Seicht, grunting: “Injection of fresh capital.”
A series of happy grunts and groans and moans and mumbles, kisses and giggles, and then silence.
Malcolm waited until he was sure they were both asleep again and the red glow of fury had disappeared from the world. He flexed the hand that had been trying to choke the screwdriver to death, and then he set about his task again. He wished it were possible to take the desk, too. Hell, to take the house and leave Marlene and Seicht to wake up in a vacant lot, surrounded by interested neighbors.
By five o’clock, he was home, the laser printer was set up, and his manuscript was printing at a steady rate of one page every five seconds. By the time Malcolm had finished shaving and showering, with regular stops to refill the printer’s paper tray, he had a complete copy of Business Secrets from the Stars, printed so beautifully that just to look at it was a pleasure.
He fixed himself a pot of coffee. He stared at the stack of crisp white pages that he hoped held his future success. He sipped his coffee. He breathed in the brisk, clean morning air blowing in the kitchen window. He even savored the rising traffic sounds, for soon, he was sure, he would be moving to a much more expensive, much quieter neighborhood.
It is a far, far better place I go to than I have ever been, he thought.
And you ain’t coming with me, Marlene.
* * * * *
Malcolm didn’t want to send any publisher a proposal — an outline and a few chapters — for Business Secrets from the Stars. No proposal could do his brilliant idea justice. Editors and marketeers had to see the whole thing to understand properly what a gold mine his gimmick was. So he scoured a few reference books and newsletters he subscribed to and came up with a fairly short list of publishers willing to look at complete unsolicited manuscripts.
He decided to be brave and aggressive and start with the most respected and feared of those on the list.
But for an instant his spirit failed him. When the fresh and beautiful pile of pages was properly rubber banded and cover lettered and sealed within a neatly addressed padded envelope, ready to go out into the world and make its intellectual daddy’s fortune for him, that daddy had a moment of doubt. He couldn’t help remembering the last manuscript he had sent out in just this way, with the very same high hopes.
That had been Mired in the Midlist, his grand comic novel about the wacky adventures of a failed writer trying to revive his career. The book had started out as a serious, grim mainstream novel, but he had decided it would be more entertaining as a comedy and had rewritten it accordingly. He had sent it to Judith Tillen, and she had replied quickly by letter explaining that the book was unamusing and unsalable and she was no longer his agent.
Her letter said, in part, “All humor proceeds from pain. Reading this manuscript, I can feel your pain. I can also see why I’ve had such limited success placing your work. You would probably be doing your career a great favor if you were to deal with an agent who was more in tune with your writing and more enthusiastic about marketing it.”
As she wrote that, she was thinking that Malcolm was a clueless twit as well as a talentless one and that she was far better off without him and that she was sure she’d never hear of him or anything he wrote again. After she sealed the letter, for some reason, she wasn’t sure why, she had an overwhelming urge to scour the city for a real Southern-style pecan pie.
Malcolm read her letter a few times. Circumlocuitousness tended to confuse him. One thing he had to say for Marlene: she never beat around the bush. He kept hoping he was misunderstanding Judith’s letter and that she really meant that she was enthusiastic about his writing and was eager to keep representing him.
Finally, he had no doubt left. Yes, she was dropping him. His agent was showing him the door.
And why? Because all humor proceeds from pain.
He said aloud, “All humor proceeds from pain? Jesus, Tillen, I thought it proceeded from the desire to make people laugh. So, well, fuck you. Some publisher will like this book. It’ll make me rich and famous. Then you’ll come crawling back.” He indulged for a few minutes in the inevitable fantasy of crawling agents and pleading editors. Then he decided to reread the manuscript of Mired in the Midlist to cheer himself up.
He discovered that it was dreck.
Why hadn’t he seen this before? Preferably before he mailed it to Judith Tillen?
The book was clumsy and sophomoric and completely unfunny. And embarrassing. The protagonist, Martin Everwrite, was transparently Malcolm himself, although better looking and far more successful sexually.
