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  Just what is it you expect of Carl? she asked herself. And she answered, grinning, Nothing. Not a damned thing. All I want is for him to be himself. And to stay near me.

  That's all you want?

  For now, she admitted. Carl is attractive, intelligent, a little shy, very gentle, very steady. Kind of old-fashioned. Not one of those macho beer-swilling clowns that this town is so full of. Or one of those phony name-dropping intellectuals who try to impress you with how much they know, and then take out a calculator to tote up the dinner check. I'm sick to death of them; the publishing business is filled with them.

  And you think Carl's not like that?

  Not at all like that. He got angry when those longshoremen were tucking money into my costume. He was ready to fight the whole crowd of them.

  Foolish.

  Gallant.

  He was drunk.

  But very lovable.

  What was that word? Did you say "love"? Be careful girl, that's the way careers turn into pregnancies.

  I know what I'm doing.

  Do you?

  Then she saw Carl sitting at one of the rickety tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, and ended her dialogue with herself. He was staring off into some private vision, somber and serious, just gazing at nowhere as he sat there in the early afternoon sunlight. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade could have passed by and he wouldn't have noticed it. Still in that rumpled tweed jacket. But suddenly he did recognize Lori and his face brightened into a million-kilowatt smile. He stood up as she approached.

  Carl saw Lori approaching and automatically got to his feet. She smiled brilliantly at him and he felt himself grinning back. In the warm spring sunlight she wore a sleeveless tan blouse and a knee-length skirt of darker brown. She seemed to glow, she looked so beautiful.

  He held her chair for her as she sat down. The sunlight felt warm and good. Not even the foul-smelling diesel buses lumbering past on the avenue or the filthy bag lady rummaging through the dumpster on the corner could spoil the beauty of the moment.

  They spoke about inconsequential matters at first: would you rather sit out here or go indoors? Do you think the eggs Benedict would be better than the bagels and lox?

  "What is lox, anyway?" Carl asked.

  "A kind of smoked salmon."

  "Oh. In the lab it's an abbreviation for liquid oxygen."

  Lori laughed.

  Carl ordered the eggs Benedict. After a tussle with her conscience, Lori skipped the bagels and rich cream sauces and settled for a salad. After the waiter had brought their trays, Carl started to say, "Lori—about what happened a couple of nights ago . . ."

  She stopped him by placing her hand gently on his. "What happened, happened. It was lovely, and there's nothing we can to to change it. So let's just forget about it."

  He looked into her dark eyes and saw that there was no regret, no anger, in them. "I don't think I can forget about it," he said. 'I don't think I want to forget about it."

  With a smile, Lori replied, "Okay. Neither do I. But let's just leave it as a nice memory. Let's not make it more important than it is."

  Now he felt puzzled. Does that mean she doesn't care? Or is she trying to make me feel better about it?

  "You're supposed to see Mr. Bunker tomorrow," she changed the subject.

  "If he doesn't cancel out again."

  "He'll see you," she said firmly, then added, "Sooner or later."

  "What's he like?" Carl asked.

  Lori shrugged her shoulders, a move that churned Carl's entire glandular system.

  "I've never met him," she said.

  "But you've seen him around the office, haven't you?"

  "I told you, he never comes to the office. Honest. Mrs. Bee holds the title of publisher; she's in the office every day. Mr. Bee is the president and owner of the company. We never see him."

  With an exasperated sigh, Carl asked, "What kind of a business is this, anyway? Nobody can do anything without Bunker's okay, and nobody gets to see him!"

  "Publishing is unique," Lori admitted.

  "It sure isn't anything like the business management courses I've taken."

  She took a leaf of her salad and agreed. "What other business puts out a product that you can return for a full refund even after you've used it?"

  "Huh?"

  "No book sale is ever final. All the books we send out to the regional distributors and wholesalers, they're all taken on consignment. If they don't sell, they come back to us. If you buy a book in a store, you can return it a day or two later and they'll refund your money. The store management might argue, but they'll give your money back if you insist on it—and if the book is still in decent shape."

