The climax came one afternoon when I had been particularly difficult to handle. Halmer finally banged my keyboard with his fist, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. Stunned, I listened as he said:
"Acme Typewriter Service? This is Pascal Halmer, the writer. My old machine is on its last gasp. I need a new one. You have several new models on hand? Good! Send one over—"
The end—"30"—fini! My faded keys stared upward at Halmer. At all costs I must regain his confidence! He must see me, must understand that I was more than just an old beat-up machine!
And he did. My concentration gradually drew his eyes to me.
Sardonic, amused, cynical, Halmer gazed down at me, his gray eyes cold and calculating.
"You're the only one that knows the story of my struggles," he said. "With you, my hard days go. I am now an established writer. My stories now get top rates. You always were too slow and stodgy, anyway. On a new machine I shall write better than ever!"
That's what you think, my fine-feathered friend, I thought, as my mood shifted violently from abject contrition to bitter anger. That's what you think!
Pascal Halmer had a plot to plagiarize that night. He ripped right along until three in the morning, producing five thousand neatly mortized words with my help for a men's magazine. He typed out "30" at the end of his stolen tale. But he couldn't think of a new title for the story.
So he left page one in my carriage, where he had re-inserted it, to write in the title. He yawned sleepily, muttered: "Hell with the title. I'll do it in the morning. Set the alarm clock for nine, deliver the script at ten—"
I waited until my feckless friend was drowned in gurgling snores. Then, taking a grip on my nerves, I steeled myself to perform an independent act such as I had never before dared to attempt.