Malcolm read it all the way through, cringing at every page, and then he destroyed the manuscript. He would never try humor again. It proceeded from pain, and sometimes the pain was a bit too much.
So his hesitation when he was about to mail out the manuscript for Business Secrets from the Stars was understandable. But he stiffened his spine and took the bulky envelope to the Post Office.
The package came back to him almost by return mail. Attached to the manuscript was an angry letter which said in part, “Despite the current popularity of the belief that Hollywood actors are equipped to tell the rest of us how best to live our lives, we at Stuffy Press refuse to cater to that idea. Consequently, we will not be publishing any books claiming to explain how Hollywood stars run their businesses.”
This seemed to indicate some very personal sort of disillusionment with Hollywood on the part of the editor who had written the rejection letter. Perhaps it was evidence of a failed attempt at a movie career as an actor or screenwriter, a failure which still rankled badly. It was certainly evidence that no one had read the manuscript past its title.
This was disturbing but still not enough to make Malcolm think of changing the title. He sent the manuscript out again.
Not quite as quickly as Stuffy, but not much more slowly, Bandwagon Books returned the manuscript of Business Secrets from the Stars with a rather longer and much angrier letter, the gist of which was that channeling and the ancient and cosmic wisdom it brought to a needy human race were deserving of reverence and certainly not of parody.
Damn, Malcolm thought. They saw through me.
But he hit paydirt on his third try. Mammon House didn’t waste time on a letter. They called him at work. The editor introduced himself as Jim Emich and said, “This is great stuff! Our marketing people are going apeshit over it.”
“All over it?” Malcolm muttered. “Hope it’s still legible.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. So I guess this must mean we’re talking really big money here, right? Like maybe seven digits for the advance?” Millions, Malcolm thought. They gave themselves away with all that enthusiasm. I’ll get millions out of them, just like the big-time writers. I’ve made it at last!
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Emich’s voice returned, sounding weaker and less self-assured. “Well, no, Mr. Erskine. More in the four-digit range.”
Thousands, Malcolm told himself, coming back to Earth. I’ll get thousands out of this. Just like all of my other books. “I’ll think about it. I’ll get back to you.”
“Very soon, I hope,” Emich urged him. “We really want to get going on this, get the cover design started, the brochures. We want to have a complete presentation ready in time for the ABA convention.”
Oh? thought Malcolm. Really? The American Booksellers Association? Complete presentation? Brochures, eagerness, and he’s in a hurry?
“Seventy-five thousand, payable in full on signing of the contract,” Malcolm said firmly, but with his heart in his mouth. “That’s my requirement, not subject to negotiation.”
Emich, who, despite his mention of four figures, had been authorized to pay considerably more, hesitated for the sake of appearances and then agreed.
Malcolm hung up, leaped to his feet, bounded down the hall to the elevator, and left for the day.
For once, he left the building not feeling gloomy b
ecause he knew he would have to return the following morning. This time, he fairly floated through the revolving doors, glorying in the certainty that some morning, not too far away, he would be coming in only to empty his desk and leave the place forever.
Outside, in the air of freedom, Malcolm turned around to look back at the looming gray high-rise that housed the headquarters of the telephone company. Its top scraped the sky. Its bottom extended an unknown number of levels below ground. In between were the drones and workers and queen bees and, Malcolm had always suspected, vast, hidden safes filled with cash squeezed from the ratepayers of Arapahoe. He had been one of the drones, but it was to a far greater, plusher dronehood that fate now called him.
It was time to get out, anyway. The computer biz was changing, rushing forward at an ever-increasing pace. It was harder and harder to keep up professionally. At times Malcolm felt like a man running down hill, going faster and faster in a desperate attempt to keep from falling on his face. His legs were giving out.
Farewell! he caroled silently. Farewell to my career in telephony! Western Bell, you’ll have to survive without my negligible contribution!
