto be prouder than the rest. We'll change your metabolism, yourendocrine balance, toughen your muscle fibers a thousandfold. We'llmake you the strongest man on Earth!"
"Look," I said, "I don't want to be the strongest man on Earth."
"Well, how about the world's champion boxer? We can speed up yourreflexes at least ten times."
I shook my head. "I don't want that, either. Sounds too much likework. Besides, I never liked getting into fights."
Brknk scowled, called a huddle. They buzzed at each other, their tailsvibrating like mad. One of them finally yipped and everybody spunaround.
Brknk beamed. "We've got it!"
"What is it?"
A little Sybillian I hadn't noticed jabbed something in my arm. Iwinced and he nearly fell off. He retreated with injured pride.
"Come along, Trlk," Brknk said.
"What's supposed to happen?" I asked.
"It will be a glorious surprise," Brknk assured me. "You'll neverregret it. The only thing I ask is that you
never tell anyone aboutus."
I promised.
Trlk looked up at me. I noticed the beginning of tears in his eyes. Ireached down and patted him gently on the head.
"So long, little fellow," I said. "It's been fun."
"Good-by," he said sorrowfully.
They vanished.
Nothing happened for several days, so I bought a copy of _Editor andPublisher_ and was writing for my first job when I felt a tender spoton my tail bone. When I examined it, I saw a protuberance there.
There
