by Brian Meeks
Barry did indeed have Arthur's latté waiting and was already typing away when he arrived. They talked for a minute, and then Arthur forced himself to write.
Sloane Wolfe, driving south, sang along to Jim Croce. He couldn't carry a tune, but the desert wasn't a harsh critic. He had received a phone call from a colonel in the Air Force, who wanted him to look at a site they'd found.
Working for the Air Force wasn't the sort of thing he often did, but the consulting fee they offered made the rare occurrence well worth his time. He had never failed to be able to explain how such sites were hoaxes. There were always people who hoped to "discover" aliens in their backyard and to capitalize on the RV-driving crowd that lived for such things. Those people called him because the real scientists couldn't be bothered, and Sloane was discreet.
The glow of the work lights could be seen a mile away. A sergeant met him at the checkpoint and escorted Sloane into a tent.
The sergeant said, "Colonel, Mr. Wolfe is here."
Sloane extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel."
"I appreciate you getting here so quickly."
"I know you're anxious to get this wrapped up. What do you have for me?"
The colonel took him through a flap at the back of the tent. They walked about ten yards and came to the edge of a pit. Lights shone down into the pit, which looked like a glass bowl. A ten-yard-across glass bowl. Sloane knelt down and rubbed his hand across the surface. "When did you discover this?"
"About an hour before I called. We got a call from some guy who sounded drunk and scared. He wouldn't leave his name."
"Did you get the number?"
"Yes."
"I don't know how they did it, and I'll admit this is one of the more impressive," he made air quotes, "'landing spots' I've seen, but I'll figure it out. Is this the only thing you've found?"
"No, come with me."
They got into a Suburban with the windows blacked out. It seemed strange, but Sloane made it a policy to not ask about stuff that wasn't any of his concern. The colonel gave him a file with all of the results they had from tests of the site. Sloane found the fact interesting that the bowl's walls were two feet thick.
The car passed over what sounded like metal grating and then continued on for another half minute before coming to a stop.
The colonel said, "We called you because of your reputation for being thorough. I was told by a colleague that though you've never found a single shred of evidence to support alien life, you never rule out the possibility until you have proof of the hoax."
"The universe is a big place. If asked if I believe that there's intelligent life beyond Earth, somewhere out there, then I'd probably say yes. I believe in math, and with the billions and billions of galaxies, it seems likely. My problem is that I don't believe we've been around long enough for another life form to discover us. I also don't believe they'd decide to spend their vacation days to make the trip."
"What will you do if the day comes that you can't prove something is a hoax?"
"You mean if I actually discover an alien ship?"
"Yes."
"I guess I'll need to find a new line of work."
The colonel laughed and then opened his door. "I'll be interested to hear what you think of this, then."
Someone opened Sloane's door, and he got out.
He appeared to be standing in a massive hanger. There were rows of ships that looked like they were straight out of a J.J. Abrams movie. The colonel walked around the car. "What do you think?"
"I've never seen anything like it. You found this building with these just like this?"
"Not really. Here, follow me."
They walked around the front of the car and saw that there were more rows of ships. Sloane said, "This is pretty elaborate for a hoax. I can't say I've seen anything like it."
The colonel said, "That's what I was thinking. Would you like to see the rest?"
"There's more?"
Somewhere deep in Sloane's subconscious, warning bells were going off.
Barry asked, "How's it going?"
Arthur looked up. "I've just introduced Sloane to the aliens, but he doesn't know it yet. I suspect he should figure it out any minute now. How about you?"
"I'm rewriting a section I realized I had written in first person."
"Yes, it's important to pick first or third and stick with it. In fact, I think it's a law...or should be at the very least."
"I would hate to have a grammar crime on my record."
"The penalties are severe. I know of one repeat offender who was forced to read A Farewell to Arms over and over until he promised to never do it again."
"That's just cruel."
"Zero tolerance is the only way writers will learn."
"I haven't seen Kat in a while. Have you talked to her?"
"Yes, I sort of pissed her off a couple of days ago."
"What did you do?"
"I was myself. And then some. It's a bad habit I have, and I really should be given a correctional dose of Hemingway."
"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
Arthur's phone chirped.
It was a text from Kat, Cute cat...your apology is under review.
Arthur showed Barry his original text and her response.
Barry said, "You need to up the ante."
Arthur's thumbs said, Did I mention that Maltese insists I provide wine for visitors?
Kat replied, You did not. What sort of wine?
It varies. Maltese has expensive tastes and is a wine snob.
Kat texted back, Are you writing?
Yes.
Good. Text me Maltese's favorite cat treat.
Arthur showed Barry.
Barry said, "You're the man."
Arthur smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Arthur didn't recognize the number on his phone but was in a good mood and decided to give it a whirl.
"Hello, this is Arthur, or at the very least a remarkable facsimile."
A confused male voice asked, "Uh, hi. Is this an answering machine?"
