I said, "Your dialogue's getting as lousy as your stories!" I don't like to be reminded that I look like a celebrity.
Belcher ignored that. He turned to Black, the chap who agents our stuff, and began complaining.
He said, "Land-sake, Joey, can't you sell that Martian story? I think it's good." Before Joey could answer, Belcher turned to the rest of us and said, "Reminds me of my grand-daddy. He got shot up at Vicksburg before his father could locate him and drag him back home. Granny used to say, 'All my life I've believed in the solid South and the Democratic Party. I believed they were good; and if they aren't, I don't want to know about it.'"
Belcher laughed and shook his head. I gave Joey a frantic S.O.S. When Belcher gets going on the Civil War, no one else gets a word in for solid hours.
Joey didn't move, but he said, "What story?" very incredulously, and then he glanced at me and winked.
"That Martian story," Belcher said. "The one about the colony on Mars and the new race of Earth-Mars men that springs up—I've forgotten the title. They say Fitz-James O'Brien never could remember the titles of his stories either."
Joey said, "You never gave me any such yarn," and this time he really meant it.
Belcher said, "You're crazy."
Down at the other end of the table someone wanted to know who O'Brien wrote for.
I said, "He's dead. He wrote 'The Diamond Lens.'"