There was a hard set to Junior's jaw. "The examples are not analogous. Spirits are preternatural—"
"Why don't we try another animal?" Newton cut in. "We can come back to the zebra later."
"Mule," Junior said sullenly.
Newton reddened, then realized that the boy was not being personal. He withdrew the volume covering Morphine to Opiate silently. He was somewhat shaken up by the turn events had taken. Imagine spending all his life believing in an animal that didn't exist. Yet of course it was stupid to swear by a horse with prison stripes....
" 'Mule,' " he read. " 'The offspring of the mare and the male ass. A very large, strong hybrid, sure footed with remarkable sagacity. A creature of folklore, although, like the unicorn and zebra, widely accepted by the credulous....' "
His son looked at him. "Horse," he said.
Newton somewhat warily opened Hoax to Imaginary. He was glad he wasn't credulous himself. "Right you are, Son. 'Horse—A fabled hoofed creature prevalent in mythology. A very fleet four-footed animal complete with flowing mane, hairy tail and benevolent disposition. Metallic shoes supposedly worn by the animal are valued as good luck charms, in much the same manner as the unicorn's horn—' "
Junior clouded up dangerously. "Now wait a minute, Son," Newton spluttered. "I know that's wrong. I've seen horses myself. Why, they use them in TV westerns—"
"The reasoning is specious," Junior muttered but his heart wasn't in it.
"Look, Son—I'll prove it. I'll call the race track. I used to place—I mean, I used to go there to see the horses. Maybe they'll let us visit the stables." Newton dialed with a quivering finger; spoke into the phone. A brief frustrated interchange later he slammed the receiver down again. "They race dogs now," he said.
He fumbled through the yellow pages, refusing to let himself think. The book skipped rebelliously from Homes to Hospital. He rattled the bar for the operator to demand the number of the nearest horse farm, then angrily dialed "O"; after some confusion he ended up talking to "Horsepower, Inc.," a tractor dealer.
Junior surveyed the proceedings with profound disgust. "Methinks the queen protests too much," he quoted sweetly.
In desperation, Newton called a neighbor. "Listen, Sam—do you know anybody around here who owns a horse? I promised my boy I'd show him one today...."
Sam's laughter echoed back over the wire. "You're a card, Brad. Horses, yet. Do you teach him to believe in fairies too?"
Newton reluctantly accepted defeat. "I guess I was wrong about the horse, Son," he said awkwardly. "I could have sworn—but never mind. Just proves a man is never too old to make a mistake. Why don't you pick something else for your pet? Tell you—whatever you choose, I'll give you a matched pair."
Junior cheered up somewhat. He was quick to recognize a net gain. "How about a bird?"
Newton smiled in heartfelt relief. "That would be fine, Son, just fine. What kind did you have in mind?"
"Well," Junior said thoughtfully. "I think I'd like a big bird. A real big bird, like a roc, or maybe a harpy—"
Newton reached for Possible to Rue.
THE TOASTER
Buoyed by my first sale, I kept writing. I submitted a long science fiction poem, "Strange is the Measure," to four markets and retired it. Then I wrote "The Toaster" and tried it on the leading SF magazine, Analog. That magazine, in its prior guise as Astounding, had been the light of my life in the late 1940's when I discovered the genre; how nice it would be to have one of my own stories represented on its hallowed pages! Alas, three and a half months later my story came back, rejected. I have always wondered how a magazine that publishes every month can take several months to consider a story; surely the editor should run out of stories at that rate! (The answer, of course, is the slush pile: that towering stack of unsolicited manuscripts from hopeful writers like me that the editor postpones reading as long as humanly possible. Editors don't take three months to look at my fiction today.) I tried it on Galaxy, and then on Fantastic, and finally on Cosmopolitan. All bounces, so I retired it, as I had run out of markets and postage adds up. Hopeful writers have to pay the postage both ways, you know, if they want to get their stories back. This, then, is a failed story; it has never before appeared in print. Is it worse than "Possible to Rue"? Only about one in four of my stories ever sold, which is one reason I had to graduate to novels. It was economics, not natural inclination, that forced the move—but once I had done it, I discovered that I liked being a novelist better than being a storyist. Some of my fans today don't realize that I ever did write stories.
The announcer bonged respectfully. "Speak your piece," the cheerful white-haired woman said briskly.
"Miss Porter to see Miss Porter," it said.
The woman frowned, but with a twinkle. "You make about as much sense as a cheese factory on the moon," she commented. "Now let's try it again, and this time use names."
The announcer paused in confusion, then got its circuits adjusted. "Miss Ophelia Porter is present at the subterranean access and has expressed the desire to pay a personal call on resident Miss Adelaine Porter."
"Why that's fine, just fine." Miss Porter busily smoothed her old-fashioned apron. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I'm already in, Auntie," a voice tinkled behind her. "I snuck into the 'vator while you were dickering with the blurt-box."
Miss Porter smiled without surprise and turned to face the girl. Ophelia stood in front of the freight receptacle, resplendent in purple pantaloons and a conical hat. Her dark hair was gathered into a single enormous braid, and her eyes were artfully shadowed. "Why do you think I stalled the contraption, dear? What on earth are you wearing?"
"Playsuit, Auntie. See?" Ophelia pirouetted into the center of the room, the sides of her garment parting to reveal her thighs.
Miss Porter snorted. "Seems to me you're still a little young for that sort of play. Nine years old—"
"Ten, Auntie. And I—"
The announcer rang urgently. "Miss Porter can not be—" It hesitated. "Miss Ophelia Porter can not be located," it said with mixed triumph and chagrin.
"Well, find her, Blurtbox," Ophelia exclaimed with impish glee. She knew that the announcer was too primitive to discern the difference between voices.
"It's a pleasure to serve you, madame," the machine said dubiously.
The old woman clapped her hands together sharply. "Don't call me 'madam,' you clamorous contraption. Get back to your business."
"Yes, Miss Porter," it said, cutting off quickly.
Ophelia had already made herself comfortable in the archaic couch. "When's it coming, Auntie?" she demanded. "The Toaster, I mean."
Miss Porter favored her with a mock frown. "I should have known you didn't come calling all by yourself out of love for your old maiden great-great aunt." She settled into a chair herself. "It's due at ten o'clock. That will be in a quarter of an hour. Why don't you run out and play for a little while, dear, while you're waiting?"
Ophelia looked baffled. "Outside?"
"Why certainly, dear. When I was a girl a century ago I used to delight in running through the forest paths, feeling the wind take my dress. When I was your age—"
"But Auntie—what about the radiation?"
Miss Porter looked up, surprised. "Dear me! I had forgotten about that. I suppose you can't go out these days."