The star-dwelling Merskeenians had come through for him. “Know this, O Starspawn,” as Lukas might have put it. “It is better to be on a free trajectory, in control of one’s own targeting, than to be in a captive orbit about a baleful star.”
“I’m off to better things,” Malcolm would tell Jim Leiter and all his coworkers, successful or otherwise, on his last day. “Got a better offer from the Andromeda Corporation.” They would understand that reference once his book came out.
* * * * *
This would be a fine time to take a drive through Redland Heights and admire the mansions and engage in a game of fantasy real-estate shopping. Redland Heights was one of Piketon’s oldest and most exclusive neighborhoods, a suburb of immense lawns, immense trees, immense cars, and immense houses. For years, Malcolm had dreamed about living there some day. He wished he could drive there now in his own immense and immensely expensive car, but that luxury awaited him in the future. For the time being, he would have to settle for his old Honda.
Unfortunately, his normally reliable Honda had been making the sort of odd noises one expects to hear only from an old American car, so he had taken it to be serviced a couple of days earlier, and now he would have to take a bus to the garage where he had left it.
It was a greasy, dusty, dirty garage, inhabited by subliterates in oil-stained uniforms who never laughed at his clever jokes and instead, he was sure, secretly laughed at his lack of knowledge about cars. Some day, he would have a servant who would drive his car to a garage for servicing and would pick it up again. A clean, airy garage owned by a fawning fan of Erskine books who would clean and polish the car without extra charge and would feel privileged at having the opportunity to do so.
Or maybe Malcolm would employ his own topnotch mechanic to take care of his fleet of beautiful luxury cars.
That was the life Malcolm deserved. That’s what Lukas would have told him.
He ran into Larry Lefkowitz on the way to the bus stop. His first impulse was to avoid the man, but today’s great change in his life had changed his attitude in many ways.
“Larry!” Malcolm said warmly, loudly. “Missed you at the last couple of workshops. I didn’t know you worked downtown.”
Lefkowitz, an inch shorter than Malcolm, nonetheless tilted his head back and looked down his nose at him. “I don’t. I don’t work at all any more. My wife supports me because she believes in my work. I’m here doing research.” He gestured at the few office workers strolling along the sidewalk. “Examining these creatures.” His lip curled. “I want to be accurate, show them for what they are. Before they’re strung up. Before the revolution.”
“Oh, is that still on its way? The revolution?”
Larry looked outraged. “Of course it is! But I’m talking about what happens in my novel. When my book comes out, it will probably be what starts the real revolution.”
Malcolm knew which novel Lefkowitz was talking about. The usual one. The one he had been working on for years and years. It kept getting longer. Judging from the chapters he occasionally presented at the workshop, it also kept getting sillier. “Ah, The Second American Revolution.” What an original title, Malcolm thought, and he barely stifled a giggle.
“I’m thinking of changing the title,” Lefkowitz said. “I’m thinking of calling it Baissez les Lanternes!” At Malcolm’s blank stare, Lefkowitz said, “Lower the Lampposts! In French. That was your idea.”
“Oh, right. I guess you must have liked the idea a lot, then.”
“Well, yes.” Lefkowitz looked uncomfortable.
He’s going to spend his whole life writing and rewriting this garbage book, Malcolm realized. The manuscript will end up thousands of pages long. And with a French title, too! No one’s going to read it. No one’s going to publish it. He’s going to die bitter and unknown and unrecognized and filled at last with a realization of his own worthlessness.
Malcolm actually felt slightly sorry for the fool. A nice gesture wouldn’t hurt. “Tell you what. When you have a publisher lined up, let me know. I’ll be happy to give you a cover quote.” A painless offer to make, given that there would never be a publisher.
Horror filled Lefkowitz’s face for an instant, and then he took control of his expression again. “Uh, thanks. I’ll let you know. I’ll, um, have my editor send the manuscript to you. Gotta go.”
Oh, encourage the kid, Malcolm told himself. Before Lefkowitz could leave, Malcolm said, “Or you could send it to me now and I’ll give you a quote based on what you already have. That will probably help you sell the book, you know.”
