"Yes?" the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been vacuuming; there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner… its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had not vanished in 1950 as was thought.
Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, "Mrs. Dowland?" The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. "I'm a fan of your husband's monumental -" Oops, he thought, that wasn't right. "Ahem," he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. "Tsk-tsk," he said. "What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat." He smiled hopefully.
"You know Jack's work?" She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.
"On the telly," Slade said. "Fine scripts of his." He nodded.
"You're English, are you?" Mrs. Dowland said. "Well, did you want to come in?" She held the door wide. "Jack is working right now up in the attic… the children's noise bothers him. But I know he'd like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You're Mr. -"
"Slade," Slade said. "Nice abode you possess, here."
"Thank you." She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. "JACK!" she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. "THERE'S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!"
Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person's steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. "I'm at work," he said curtly. "Even though I do it at home it's a job like any other." He gazed at Slade. "What do you want? What do you mean you're a 'fan' of my work? What work? Christ, it's been two months since I sold anything; I'm about ready to go out of my mind."
Slade said, "Jack Dowland, that is because you have yet to find your proper genre." He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.
"Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?" Mrs. Dowland asked.
"Thank you, miss," Slade said. "Jack Dowland," he said, "I am here to inspire you."
"Where are you from?" Dowland said suspiciously. "And how come you're wearing your tie that funny way?"
"Funny in what respect?" Slade asked, feeling nervous.
"With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam's apple." Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. "And why's your head shaved? You're too young to be bald."
"The custom of this period," Slade said feebly. "Demands a shaved head. At least in New York."
"Shaved head my ass," Dowland said. "Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?"
"I want to praise you," Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him – he was not being treated properly and he knew it.
"Jack Dowland," he said, stuttering a little, "I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I'm your muse." He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.
Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.
Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, "Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren't all muses female?"
"No," Slade said angrily. "Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male." He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. "Listen to me, Jack Dowland -"
"For God's sake," Dowland said, "either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it's not natural the way you're talking. Are you on tea or something?" He sniffed intently.
"Tea," Slade echoed, not understanding. "No, just a beer, please."
Dowland said, "Well get to the point. I'm anxious to be back at work. Even if it's done at home it is work."
It was now time for Slade to deliver his encomium. He had prepared it carefully; clearing his throat he began. "Jack, if I may call you that, I wonder why the hell you haven't tried science fiction. I figure that -"
"I'll tell you why," Jack Dowland broke in. He paced back and forth, his hands in his trousers pockets. "Because there's going to be a hydrogen war. The future's black. Who wants to write about it? Keeerist." He shook his head. "And anyhow who reads that stuff? Adolescents with skin trouble. Misfits. And it's junk. Name me one good science fiction story, just one. I picked up a magazine on a bus once when I was in Utah. Trash! I wouldn't write that trash even if it paid well, and I looked into it and it doesn't pay well – around one half cent a word. And who can live on that?" Disgustedly, he started toward the stairs. "I'm going back to work."
"Wait," Slade said, feeling desperate. All was going wrong. "Hear me out, JackDowland."
"There you go with that funny talk again," Dowland said. But he paused, waiting. "Well?" he demanded.
Slade said, "Mr. Dowland, I am from the future." He was not supposed to say that – Mr. Manville had warned him severely – but it seemed at the moment to be the only way out for him, the only thing that would stop Jack Dowland from walking off.
"What?" Dowland said loudly. "The what?"
"I am a time-traveler," Slade said feebly, and was silent.
Dowland walked back toward him.
When he arrived at the time-ship, Slade found the short-set operator seated on the ground before it, reading a newspaper. The operator glanced up, grinned and said, "Back safe and sound, Mr. Slade. Come on, let's go." He opened the hatch and guided Slade within.
"Take me back," Slade said. "Just take me back."
"What's the matter? Didn't you enjoy your inspiring?"
"I just want to go back to my own time," Slade said.
"Okay," the operator said, raising an eyebrow. He strapped Slade into his seat and then took his own beside him.
When they reached Muse Enterprises, Mr. Manville was waiting for them. "Slade," he said, "come inside." His face was dark. "I have a few words to say to you."
When they were alone in Manville's office, Slade began, "He was in a bad mood, Mr. Manville. Don't blame me." He hung his head, feeling empty and futile.
"You -" Manville stared down at him in disbelief. "You failed to inspire him! That's never happened before!"
"Maybe I can go back again," Slade said.
"My God," Manville said, "you not only didn't inspire him – you turned him against science fiction."
"How did you find this out?" Slade said. He had hoped to keep it quiet, make it his own secret to carry with him to the grave.
Manville said bitingly, "All I had to do was keep my eye on the reference books dealing with literature of the twentieth century. Half an hour after you left, the entire texts on Jack Dowland, including the half-page devoted to his biography in the Britannica – vanished."
Slade said nothing; he stared at the floor.
"So I researched it," Manville said. "I had the computers at the University of California look up all extant citations on Jack Dowland."
"Were there any?" Slade mumbled.
"Yes," Manville said. "There were a couple. Minute, in rarified technical articles dealing comprehensively and exhaustively with that period. Because of you, Jack Dowland is now completely unknown to the public – and was so even during his own day." He waved a finger at Slade, panting with wrath. "Because of you, Jack Dowland never wrote his epic future history of mankind. Because of your so-called 'inspiration' he continued to write scripts for TV westerns – and died at forty-six an utterly anonymous hack."