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tant to discuss. One senses the axe about to fall. Ass meeting
SCIENCE FICTION 257
sidewalk. Creditors gnawing on one s bones. Unjust fate for a
simple soul. Who never asked for much. And since youth
dreamed only of traveling the starlanes in prose. And who
deserves some slack. Now that he is temporarily stymied. By a
lack of belief in his own Wctions. While at the same time beset.
By those very scienceWctional conceits made real.
Corso nearly gives way to self-pitying tears by the end of the
ride. But manfully stiXes them. Instead adopting an eager air of
gaiety. Commensurate with the atmosphere inside the posh
restaurant. Where various literati and glitterati clink Xutes of
champagne. Amidst expensive fabrics, elaborate chandeliers, and
servile attendants. And consume tiny portions of elaborately man-
gled foodstuTs. From plates big as the shields of warriors. In a
bad fantasy trilogy.
Buck up. In the face of elitist pretensions. One must go out in
style. This Corso s vow. Despite liquor-sticky shirt, soapy
trousers, and satchel containing only a return Amtrak ticket, a
toothbrush, and a recent issue of Fantascience Journal. With a
picture of Hugo Gernsback on the cover.
What ll you have Corso. Can t decide, huh. Used to ordering
through the drive-up window, hey. Okay, let me get us started.
Multrum rattles oT a litany of dishes. The server brings their drinks.
Corso allowed one sip. Before Multrum launches into business.
Now listen to me Corso. You and I both know you re in deep
shit with Wankel and Butte Books. But I ve negotiated you one
Wnal extension. However, the grace period hinges on you going
over there in person and kissing some ass.
Exactly my own strategy Clive. Of course, Kowtow and touch
cap. Not too proud to beg. Yes, certainly. I already have an
appointment later this afternoon with Roger.
Excellent! Then back home to dig into Neutron Cannon.
Ah, The Black Hole Gun.
Sure, whatever. But before then, you re going to do both of us
a big favor. You re going to knock out a tie-in novel. Vestine
Opdycke from Shuman and Shyster called me, desperate for a
last-minute replacement for Jerome Arizona. Arizona bailed on
this project, and they need it yesterday.
258 WITPUNK
His second drink of the day is inXating Corso s brain. Leery of
visionary states. But no immediate untoward incidents. No
smerps or thoats rampaging through the restaurant. As they once
did in the Wal-Mart. Where the beasts received no cheerful hello.
From the oblivious store greeter.
Allowing a drift of mellowness to overtake his anxiety-plagued
day. But Arizona is usually so reliable. Never misses a deadline.
True. But that was before he was caught by the local cops in
bed with two sixteen-year-olds.
Oh.
So, are you onboard.
But what s the nature of the project.
A novelization of the Starmaker movie.
Corso misbelieves his ears. The Stapledon classic.
I think that s the guy s name.
But there s already a book. Hundreds of pages of impeccable
speculative text. They must have used that as a source of the
script. Can t they just reissue the original.
The movie doesn t exactly follow the original anymore. Just
the new love interests and space battles alone demand a diTerent
version. C mon, it s easy money. No royalties though. Strictly
work for hire.
Corso is bewildered. Lowering his glance to his immaculate nap-
kin in his lap. How to answer. Traducing one s youthful idol. But
quick cash. And a foot in the door at Schuman and Shyster. Maybe
a good way to dissolve one s block. Crib from a master. What
choice does one have.
Corso raises his eyes to Multrum s face.
The agent s brow is mutating to a jutting ledge. Features thick-
ening. Facial pelt growing. Stained horsey teeth protruding.
Multrum has devolved. To Neanderthal status. And so have the
other diners. And staT. Walking awkwardly with curved backs
and bowed legs. Their neckties cinching their enlarged necks.
Like barbed wire overgrown by a tree.
Multrum grows impatient. His voice remains unchanged.
Thankfully. No primordial grunts to misinterpret. Well Corso
what s your answer.
SCIENCE FICTION 259
Even as Corso rummages for his own voice, Multrum contin-
ues to devolve. Scales. Fangs. Horns. Spiked tail. Multrum now
an anthropomorphic saurian. A dinosaur in Hugo Boss. And the
rest of the patrons. Similarly antediluvian. One female dinosaur.
Categorized by her dress. Picks up her steak with disproportion-
ately small forelimbs. And pops it entire into her slavering, razor-
toothed mouth.
Sweat soaks Corso s shirt. Reptilian stench emanates from his
table partner. Must phrase one s acceptance of the odious assign-
ment in the most genial terms. Lest agent take oTense. And dis-
embowel one with a casual kick.
For Corso sincerely doubts
Multrum would stop
after only Wfteen percent
of his client
was eaten.
One s third female gatekeeper of the day. The receptionist at
Butte Books. Cheeks still hamstery with adolescent avoirdupois.
Purple nail polish. Gingery hair secured in two outjutting tails on
either side. Of a face both too wise and utterly naive. A recent
graduate, no doubt. Of a prestigious school. That should be
ashamed of itself. For culturing and feeding innumerable such
starry-eyed hapless romantics. Into publishing s voracious low-
wage maw.
Ah, Mr. FairWeld to see Mr. Wankel.
Go right in please.
Corso expected to wait. The easy access discommodes him.
For he needs to utilize a jakes.
Is there, um, a restroom I could avail myself of Wrst.
Certainly. Here s the key. Left down that corridor.
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