  "But that's crazy! How can you tell what your sales are?"

  "You can't. Not for a couple of years."

  In the back of his mind Carl realized that his electronic book would change all that. He would bring the publishing business into the twenty-first century. By now, though, Lori had lapsed into tales of the editorial department.

  ". . . every year she would send us a manuscript, a totally unpublishable piece of junk," Lori was saying, "and every year we would send it back with a standard rejection form. You know, 'Dear Sir or Madam: Thank you for submitting the enclosed manuscript, but we find that it does not suit our needs at the present time.' "

  Without waiting for Carl to ask what happened next, Lori went on, "So one year Arleigh Berkowitz—he's not with us anymore—he gets fed up with Mrs. Kranston and her terrible prose, so he writes her a really nasty letter: 'Stop bothering us with this rotten material! It's a waste of your time and ours!' "

  "That must have hurt her feelings," Carl said.

  "Are you kidding? We're talking about a would-be writer," Lori retorted "She sent us a letter back in the return mail that said Arleigh's letter was the first personal response she's ever gotten from an editor, and she's so inspired she's going to work twice as hard. Now we get two unpublishable manuscripts a year from her, every spring and every fall."

  Lori laughed, but Carl failed to see the humor. "And her stuff never gets better? She doesn't improve at all from one year to the next?"

  "She doesn't learn a thing. I think it gets worse."

  "You've read them?"

  "We've all read them, at one time or another. They're awful!"

  "It's a strange business, all right," Carl said. But in the back of his head he kept thinking, I'll change all this. Electronic books are going to totally change the publishing industry.

  He mentally squared his shoulders in preparation for his meeting with P. T. Bunker, his rendezvous with destiny.

  Telephone Transcript

  "You have reached the Murray Swift Literary Agency. There are no humans at work over the weekend. Please leave your name and number and someone will get back to you first thing Monday morning."

  "This is the Bunker Books automated message transmitter. Please have Mr. Swift call Ms. Scarlet Dean no later than three p.m. on Monday to discuss contract terms for Sheldon Stoker's new novel, The Terror from Beyond Hell."

  "I am programmed to accept contract offers electronically. Please transmit the contract and state orally the amount of the advance being offered."

  (Delay of four seconds.)

  "Contract transmitted. Advance offered is one million dollars."

  "Thank you. I am programmed to respond that the advance is too low. Mr. Swift will call you on Monday."

  ELEVEN

  Monday morning. The city stirred to life much as it did in O. Henry's time, bleary-eyed, reluctant. Gleaming silver subway trains streaked through their tunnels, their anodized surfaces immune to the spray paints and felt pens of even the most rabid graffitists. Inside the swaying, swooshing cars working men and women sat crammed in plastic seats, numbly inanimate, ignoring their fellow workers who stood jammed together shoulder to shoulder hanging by one arm from the overhead hand rails. Darwin smiled from the grave.

  Most of the men read the
sports sections of their newspapers. Most of the women read the fashion pages. After all, it was Monday, time for the latest new styles to appear. The columns were illustrated by color photographs showing the fashion of the week: the smoldering, sensuous, slutty look—tangled kinky hair, sloppy sweatshirts that exposed at least one shoulder, very tight knee-length skirts slitted to the hip, patterned stockings, and spike heels. Accessories included voluminous handbags that carried mace and tranquilizer dart guns.

  The sports pages carried ads that showed subtle changes in last week's biker image: tear the sleeves off the leather jackets, add a new broad-brimmed hat, buy a pair of glitter gloves and elevator boots, and the new pimp image was yours, just in time to match your girlfriend's slutty look.

  On the city's streets buses lumbered over potholes and detoured around repair crews, depositing streams of workers at every corner. The clothing stores were open early, of course, for those enterprising men and women who wanted to show off the new fashion first thing upon starting work.

