"Oh, God," muttered Rubin, his eyes rolling upward in mute appeal.
Gonzalo said instantly, "Science fiction? That's what your friend Isaac Asimov writes, isn't it, Manny?"
"He's not my friend," said Rubin. "He clings to me out of helpless admiration."
Trumbull raised his voice. "Will you two stop having a private conversation? Go on, Roger."
"Have you written any science fiction?"
"I've tried, but I haven't submitted anything. I'm going to, though. I have to."
"Why do you have to?"
"I made a bet."
"What kind?"
"Well," said Peterborough, helplessly. "It's rather complicated-and embarrassing."
"We don't mind the complications," said Halsted, "and we'll try not to be embarrassed."
"Well," said Peterborough, and there appeared on his face something that had not been seen at the Black Widowers banquets for years, a richly tinted blush, "there's this girl. I'm sort of era-I like her, but I don't think she likes me, but I like her anyway. The trouble is she goes for a basketball player; a real idiot-six foot five to his eyebrows and nothing above."
Peterborough shook his head and continued, "I don't have much going for me. I can't impress her with chemistry; but she's an English Lit major, so I showed her some of my stories. She asked me if I had ever sold anything, and I said no. But then I said I intended to write something and sell it, and she laughed.
"That bothered me, and I thought of something. It seems that Lester del Rey-''
Rubin interposed. "Who?"
"Lester del Rey. He's a science fiction writer."
"Another one of those?" said Rubin. "Never heard of him."
"Well, he's no Asimov," admitted Peterborough, "but he's all right. Anyway, the way he got started was once when he read a science fiction story and thought it was terrible. He said to his girl, 'Hell, I can write something better than that,' and she said, 'I dare you,' and he did and sold it.
"So when this girl laughed, I said, 'I'll bet I write one and sell it,' and she said, 'I'll bet you don't,' and I said, 'I'll bet you a date against five dollars. If I sell the story, you go with me to a dinner and dance on a night of my choosing.' And she agreed.
"So I've just got to write the story now, because she said she'd go out with me if I wrote the story and she liked it, even if it didn't sell-which may mean she likes me more than I think."
James Drake, who had been listening thoughtfully, brushed his gray stub of a mustache with one finger and said, "Or that she's quite confident that you won't even write the story."
"I will," said Peterborough.
"Then go ahead," said Rubin.
"There's a catch. I can write the story, I know. I've got some good stuff. I even know the ending so I can give it that backward look you mentioned, Mr. Rubin. What I don't have is a motive."
"A motive?" said Rubin. "I thought you were writing a science fiction story."
"Yes, Mr. Rubin, but it's a science fiction mystery, and I need a motive. I have the modus operandi of the killing, and the way of killing but I don't know the why of the killing. I thought, though, if I came here, I could discuss it with you."
"You could what?" said Rubin, lifting his head.
"Especially you, Mr. Rubin. I've read your mystery stories-I don't read science fiction exclusively-and I think they're great. You're always so good with motivation. I thought you could help me out."
Rubin was breathing hard and gave every appearance of believing that that breath was flame. He had made his dinner very much out of rice and salad, plus, out of sheer famishing, two helpings of coupe aux marrons; and he was in no mood for even such sweet reason as he was, on occasion, observed to possess.
He said, "Let me get it straight, Joe College. You've made a bet. You're going to get a chance at a girl, or such chance as you can make of it, by writing a story she likes and maybe selling it-and now you want to win the bet and cheat the girl by having me write the story for you. Is that the way it is?"
"No, sir," said Peterborough, urgently, "that's not the way it is. I'll write it. I just want help with the motive."
"And except for that, you'll write it," said Rubin. "How about having me dictate the story to you. You can still write it. You can copy it out in your own handwriting."
"That's not the same at all."
' 'Yes, it is, young man; and you can stop right there. Either write the story yourself or tell the girl you can't."
Milton Peterborough looked about helplessly.
Trumbull said, ' 'Damn it, Manny, why so much on the high horse? I've heard you say a million times that ideas are a dime a dozen; that it's the writing that's hard. Give him an idea, then; he'll still have the hard part to do."
"I won't," said Rubin, pushing himself away from the table and crossing his arms. "If the rest of you have an atrophied sense of ethics, go ahead and give him ideas-if you know how."
Trumbull said, "All right, I can settle this by fiat since I'm the host, but I'll throw it open to a vote. How many favor helping the kid if we can?"
He held up his hand, and so did Gonzalo and Drake.
Avalon cleared his throat a little uncertainly. "I'm afraid I've got to side with Manny. It would be cheating the girl," he said.
Halsted said, "As a teacher, I've got to disapprove of outside help on a test."
"Tie vote," said Rubin. "What are you going to do, Tom?"
Trumbull said, "We haven't all voted. Henry is a Black Widower and his vote will break the tie.-Henry?"
Henry paused a brief moment. "My honorary position, sir, scarcely gives me the right to-"
"You are not an honorary Black Widower, Henry. You are a Black Widower. Decide!"
Rubin said, "Remember, Henry, you are the epitome of honest men. Where do you stand on cheating a girl?"
"No electioneering," said Trumbull. "Go ahead, Henry."
Henry's face wrinkled into a rare frown. "I have never laid claim to extraordinary honesty, but if I did, I might treat this as a special case. Juliet told Romeo, 'At lovers' perjuries/They say Jove laughs.' Might we stretch a point?"
"I'm surprised, Henry," said Rubin.
Henry said, ' 'I am perhaps swayed by the fact that I do not view this matter as lying between the young man and the young woman. Rather it lies between a bookish young man and an athlete. We are all bookish men; and, in our time, we may each have lost a young woman to an athlete. I am embarrassed to say that I have. Surely, then-"
Rubin said, "Well, I haven't. I've never lost a girl to-" He paused a moment in sudden thought, then said in an altered tone, "Well, it's irrelevant. All right, if I'm outvoted, I'm outvoted.-So what's the story, Peterborough?"
Peterborough's face was flushed and there was a trickle of perspiration at one temple. He said, "I won't tell you any of the story I've been planning except the barest essentials of the point I need help on. I don't want anything more than the minimum. I wouldn't want that, even, if this didn't mean- so much-" He ran down.
Rubin said, with surprising quietness, "Go on. Don't worry about it. We understand."
Peterborough said, "Thanks. I appreciate it. I've got two men, call them Murderer and Victim. I've worked out the way Murderer does it and how he gets caught and I won't say a word about that. Murderer and Victim are both eclipse buffs."
Avalon interrupted. "Are you an eclipse buff, Mr. Peterborough?"
"Yes, sir, I am. I have friends who go to every eclipse anywhere in the world even if it's only a five-percenter, but I can't afford that and don't have the time. I go to those I can reach. I've got a telescope and photographic equipment."
Avalon said, "Good! It helps, when one is going to talk about eclipses, if one knows something about them. Trying to write on a subject concerning which one is ignorant is a sure prescription for failure."