"Shut up, Max," he yawned. "I was just having a little fun."
"Fun-schmun. It's _my_ job!"
"Come off it, Maxie. Okay. Tell you what. The first outline you sent me
about the Kiriki and their habits isn't nearly complete enough. Have
that boss of yours dream up a more complete dossier, just for little
ole me. I like those Kiriki, they're such smug, heartless devils."
"Listen, Starr's hot for them. He'll buy anything glorifying the
Kiriki. They're his little dream-babies."
"Sure, sure. Here's what you do, Maxie. Get Starr to make me out a
complete dossier on them, but complete. You know me. I like to use
the little out of the way touches like what color they paint their
toenails. I'll give him some stuff that will curl his eyebrows. Okay?"
"No more tricks?"
"Cross my cast-iron heart."
"Okay, Ric. But remember, Ric rhymes with tic."
"How's that?"
"Never mind."
* * * * *
The moment Alice walked in my office I knew she was for me. I guess
every guy has a girl all built up in his imagination, a girl who is and
has everything he likes. Alice Corey was mine. Soft blue eyes, lots of
brown wavy hair, a little well-shaped nose, and let's just say the rest
of her was well-shaped, too. It was all there, including a lot of hard
to define details of speech and manner that were exactly right. Maybe
it was chemical, or maybe it just added up to every dream I'd ever had
about my ideal girl.
"My name is Alice Corey," she said, with soft violins in the
background. "I understand you need an editorial secretary." She went on
briskly, when I found myself speechless, "I worked two years with Tower
Periodicals in London and--"
"You're hired," I said.
"But those other girls waiting outside?"
"Would you please inform them that the job's filled--Alice?"
I had to deal with the boss about Alice. He didn't like her. She
was too pretty, he thought. Couldn't be efficient. He went over her
background with a fine-tooth comb. He found fault with most everything
about her. But I stuck to my guns. He had his Kiriki. Alice was mine
and I was damned if I would leave her out of my sight. She filled my
working hours with golden sunshine and my nights with platinum dreams.
What's more, she _was_ efficient. And she would work until twelve the
night before a deadline without a murmur. She was diffident about
having dinner with me, first, but as time went by we spent many an
evening together, strolling in the park listening to the carousel or
sipping chocolate sodas at Howard Johnson's. Alice didn't talk much,
but she was a good listener. I must have told her everything I had ever
thought or done during those evenings.
I was in such a sublime spin these days I forgot to worry about
Wallace Starr's peculiarities. The questions that had sprouted in my
subconscious began to fade. I did what I was told. So, strangely, did
Ric Planter. I supplied him with a detailed outline which Starr made up
about the Kiriki. That wasn't enough so we sent him another, with even
more details.
He kicked through with story after story about the Kiriki. Big dramatic
stories, and in each one the Patterned Contentment boys were built up
higher than in the last.
Starr purred like a kitten. He raised Planter's word-rates and my
salary.
_Orion_ caught on.
* * * * *
The fans loved the idea of a pseudo-history of a whole constellation of
systems. The Kiriki, with their breathtaking crusade of contentment,
sweeping over system after system until finally it outdistanced Orion
and tentacled out from their home system into deepest space.... It
captured the imagination. Where would it end?
Eventually we hit _Life_ magazine, with a big spread. The slicks
went after Ric Planter, but Starr had him tied up with an iron-clad
contract. After all, the conception was Starr's. And I could see why
he wouldn't let Planter hit the slicks. Because _he_ could not dictate
their policies. Only in _Orion_ could he manipulate the strings from
behind. The Kiriki were his babies and they must follow _his_ pattern.
The night before our anniversary issue went to press it happened.
I had left Alice on her doorstep, just off the Drive. It was almost
midnight, a blazing hot July night. Everybody and his dog was out for
a breather. The Drive was alive with young lovers, old lovers, and dog
lovers.
It hit me. In my hurry to get away from the office I had neglected to
check with Starr about a last minute cover change. Starr hadn't been in
all day. The printers would be closing the forms first thing in the
morning and I had let the change go through without Starr's okay. Starr
never came in until eleven.
I found a Whalen Drug Store and phoned Starr. No answer. I called the
operator and found out the line was temporarily out of order.
On impulse, I snagged a cross-town bus. I had never been to Starr's,
never been invited or particularly wanted to visit him. He lived in a
loft not far from Third Avenue.
It was an ordinary type building of ancient vintage. It would never cop
an Oscar for beauty, nor did it smell from Chanel No. 5. I made my way
up in the half-dark from one landing to another without enthusiasm.
I don't know just what it is about musty office buildings, after
they've been darkened and bedded down for the night; it isn't anything
calculated to cheer. Six flights, and no elevator after eight.
I could see right away that Starr loved to be alone. Most of the
upper-floor offices were empty. My mind snagged hold of some creepy
ideas as I mounted those stairs. I thought about Starr's odd ways,
his odd voice, for that matter. As if he had a machine down in his
throat, a talking machine designed by a clever somebody who had once
heard a human voice. About how hepped Starr was on the Kiriki, how
painstakingly he had drawn them. He talked about them as if they were
real. Of course, being a science fiction writer myself, I understood
that brand of wackiness, or thought I did.