"Hello. Yeah. This is Max Field, the science fiction writer. And while we're on that subject, I happen to be—"
"I am Wallace Starr." It was a funny voice. Funny-strange. It sounded a little like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.
"Really?"
I pushed out my current Camel and sneaked in a few pecks at the old Underwood. So sandpaper-voice was Wallace Starr. Maybe I was supposed to turn handsprings.
"You don't know me," the heckler went on, "but I am very familiar with you and your work. I have an important project in mind. A new monthly science fiction magazine to be called Orion. I need a good assistant editor. You were suggested."
"Orion," I said.
"Yes. My book will feature a completely new approach. We will buy only the best material, and each story will concern itself with the constellation Orion and its various systems. All material will be correlated to this end. How does this strike you?"
"You won't find it so easy pinning the best writers down to Orion," I grinned. "Writers like Swain and St. Reynard and Ric Planter like elbow room."
"Orion is vast and complex. One hundred and seven solar systems, to be exact. That should provide ample elbow room."
I whistled. "Ought to. But what's the idea?"