People do not expect a man to step up to his first piano, sit himself down, and run through a faultless repertoire from Bach to Bebop. But these same people nod their heads at a new author's writing and think it is the first time he ever sat down to a typewriter—and then swear that they will do likewise as soon as they get a couple of free hours. Maculay was no exception, plus the fact that Hanson had given his mind the false experience of writing to cover up many irregularities in Maculay's past. Maculay believed he could write and had been writing; actually he knew nothing of the techniques involved. It takes more than a burning desire to see your words in print; it takes at the very least some judgment as to which of your words you select for print plus the ability to produce them in logical sequence. Maculay had tried.
But above all, Maculay had offered a lead—provided unwittingly by Hanson himself. The doctor glowed inwardly, happily. He would now—
"You still there, Doc?"
"You bet. Where did that story come from, Larry?"
Larimore paused a moment. "A small town in the midlands of Venus a couple of hundred miles from Melaxis." Then he exploded. "Hey. Weren't you there? Why didn't you bring it back with you? What the hell goes on—?"
Hanson said, "Larimore, this is a long story and probably a better one than Maculay wrote. But it's important."
"I'm listening. Take off."
The doctor outlined the entire business over the telephone.
"My God," said Larimore. "Now what?"
"Now? It's easy. Send Maculay a special radiogram, addressed to Lomax, stating that Modern Pictures wants the script for a full-length moving picture at some fabulous price providing they can hire the author to rewrite the thing into novel length. You have an option check for five thousand dollars which will expire within ten days if the author is not present in person at your office before that time."