“Right. Right. Thanks. Um, I want to sell it on its own merits. Um, well...” He waved limply and rushed away.
Twit, Malcolm thought. Untalented drudge. Feet stuck to the ground, just like the rest of them.
Then he remembered what the twit had said about his wife supporting him because she believed in his work. If not for today’s telephone call, all of Malcolm’s old gloom would have returned. As it was, he was able to force himself to shrug and wish Lefkowitz the best and only wonder for a moment what Mrs. Lefkowitz looked like.
During the bus ride to the garage, Malcolm stared out the window next to him dreamily and did mental sums. He owed slightly over fifteen thousand dollars on the house and five hundred on the car. So he would now be able to pay those loans off, and pay the taxes, and still have enough left to live on for at least a year — a year during which he could write his fingers to the bone, working to capitalize on whatever success Business Secrets from the Stars achieved.
His idyllic fantasy was interrupted when a young woman got on and sat down next to him. Malcolm glanced idly at her and then looked more carefully. Dusky skin. Black hair that lightly brushed her shoulders. Malcolm’s breathing and heart rate sped up.
Hi, I’m about to become a famous, bestselling author. Would you like to come home with me and spend the night? Or would you rather go out to dinner first?
While he tried to devise a more promising opening line, she reached into her purse and pulled out a thick hardcover novel and quickly became absorbed in it. He read the title, Elephantus, and turned back to the window, grinding his teeth.
His dentist had once warned him that his teeth had odd gouges on the biting surfaces. Mysterious, his dentist had said. It was no mystery to Malcolm.
Elephantus was Joe Hoffman’s latest. It was some sort of absurd thriller about a pack of mutant miniature elephants devastating a fictional Rocky Mountain city until a brave hero defeated them and won the fair maiden. No doubt Hoffman imagined himself as the hero, the prick. What need did he have for such fantasies, with that wife of his? And girls like this one reading his book with fascination. Lots of other people were reading it in fascination, too, apparently. The idiotic book was a goddamned bestseller.
Malcolm stopped grinding his teeth and clen
ched his jaw so hard that his jaw muscles ached.
Mutant elephants!
Malcolm snorted in disgust.
The young woman glanced at him in annoyance and then returned immediately to the oh-so-fascinating bestseller by the oh-so-wonderful Hoffman.
A made-up city in a made-up state!
Malcolm snorted again.
What a moron Hoffman was! At least when Malcolm set any part of his fiction on Earth, he used real cities. Usually famous ones he had never visited, on the assumption that editors and readers would find those more interesting than dreary Piketon. But that was what libraries were for, he thought self-righteously. That’s how you came up with realistic depictions of places you hadn’t actually seen. Real writers did real research. What would Joe Hoffman know about any of that, though? He was fake on every level.
“Fake,” Malcolm muttered.
This time, the young woman didn’t even grace him with an annoyed glance. She was so immersed in the wonderful Hoffman’s wonderful novel that she hadn’t heard Malcolm at all.
Maybe Hoffman’s afraid to use a real setting, Malcolm thought. That was probably it. He was afraid he’d insult some real person and get in trouble, or he just didn’t trust himself to depict a place readers might actually know. They’d catch on to his ineptitude right away.
Malcolm had always suspected that Hoffman didn’t want to take any real literary chances. He didn’t have the kind of intellectual courage Malcolm had.
That’s because I’m a real writer and he isn’t, Malcolm thought. And once Business Secrets from the Stars comes out and I hit the big time, everyone in town will know it.
He felt better now. He smiled condescendingly at the foolish young woman. She just needed educating.
Sensing his stare, she looked up at him. At first annoyed, she relented and gave him a friendly smile. “Are you a Hoffman fan, too? He’s the greatest science-fiction writer there ever was, isn’t he? And this whole idea of a made-up city in a made-up state? Brilliant! That’s so much harder than setting a story in a real place and time, you know. Any hack can do that.”
Business Secrets from the Stars Page 11