  Carl Lewis wore his usual corduroy slacks and tweed jacket as he walked through the sunny morning to the Synthoil Tower. Lori had taken him shopping after their brunch on Sunday, and he had bought some shirts and underwear and socks. But he had not yet worked up the nerve to try the flamingo-pink pimp slacks that the salesman had shown him as a special preview of the coming week's new style.

  "You can be ahead of all your friends by buying now," the salesman had prompted.

  While Lori could barely conceal her giggles, Carl had decided to remain behind.

  A phone message inviting him to demonstrate his invention at the Monday morning editorial board meeting had been waiting for him when he returned to his hotel room after walking Lori back to her apartment. He had spent the night checking and double-checking the electro-optical reader, and then had slept with it under his pillow.

  Now, with a small but discernible dent in his temple left by one of the reader's hard corners, he strode past fake bikers staring at the newest fashions in store windows, determined to make the editors realize that they were witnessing the dawn of an entirely new era in the history of publishing.

  It's more than publishing, Carl reminded himself. Publishing is only the first step. Electro-optical communications is going to allow the human race to live in harmony with the whole Earth's ecology. No more chopping down forests to make paper. No more ignorance and poverty. The price for information will go down to the point where everyone on Earth can obtain all the knowledge they need. They won't even have to know how to read; the next improvement on my invention will be the talking book. The singing book. The device that speaks to you just like the village story teller or your own mother.

  *

  P. Curtis Hawks started the work week in the most unpleasant way imaginable. He found that Gunther Axhelm was waiting for him in his office when he arrived there, shortly after nine o'clock.

  Since Hawks rode his private elevator from the underground parking garage directly to his office, neither his secretary nor his communications computer was able to warn him of the Axe's presence. Hawks stepped out of the elevator and saw a strange man leaning over the billiard table in the far corner of the spacious office.

  "Who the hell are you?" Hawks grumbled, even while his brain (which was often slower than his tongue) told him that it could be no one other than the Old Man's newly hired hatchet man.

  The tall, slim, blond stranger stood ramrod straight, the pool cue gripped in one hand like a rifle. He clicked his heels and made a curt bow.

  "Sir. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Gunther Axhelm. Mr. Weldon ordered me to meet with you first thing this morning. I assumed that he meant nine a.m. precisely."

  Hawks groaned inwardly. It was going to be a difficult relationship.

  Hawks crossed to his desk and Axhelm carefully replaced the cue in its rack, then went to the padded leather chair in front of he desk and sat himself on it. Neither man offered to shake lands. Hawks took a long look at his new "assistant." Axhelm was long-limbed, athletic. Not an ounce of fat on him. His face was sculptured planes, sharp nose, slightly pointed chin, gray killer's eyes. Blond hair cut ruthlessly short. Instead of a business suit he wore a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt and form-fitting slacks. All in black The uniform of a burglar.

  "My assignment here," he began without preamble, "is to reduce the workforce by fifty percent before—"

  "Fifty percent! That's impossible!"

  Axhelm allowed a wintry smile to bend his lips slightly. "Sir. My assignment was given me directly by Mr. Weldon. He is the chief executive officer of Tarantula Enterprises, is he not? And therefore your superior."

  "We can't cut fifty percent of the workforce," Hawks insisted. "We wouldn't be able to handle the work load with only half the people we have now."

  Again the smile. "It is my intention to go further. I have examined the personnel files, and I believe it will be possible to cut perhaps seventy or even seventy-five percent."

  Hawks gave a strangled little cry.

  "Do not be alarmed, sir. Your position is quite secure."

  That's what Macbeth told Banquo just before he hired the assassins, Hawks thought.

  Leaning back in the leather chair, stretching his long legs casually, Axhelm explained, "You see, you have not taken complete advantage of the benefits of modern technology. You have computers, but you do not use them as fully as you could. For example—how many editors do you have on staff?"

