‘You see, Mr Bohlen, to tell the honest truth, I don’t really care much for my work here. I know I’m good at it and all that sort of thing, but my heart’s not in it. It’s not what I want to do most.’
Up went Mr Bohlen’s eyebrows, quick like a spring. His whole body became very still.
‘You see, sir, all my life I’ve wanted to be a writer.’
‘A writer!’
‘Yes, Mr Bohlen. You may not believe it, but every bit of spare time I’ve had, I’ve spent writing stories. In the last ten years I’ve written hundreds, literally hundreds of short stories. Five hundred and sixty-six, to be precise. Approximately one a week.’
‘Good heavens, man! What on earth did you do that for?’
‘All I know, sir, is I have the urge.’
‘What sort of urge?’
‘The creative urge, Mr Bohlen.’ Every time he looked up he saw Mr Bohlen’s lips. They were growing thinner and thinner, more and more purple.
‘And may I ask you what you do with these stories, Knipe?’
‘Well sir, that’s the trouble. No one will buy them. Each time I finish one, I send it out on the rounds. It goes to one magazine after another. That’s all that happens, Mr Bohlen, and they simply send them back. It’s very depressing.’
Mr Bohlen relaxed. ‘I can see quite well how you feel, my boy.’ His voice was dripping with sympathy. ‘We all go through it one time or another in our lives. But now – now that you’ve had proof – positive proof – from the experts themselves, from the editors, that your stories are – what shall I say – rather unsuccesful, it’s time to leave off. Forget it, my boy. Just forget all about it.’
‘No, Mr Bohlen! No! That’s not true! I know my stories are good. My heavens, when you compare them with the stuff some of those magazines print – oh my word, Mr Bohlen! – the sloppy, boring stuff that you see in the magazines week after week – why, it drives me mad!’
‘Now wait a minute, my boy…’
‘Do you ever read the magazines, Mr Bohlen?’
‘You’ll pardon me, Knipe, but what’s all this got to do with your machine?’
‘Everything, Mr Bohlen, absolutely everything! What I want to tell you is, I’ve made a study of magazines, and it seems that each one tends to have its own particular type of story. The writers – the successful ones – know this, and they write accordingly.’
‘Just a minute, my boy. Calm yourself down, will you. I don’t think all this is getting us anywhere.’
‘Please, Mr Bohlen, hear me through. It’s all terribly important.’ He paused to catch his breath. He was properly worked up now, throwing his hands around as he talked. The long, toothy face, with the big ears on either side, simply shone with enthusiasm, and there was an excess of saliva in his mouth which caused him to speak his words wet. ‘So you see, on my machine, by having an adjustable co-ordinator between the “plot-memory” section and the “word memory” section I am able to produce any type of story I desire simply by pressing the required button.’
‘Yes, I know, Knipe, I know. This is all very interesting, but what’s the point of it?’
‘Just this, Mr Bohlen. The market is limited. We’ve got to be able to produce the right stuff, at the right time, whenever we want it. It’s a matter of business, that’s all. I’m looking at it from your point of view now – as a commercial proposition.’
‘My dear boy, it can’t possibly be a commercial proposition – ever. You know as well as I do what it costs to build one of these machines.’
‘Yes sir, I do. But with due respect, I don’t believe you know what the magazines pay writers for stories.’
‘What do they pay?’
‘Anything up to twenty-five hundred dollars. It probably averages around a thousand.’
Mr Bohlen jumped.
‘Yes sir, it’s true.’
‘Absolutely impossible, Knipe! Ridiculous!’
‘No sir, it’s true.’
‘You mean to sit there and tell me that these magazines pay out money like that to a man for… just for scribbling off a story! Good heavens, Knipe! Whatever next! Writers must all be millionaires!’