"Nine times out of ten I'd say, 'Beep,' and then chuckle to myself. This time, it's actually me. What may I do for you?"
"My name is Bryce Jain. I'm a writer for the Sacramento Bee online edition."
"How's the online journalism business on a scale of one to purple?"
"I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm not sure you were meant to. This is the deal, Bryce, you've found me in a particularly good mood, and I'm feeling Puckish."
"Puckish?"
Arthur let out a little sigh. "When we're done you can Google it. So, what may I do for you?"
"Oh, yes. Well I wanted to ask if it is true that you've bet James Walcott a million dollars you can write a better book than him."
Arthur thought for a moment. He wasn't sure he wanted the world to know about his stupid bet. "Where did you hear that rumor?"
"I have my sources. Is it true?"
"Sacramento is a long way from New York. Why would anyone care if I did?"
"You know we read books in California, too?"
"Do you? I wonder. Are you familiar with The Bard of Avon?"
"No."
"Actually, I knew you weren't or you would have gotten Puckish."
"It's from A Midsummer Night's Dream."
"Why didn't you just say that?"
"I just Googled it. Now, will you answer my questions... please?"
"How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-five. Will you admit to a rivalry with Mr. Walcott?"
"Yes. We don't care for each other. I think he's an idiot and a horrible writer, and he thinks... Actually, if he could think, he would realize I was right, and we'd probably be best mates."
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Since I didn't say 'off the record' I believe you can without fear of litigation."
"Do you deny that there has been a wager?"
"I will neither confirm nor deny anythin
g of the sort."
"Why are you giving me such a hard time? It's going to get out, and I'm just trying to get your side of the story. I just want to get it right."
"Where did you go to school?"
There was a pause, and then Bryce said, "My early years were spent at McCarthy Elementary."
Arthur laughed. "Good answer. Okay, I'll give you a break. There was a friendly wager. I won't discuss the amount of the bet because it's not what's important."
"What is important, then?"
"Are you going to interview James?"
"I've got a call in to him, but I haven't heard back."
"So, you called him first. I'm hurt."
"Maybe I saved the best for last."
"Did you?"
"No. I just found his number before I tracked down yours. What's the important part of the bet if it isn't the money?"
"Who writes the best book."
"Who's judging the quality? I mean, isn't it subjective?"
"That's a fair point. We are letting John Q. Public judge."
Arthur heard Bryce mumble the name, and it was obvious he was writing it down. After another heavy sigh he said, "What I mean is that if the public likes my books, they will vote with their greenbacks."
"Oh, so, the winner is the one who sells the most books?"
"Yes, basically. Aren't you bored with this yet?"
"Not at all. May I ask you another question?"
"Sadly, I've grown bored, and I'm busy. You seem like a decent guy, but I need to get back to writing."
"I understand. Thanks for your time."
Arthur set his phone down and wondered if he had been too much of a jerk. He decided he had been the exact right amount of jerk and made himself a turkey sandwich.
The doorman had, per Arthur's request, sent him a text when Kat had arrived. When she knocked he said, "It's open, Kat."
She walked in, wearing khaki shorts, an oversized House of Blues—New Orleans tee shirt, and a pair of blue New Balance running shoes. She had a Louis Vuitton bag slung over her shoulder. It was casual in a way that was trying to tone down her looks...and failing. Arthur's heart was under assault, and he knew he was in trouble.
"Are you ready to start your crash course in publishing?"
"Will I need some sort of protective head gear?"
"You might."
Maltese came out from behind the couch and said, "Meow."
Arthur picked him up. "Maltese knows that I’m horribly sorry for being a jerk, but he wanted to make sure I said it to you."
Kat scratched Maltese's chin. "You're quite a handsome fella and a good judge of your human friend."
Arthur was a little jealous.
Maltese stretched his neck out and then pushed the top of his head into her hand. Kat said, "Come here, Maltese. Arthur promised me a glass of wine."
Maltese had no objection, and Arthur went to get a couple of wine glasses. "I have a cheesecake that may or may not have been delivered twenty minutes ago."
"Wine and cheesecake... Are you trying to get me to go easy on you?"
"Certainly not... Yes."
"I'll take a small piece." She set Maltese down. "Okay, lesson one."
"You're not messing around."
Kat sat down at the table with Arthur's laptop. "You'll need a program called Scrivener. Have you heard of it?"
"No. What does it do?"
"It's a program that will allow you to compile your novel for publishing in MOBI, ePub, and offset PDF."
Arthur put the cheesecake down in front of her. He saw she had Amazon up and was doing a search. "I have no idea what you just said. Was that English?"
"Here it is. It's only forty dollars, but if you like, you can download a free copy and try Scrivener out for thirty days. It's nice because the days are non-consecutive so if there's a day you don't use it...not that there would be..." She gave him a look. "Those days don't count."
"If you say I need it, go ahead and hit buy."
"Done. It's downloading now."