  "Um . . . thirty or so," Hawks guesstimated.

  "Thirty-two, full time," corrected Axhelm, "and six part time. They can all be eliminated by a computer programmed to read incoming manuscripts and make selections based on criteria such as word length, subject matter, and writing quality."

  "How can a computer judge writing quality?" snapped Hawks.

  Axhelm's smile turned pitying. "Come now, sir. Programs capable of judging writing quality have been used in university examinations for nearly twenty years. Even high school teachers use such programs, rather than relying on their own faulty judgments."

  "You can't use a program developed to grade freshman English compositions to judge the value of incoming manuscripts!"

  "And why not?"

  "Because the quality of the writing isn't really important! Take a look at the best-seller lists: none of those books would pass freshman English!"

  Axhelm fell silent, stroking his chin absently with his long, slim fingers.

  "It's salability that counts," Hawks insisted. "And to determine salability you need human judgment."

  "Is that why ninety-five percent of the books that Webb Press publishes lose money?"

  Hawks grimaced, but countered, "It's the five percent that make money for us that count."

  With a nod and a sigh, Axhelm said, "Then we must develop a computer program that can determine salability."

  "Impossible!"

  "Of course not. If your editors can do it, a computer program can be written to do it better. More efficiently. I will make that my first priority."

  Hawks said nothing.

  "In the meantime, we will begin reducing the workforce. Today."

  At precisely eleven a.m. the eight editors of Bunker Books filed into their shabby conference room, with Carl Lewis and Ralph Malzone added to their number. The two men took seats on either side of Lori, down at the end of the table.

  Mrs. Bunker's chair remained vacant, as did the chair for the editor-in-chief. But all the others were there: the mountainous Maryann Quigly, the cadaverous Ashley Elton, ferret-faced Jack Drain, Concetta Las Vagas (who needed hardly any change of clothes at all to look slutty), and the rest. Before anyone could say a word, P. T. Junior entered the conference room, dragging his own chair from his own office.

  "My mother will be here in a minute or two," he announced, sitting at the head of the table. "She's chatting with the new editor-in-chief." He eyed them all with his sly, smirking look.

  A murmur went around the table. Before it died
away, Junior spoke up again.

  "You know, I've been looking over the publishing business for some time now . . ."

  "Yeah, the whole weekend," Ralph Malzone whispered.

  Unperturbed, Junior was going on, ". . . and I see that there are some books that get onto the best-seller lists, and they make a lot of money."

  None of the editors said a word. All eyes were focused on Junior.

  "What we ought to do," he said with the fervor of true revelation, "is stick to those books! Just publish the best-sellers and forget all the other stuff!"

  There was a long, long moment of utter silence. Then someone coughed. Another editor scraped his chair against the uncovered floor. Maryann Quigly emitted a loud, labored sigh.

  Ted Gunn rose to the occasion. "Uh—Junior . . . that's exactly what we try to do. We don't deliberately publish books that lose money. You just don't know which books are going to become best-sellers beforehand."

  Junior stared at him disbelievingly. "You don't?"

  Gunn slowly shook his head.

  "Oh," said Junior, with vast disappointment.

  "Wait a minute, though," said Ralph Malzone. "In his own way, I think Junior's got a point there."

  All eyes turned to the wiry sales manager questioningly. Malzone, trying to curry favor with the Boss's son? Carl saw the expression on Lori's face: somewhere between surprise and disgust.

  "What I mean is this," Ralph explained. "Most of the books we publish are doomed to lose money before they even get into print."

  "How can you—"

  "We publish them on the theory of minimum success," Malzone said.

  "The theory of minimum success?"

  "Yeah. Take this new novel Lori's just bought, this Midway book. We're giving the author the minimum advance, and we're putting out the minimum investment in the book all the way down the line. When we print it, it's going to be the minimum number of copies."

  "That's to minimize our risk," snapped Ted Gunn.