"Just to see me?"
"I--er--it was no trouble. I took a _skyorie_."
"A what?"
"May I come in?"
"Sure, sure, c'mon in. Have a chair. Drink?"
"No, thanks," he said, seating himself. "I'm afraid I've been--that
is--er--No, I don't believe so."
"I got your letter," I said, suddenly remembering. My awe at the
presence of the great man was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of
"Now, what the hell does he want?"
"And I got yours," MacDonald said. "That's why I'm here." He gazed at
my typewriter as though it were ready to bite him. "You didn't take my
advice?"
"Hardly," I said, rather flippantly. "Once the bug has bitten you--"
"Have you had anything accepted?"
I stared at the rug, hating the man for asking. "No, not yet," I
admitted grudgingly, "but--"
"Then the bug hasn't _really_ bitten you yet," he said. "You'll know it
when he does."
"I--uh--guess my letter was a bit--er--abrupt," I said, not knowing how
else to fill the silence.
"You were pretty mad," he admitted, "and I don't blame you; I should
have known better than to tell you that way. But in this game,
you've--well, you've got to learn to take criticism. If your work's
bad, admit it and throw in the towel."
"And mine's bad?"