"That was an exhausting first lesson. We should take a break."
"The cheesecake is delicious. No break for you, sir."
"Won't it take a while to download?"
"Yes. What do you think MOBI, ePub and offset PDF mean?"
Arthur decided to go against his natural tendency to be flippant about everything and gave it some thought. "I would imagine the offset PDF has something to do with print books because of the spine. The other two have me stumped."
Kat took a journal and a pencil out of her bag. She started to write.
"What are you writing?"
"I'm giving you a point."
"Will this class be graded on a curve?"
She smiled at the joke. "You're right about the PDF file. It's used for publishing the print version. MOBI files are used to create the Kindle version, and ePub are for all the other venues like Barnes & Noble, Apple, Kobo, and Sony."
"So I have to learn how to publish three different ways?"
"It isn't as scary as it sounds."
"Are you familiar with the truism about aged canines and the impossibility of learning feats of prestidigitation?"
"These tricks aren't that hard to learn. I'm sure even an old dog, such as yourself, can handle it."
"I've never been in favor of learning."
"Said the professor."
"I think you'll find most students would agree that college is great, except for all those pesky classes."
"I'm sure. Compiling is actually quite easy once you know how. You'll need to make decisions about font style—I recommend Garamond Pro—about smart quotes vs. dumb quotes—of course you'll choose smart..."
"I hate dumb quotes, especially ones from celebrities."
She gave him another look. This one had more of a "stop messing around; your attempts at cleverness have been noted, but it's time to cease and desist" vibe.
"Sorry. Yes, the smart quotes have the curly tails on them, and dumb quotes are straight lines. The latter looks unprofessional."
"Two more points." She noted it in her journal. "Anyway...as I was saying, there are a lot of decisions one needs to make, but they can all be made a preset, so that when it is time to compile, you don't need to do much at all. I spend less than an hour on all three."
"That doesn't sound terrible."
"It's really not. I'll help you."
"That's comforting to know. I joke, but I really do appreciate you helping me."
"Do you know the best thing about being your own publisher?"
"More money?"
"Okay. Do you know the second best thing about being the publisher?"
"I have no idea."
"If someone ever finds a mistake—and they will—you can fix it, recompile in a few minutes, and upload the fixed version."
"I would hope that there wouldn't be any mistakes."
"I have a great editor and a massive team of beta readers. Without fail, someone somewhere will find a problem and mention it in a review."
"I'd be mortified if that happened."
"I was the first time, but I fixed it and then thanked her with a reply to her review. She said it was nice to know some authors read their reviews. That woman joined my mailing list and has read everything I've written."
Arthur got up and took their empty plates to the kitchen. "That's a nice save."
"Readers love authors who interact with them. I'm sure that people have seen that review, and some of them then read my reply. Lesson two is never respond to a review with anything but a sincere thank you."
"What if the reviewer is an idiot?"
"Then you should mock them until they get their friends all across the country to write other horrible reviews in other newspapers."
"Touché."
"This is important. You have to watch what you say on social media. The ease of leaving reviews, especially on Amazon, means people can tear down your book, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"I do
n't trust a book that only has five-star reviews."
"You'll earn some one-star reviews. It's unavoidable, but you don't want vindictive reviews from people who've never read your book."
"I don't think one negative review will kill me."
Kat held up her glass. "A few months ago, a woman wrote an op-ed piece saying she thought J.K. Rowling should basically step aside and let everyone else have a chance."
"That's absurd. Her books have turned a whole generation on to the joys of reading."
"Yes, it is, and the comments were brutal, but that's not all. The article went viral, and the especially avid Harry Potter fans took their revenge on the woman's books. All her books dropped from average ratings of between 3.8 and 4.1 to the low threes within days. Eventually they drove her books below three. I'm talking about going from having three one-star reviews to having more ones than fives."
"That's brutal. Was it just on the Kindle version?"
"The reviews for the print and Kindle versions are linked, but even if they weren't, it's the Kindle versions that count. Print sales don't matter."
"What?"
"That's not today's lesson. You're not ready for the truth."
"Are you saying I can't handle the truth?"
"You need me on that wire...you want me on that wire..."
"You truly are one of the Few Good Women."
"I'm not always good," she said with a wry smile.
Kat had the habit of slinging something flirty into the conversation when he least expected it. It always caught him off guard. Arthur asked, "Is the download done?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Arthur couldn't get a firm commitment from Kat to join him for dinner at the Salon. She had given him a maybe. Since the bet, he had been rather scarce, and when he arrived Mr. Jenkins greeted him warmly.
"Hello, Mr. Jenkins. How is my favorite salon operator?"
"Just fine, Mr. Byrne. We've missed you around here."
"I've been stringing words together in a series of sentences that may or may not be worth reviewing while sipping a brandy by the fireplace."
"That may or may not sound intriguing."
"Truth be told, I don't know if the science fiction readers are brandy drinkers."
