* * * * *
I was thinking of that manuscript that'd blown out the window and I was
trying to remember whether I'd used a paper weight to anchor it down. I
was thinking of that gadget with buttons and I was realizing how this
mysterious Dugan'd slipped from one tense to another--which is a thing
all writers are conscious of and which began to have psychological
import for me.
But the most convincing thing of all was how the others were
looking at Dugan. Belcher was staring keenly from under his black
eyebrows--Belcher, who wrote that sort of stuff and who should have
been sophisticated. The little guy with the pipe was absolutely
electrified. I knew it couldn't be the story because the story was
lousy even for pulp.