«Well, I think they’re fairly well stocked on the detective stories. I guess Miss Bradley is looking for short lengths for her love book, and I understand they can use both short and long stuff for the adventure books.»
«How about science-fiction? I think I’d be best at that.»
Marion Blake looked up in surprise. «Oh, you’ve heard about that then?»
«About what?»
«That Borden’s going to start a science-fiction magazine.»
Keith opened his mouth, and closed it again. He thought, «I’ve got to remember not to be surprised whatever anyone says.» So, in silence, as though thinking out an answer, he wondered why Borden would be starting a (not another) science-fiction when he still had a copy of Surprising Stories with the Borden imprint in his pocket.
He said cautiously, «I did hear a rumor to that effect.»
«It’s true. They’ve got one issue dummied up. They’ll start it as a quarterly with a fall issue. And they’ve filled only that first issue. They are looking for material beyond that.»
Keith nodded and took a sip of his drink. Casually, he reached into his back pocket and took the folded copy of Surprising Stories from it—the copy he’d bought in Greeneville and hadn’t yet read because he’d spent all his reading time first on a newspaper and then on Is the Mist-out Worth It? and H. G. Wells. Casually he put it down on the table to see what comment Marion might make about it.
She said, «Oh, I see you’ve been reading our top adventure book. Thinking of writing for that one, too?»
He said, «A guy named Keith Winton edits this one, I see. That’s why I asked for him. Could you tell me something about him?»
«Why—what do you want to know?»
«Oh, anything to give me a line on him. What’s he look like?»
Marion frowned a little. «He’s tallish—a little taller than you—and slender. Dark. Wears shell-rimmed glasses. About thirty, I think. Serious-looking, kind of.» She giggled a little. «Guess he’s more serious than usual lately.»
«Huh? Why?»
«I think he’s in love,» she said archly. Keith managed a smile. «With you?»
«Me? He never even sees me. No, with our new love book editor. Not that it does him any good, of course.»
Keith wanted to know why but that «of course» warned him off. When people said, «Of course,» it meant you were already supposed to know. But how could he be supposed to know something about Betty Hadley, other than her name as editor of the love book mag? Still, if he could keep Marion talking—
«Kind of tough on him, huh?» he said.
«I’ll say.» Marion sighed deeply. «Gee, any girl in the world, I guess, would give her eye-teeth to trade places with Betty Hadley.»
«Would you?»
«Would I? Are you kidding, Mr. Winston? To be fiancée of the greatest man in the world, the most handsome, the most romantic, the most—golly!»
«Oh,» said Keith, a bit flatly in spite of himself. He gulped the rest of his drink and raised a finger to signal the waitress. He wondered who Betty’s fiancée was. How, without revealing ignorance of something he ought to know, could he get his girl to keep on talking? He didn’t have to.
«Gee,» she murmured. «Dopelle!» It sounded almost like a prayer it was so reverent.
Well, he knew now. And anyway, he thought, she’s only engaged, not married. Maybe there was a chance yet.
Marion Blake glanced at her wrist watch. «Got to go,» she said. «Thanks for the drink, Mr. Winston. You’ll be in at the office tomorrow?»
«Or the next day,» Keith told her. He paid for the drinks and walked with Marion to the subway.
Then he headed for the public library and took a seat at one of the tables. He took the three publications he had left in his pockets out of them and put them on the table before him—the copies of Surprising Stories and Perfect Love, and Gallico’s The Story of Dopelle.
He glanced at the latter bitterly. From the little he’d heard or read—little only because he’d been in this screwy place less than twenty-four hours—this mug Dopelle had it in his pocket. He was the hero of the whole solar system and, to top everything else, he had Betty Hadley, too. Darn the guy!
He picked up the pocket book and put it down again. Once he started it he wanted to read it through, and that would take all afternoon. There was a comparatively minor matter he could settle first—what had Marion Blake meant by saying that Borden was going to start a science-fiction book?
He picked up Surprising Stories and verified the Borden imprint on it and on the contents page. Borden did have a science-fiction magazine. He glanced down the table of contents, remembering the names of most of the writers, names almost as familiar as the name Keith Winton listed as managing editor in the fine type at the bottom. A few of the titles were familiar—they’d been in his own version of that issue.
He leafed through it, first glancing at the illustrations. They were better than his, definitely, even though some of the artists were the same ones. They were more vivid, had more action. The girls were more beautiful and the monsters more horrible.
He started reading one of the stories, the shortest one. He finished it, still vaguely puzzled although a light was beginning to dawn. He dipped into a few other stories, skimming—and suddenly he knew what Marion Blake had meant.
This wasn’t a science-fiction book! They were mostly stories of the Arcturus-Sol war, although some were stories of adventure on Mars and Venus—but the backgrounds were consistent and the backgrounds fitted what little he’d heard and read of Mars and Venus and Arcturus and—
Well, these were adventure stories. It stunned him for a minute.
He smacked the book down on the table, drawing a reproving glance from a librarian.
But, he thought, there must be science-fiction books here or Borden wouldn’t be starting one. But if these stories were fact what would be science-fiction be? Well, time-travel, for one thing and—what else didn’t they have here? Well, he could read some science-fiction and find out.
He picked up the Dopelle book and stared at it bitterly again. Dopelle! He hated the guy. Anyway, now he knew how to pronounce his name, having heard Marion say it—it was pronounced as though it were French—Dough-PELL, with only two syllables and the accent on the second.
He sighed. That book came next, definitely, on his course of reading. But should he start it here and now? No. There were more important things to do and they all had to be done before dark. He had to find a place to stay and a way to make money to live.
He took out his wallet and counted what he had left out of the two thousand credits—the two hundred dollars approximately—the Greeneville druggist had given him. There was about half of it left. Enough maybe, to last him a week if he was careful—certainly not longer than that, since he’d have to buy himself some shirts and sox and a toothbrush and a razor and comb and heaven knows what else, starting from scratch.
Or did he, in this universe, still have a closet and a bureau full of clothes in a nice little two-room bachelor apartment down on Gresham Street in Greenwich Village? He considered the possibility and discarded it.
If this universe were equipped with a Keith Winton (who obviously didn’t even resemble him) who had his job at Borden Publications, then this wasn’t a universe with a neat hole for him to fit into, anywhere.