My agent was the one who got me the job of going along to write up the
first trip to Mars. He was always getting me things like
that--appearances on TV shows, or mentions in writers' magazines. If he
didn't sell much of my stuff, at least he sold _me_.
"It'll be the biggest break a writer ever got," he told me, two days
before blastoff. "Oh, sure there'll be scientific reports on the trip,
but the public doesn't want them; they want the _human_ slant on
things."
"But, Louie," I said weakly, "I'll probably be locked up for the whole
trip. If there are fights or accidents, they won't tell _me_ about
them."
"Nonsense," said Louie, sipping carefully at a paper cup of scalding
coffee. "It'll be just like the public going along vicariously. They'll
_identify_ with you."
"But, Louie," I said, wiping the dampness from my palms on the knees of
my trousers as I sat there, "how'll I go about it? A story? An article?
A _you-are-there_ type of report? What?"