"You know," said Millet as he got up and went to a bookcase, "a man's got to earn a living. Do much reading?"
"Not these days. Used to." He scratched a cigarette on the sole of his shoe and inhaled hugely. "Not enough time these days for reading."
Millet reached into the bookcase and came out with a stack of magazines. "Well, that's how I make my living." He handed the stack to Walker. "Writing. Use a pen name of course." He chuckled. "Write everything—always happiest doing science fiction, though."
Walker flipped through the magazines; he looked up. "Obviously, you're doing rather well at it."
"Have been for the last seven or eight years. Lot of fun."
"And this has been your life since you left us?" Walker set the stack of magazines aside. "Seems a waste of genius, somehow."
"As a matter of fact, this is not my life's work. As I said, a man's got to earn a living. This is just a lucrative hobby that pays the way. You see, I've been involved in an expensive research program."
"Ah." Walker sat forward and smashed out his cigarette. "This may be important."
"Oh, it is, it is. But not, I am afraid, in the way you mean."
"You can never tell. What have you been doing?"