I knew exactly what he meant. «So?»
«Well, her business manager said that was no way in which to greet the members of the press.»
«Why not?» I asked bitterly. «Are the newspapers recruiting fourteen-year-old boys these days?»
«Well, no,» said Martin genially. He was still seeing the humor of it. «It’s just that they’d fill their reports with descriptions of her dress instead of a description of her book. Anyway, he sent her up to change the dress. That meant the press would wander off unless something were thrown at it at once, so since I was there, they asked me to do my bit twenty minutes early. It couldn’t be helped, Darius, but,» (his voice dropped into confidentiality) «these conferences don’t mean a thing anyway.»
It wasn’t a catastrophe, you understand; nothing terrible had happened to me. I had missed out on a twenty-minute session that meant nothing, did not concern any book of my own, and would have bored me.
But I had been made to look foolish in my own eyes, and I could not relieve my feelings by blaming anyone. A woman had chosen an unsuitable dress, a business manager had objected, an interview secretary had taken the logical action, a friend of mine had cooperated—and as for me, I had been held up by traffic for just the right amount to be made a fool of.
If I had scooted through the Cross-North without delay, I would have been at the hotel by 4 p.m. and would have moved in with Martin, taking full credit for being early. If I had been delayed forty minutes instead of twenty, I would have missed the press conference in any case and the matter of its having been moved up would have been irrelevant.
As it was, though, I was furious, with no satisfactory vent for my fury. No one had deliberately wronged me. I didn’t have the heart to be angry with Martin, who had clearly been helpless, so I said, «Well, that’s all right,» and smiled unconvincingly.
I wandered off angry and sorry for myself—and was all the angrier because I knew in my heart that the hurt had been trivial and that I was being childish. I was wound up and all set to wait for someone against whom I could find some reasonable cause for resentment, and when that person was found, I would strike out, and strike hard.
And in taking that attitude, however justified it might have been in purely subhuman terms, I was laying down the biggest flagstone yet, and was beginning to set up my own responsibility for murder, one which might have been greater than that of anyone else—including that of the actual murderer.
3 MICHAEL STRONG 4:30 P.M.
The die was not yet cast, of course. I might have felt angry enough, or sufficiently humiliated, to go home and forget about the convention altogether.
But I didn’t. The fact was that there was always the chance, as at any convention, that I might meet an interesting woman. I had taken no hotel room of my own, living, as I did, close enough to the convention site to commute, or even walk. Still, the woman in question might have one and that would be convenient. I’ll admit I wasn’t in the mood at the moment, with the press conference fiasco settled darkly about my shoulders, but I knew from a reasonable amount of past experience that I could get into the mood, if necessary, without breaking my back.
And besides, I did want to look over the exhibitors’ booths, most of which (not quite all) were on the second floor of this particular hotel. According to the exhibitors’ guide, there were 600 booths occupied by about 350 exhibitors—a record. They were catering to an expected convention attendance of 12,000, also a record.
To me, it seemed delightful that there were so many attendees, almost all booksellers. Despite the existence of libraries and book clubs, booksellers remain the backbone of the field, the indispensable bridge between publishers and authors who produce the books and the public who reads them.
And, of course, the publishers compete with each other in catching the eye of the booksellers, who are, in turn, eager to find out what items it might be profitable to stock.
It’s hard sell for both publishers and authors. Every publisher crowds his display with garish exhibits of past successes and upcoming (it is to be hoped) sure-fire winners.
Not all the little promotion gimmicks are tasteful and authors are not above cooperating in some exercise of kitsch.
There are the sweaters on which the name of some book is stitched and then worn by some young woman who is a full size too large for the garment. The name curves over hill and dale in consequence and the hope is that those observing the scenery will see the name of the book as well.
There was the fellow I had passed on my way to the exhibitors’ section who had looked, at a distance, to be wearing chain mail. I had come closer out of astonished curiosity and it turned out that he was wearing a costume made out of the ring openers of beer cans. He was, of course, advertising a book, possibly his own, that was on the subject of the care and feeding of beer-can rings for fun and profit. I thought about it for a moment and then decided that anything that kept beer-can rings (and soft-drink-can rings) off the city streets and out of the greenery and onto the bodies of beer and soft-drink readers couldn’t be all bad.
There was also a fellow who wandered stolidly about the convention, from the first day to the last, dressed in an angel’s costume to publicize a book whose name I never quite caught. I saw him once or twice in passing but became conscious of him really when he made first page, second section, in the papers. They didn’t mention the book he was advertising either.
Then, of course, there were the press conferences, in which I had played so inglorious a part, and the autographing sessions—where favored authors signed books for all comers. (The books, of course, were freebies, since you don’t charge a bookseller—you smile at a bookseller.) So why not look at some of the displays, if only to stare hungrily at some of those sure-fire winners I spoke of and wish uselessly that one’s own book could be one of them.
My fifth book was coming out with Prism Press and I was hoping, quite earnestly, that it would do better than the first four and relieve me of some of the necessity of a too strictly hand-to-mouth existence.
To be sure, each of the four previous novels was a succes d’estime, which means each appealed to a level of critical acclaim that met the approval of a rarefied region inhabited by too few people to supply enough sales overall.
It’s a comfort, I suppose, knowing that my books would outlive all those trashy best sellers («trashy» is the standard adjective used by authors who don’t make this list) and that I will be appreciated after my death, but I hate having that death hasten my starvation.
With all of this, or some of it anyway, more or less in my mind, I was about to walk into the exhibitors’ room when I was brought up by the apologetic sound of a voice saying, «Do you have a badge, sir?»
My hand went automatically to my left breast and there was nothing there. My editor had sent me a badge in advance along with other paraphernalia and I knew I had brought them with me. I groped about in my various pockets and looked at the person who had spoken.
He was obviously a member of the hotel security staff. At least he was wearing a kind of uniform in tan; pants, shirt, and light jacket all the same color, plus a visored cap. The name of the hotel was over the left outer jacket pocket and the word «security» was under it. How much evidence does one need?
I judged him to be quite tall, about six feet, and his upper arms were well muscled. He had thin, light hair and I couldn’t see his eyelashes or eyebrows at all, they were so light. It gave his eyes a pink-rimmed, unprotected look. His chin was receding and the dimple in its center seemed to be for the purpose of marking its place. His face was somewhat freckled and he looked anxious.