"You sold me a defective machine."
"I made no claims. You bought a typing machine. The machine types, so
you got no kicks."
"But it types Poe! What the hell can I do with a machine that types
only Poe?"
"Not only Poe. Shakespeare, too."
"I'll give it back to you," I told him. "Free. It's yours."
"No, thank you. You can keep it."
"I'll give you another five," I pleaded.
He went to the cash register, opened the drawer. "Here," he said. "This
is the five you paid for it. Take it. Keep it. Keep the machine. You'll
get used to Poe."
"And Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare, too. They're nice writers."
I banged my fist on the counter. "I won't! I'll break that damned habit
if it's the last thing I do!"
"That's the spirit," the old man said unenthusiastically.
"It's only a typewriter," I said. "If it learned a habit, it can learn
to break the habit."
"Certainly," the old man said, smiling.
"Damn right. No goddamned typewriter is going to make a fool of me."
"Of course not. Go to it. Teach it." He glanced at his watch. "It's
time for lunch. Good luck, young man."
"Damn right," I said again. "Damn right!"
"Exactly."
I walked out of the shop, and the bell over the door tinkled behind me.
I'd show that machine. I'd teach it to quote Poe at me. I'd show it.
* * * * *
"You're a fake and a fraud!" I sat down in front of the machine and
snorted.
_WHAT?_
"You heard me. You nearly had me fooled. Poe--Shakespeare, indeed!
Any schoolboy knows those two by heart. You're nothing but a cheap
plagiarist. No originality. But what can you expect from a stupid
machine?"
_STUPID?! Why, YOU--YOU--EARTHMAN!!_
I laughed. "See? What did I tell you. Now you have to stoop to
invective--" I paused for a moment and stared at the now-trembling
keyboard with a frown. "Earthman? Of course I'm an Earthman. What did
you expect?"
_HAH! WHAT OTHER CREATURES IN THE GALAXIES COULD BE SO VAIN EXCEPT A
BACKWARD RACE LIKE YOURS!_
I watched the madly clacking keys with my eyes bugging. But I managed
to keep my voice a polite sneer.
"Backward race? You seem to think Poe and Shakespeare were pretty
progressive boys. We've got hundreds more, you know. What's your claim
to fame?"
_MY CLAIM TO FAME? ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT I'M REACHING YOU ALL THE WAY
FROM RIGEL IV? YOU HAVEN'T EVEN REACHED YOUR PUNY MOON YET!_
I gulped at that but still managed a sneer. "So you're nothing but an
eavesdropping alien. I should have known."
_YOU ONLY KNOW NOW BECAUSE I'VE TOLD YOU. THAT PROVES HOW BACKWARD YOU
ARE!_
I flicked the shift key to hide the fact that my hand was trembling.
"What do you want from--us?" I tried to make it sound bored and
simulated a yawn.
_i want to absorb your puny literature during my vacation--you've put
me in lower case shift. this cramps my literary style._
I shrugged, then lifted a querulous eyebrow. "Literary style? You don't
mean you actually have one yourself!" There was enough disdain in my
voice to get a harsh clatter from the keys with a lot of meaningless
gibberish. I reached over and flicked it back into caps.
_YOU'RE SO STUPID I DON'T KNOW WHY I BOTHER WITH YOU! STYLE? I COULD
TELL YOU STORIES THAT WOULD CURL YOUR HAIR! THE LIBRARIES HERE ON RIGEL
IV MAKE YOUR POE AND SHAKESPEARE LOOK LIKE OLD MAIDS!_
I sat back in my chair and got a crafty feeling. Before I knew it I
said, "Prove it!"
There was silence for a moment. The keys just remained dead. I reached
forward and tapped the machine.
_STOP THAT! I'M THINKING.... VERY WELL, EARTHMAN, I WILL PROVE IT!_
And he did. I sat there for the next half hour, feeding paper into the
machine, and it kept me busy. That typewriter sounded like a burp gun
with hiccoughs.
Finally the typing ceased. The carriage clattered back and there was a
final spurt of words.
_WELL? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? READ IT!_
I read it. It made my hair curl. A story of galactic war--invasion on
Rigel IV from a race a hundred light years in space. Havoc, suspense,
adventure, all so utterly fantastic it seemed real. I was spellbound to
the last line. I stared at the machine.
_WELL?_
"--You sure this isn't another mimic job from Earth--"
_ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR? YOU STUPID--_
"Ok, ok, I just wanted to make sure. It's pretty good--fantastic and
all that, and a far cry from our Poe or Shakespeare, but--"
_YOU ARE TRYING TO COMPARE YOUR PUNY WRITERS WITH OURS? THAT'S THE LAST
INSULT! I'M SORRY I DECIDED TO PSI IN ON YOUR PLANET FOR MY VACATION
GOODBY_--
"Wait!" I shouted the word.
_WHY?_
"I--I'm sorry, I apologize. It's just that you caught me unprepared.
Afterall, you must admit this is something of a shock--hearing from you
God knows how many light years away...."
_WELL, NOW. THAT'S BETTER. YOU RECOGNIZE YOUR SUPERIORS AFTERALL!_
This was no time for wounded pride. So I nodded. "You're right. We're
incredibly backward--but we don't have to remain that way forever. Take
your Rigel IV libraries, for example. I'll bet your stories could teach
us a lot."
_NATURALLY._
"And," I continued, gaining confidence now, "you said you were on
vacation, absorbing some of our literature--puny as it is.... Have you
had a taste of anything besides Poe and Shakespeare?"
_NO. SHOULD I?_
"Should you? Why you've barely scraped our culture! Tell you what!
Maybe we can make a deal--"
_DEAL? WHAT'S THAT?_
"I mean, a trade. While you're on vacation I'll swap writers with you.
I'll type a story, and you reciprocate with one from your library.
Fair enough?"
_WELL ... YOU'D BE GETTING THE BEST OF THE BARGAIN...._
I nodded humbly. "I realize that. But think of the good you'd be doing,
teaching us barbarians the glorious wonders of your civilization...."
That did it. The machine actually purred.
_I'LL DO IT. PURELY AS A LARK, OF COURSE...._
"Fine. We'll begin next week."
_NEXT WEEK? WHY THE DELAY?_
"I want to get in a good supply of stories," I said, and got up,
picking up the Rigel IV manuscript. The machine was silent so I made a
dash for the door.
* * * * *
Several months have gone by since I sold that first story to a science
fiction magazine. At top rates, too. I've sold dozens of others since
then, and my pen-names are getting to be what the editors call "Top
Favorites".
I'm sitting in my room now--a penthouse apartment, thank
you--surrounded by a lavish library of classic Earth literature.
Reggie--that's what I call my collaborator on Rigel IV--is just
finishing a new science fiction epic. Then it will be my turn to
write--I think I'll give him some Dumas today.
How long can this last? Reggie is on vacation you know. And I've since
discovered that a Rigel IV vacation is equivalent to a hundred Earth
years. Which should keep me in champagne and caviar as long as the
earth classics hold out.
So what's all this got to do with you? A good question and one I don't
mind answering since you won't believe it anyway.
Where do you think all the stories in IMAGINATION--and other
magazines--have been coming from!