Elated for actually the first time since his discharge from the hospital, Clocker took a cab to a handsome building, showed his invitation to a pretty and courteous receptionist, and was escorted into an elaborate office where a smiling man came around a wide bleached-mahogany desk and shook hands with him.
"Mr. Locke," said the editor, "I'm happy to tell you that we've had a wonderful response to your story."
"Article," Clocker corrected.
The editor smiled. "Do you produce so much that you can't remember what you sold us? It was about—"
"I know," Clocker cut in. "But it wasn't a story. It was an article. It really—"
"Now, now. The first thing a writer must learn is not to take his ideas too seriously. Very dangerous, especially in a piece of fiction like yours."
"But the whole thing is true!"
"Certainly—while you were writing it." The editor shoved a pile of mail across the desk toward him. "Here are some of the comments that have come in. I think you'll enjoy seeing the reaction."
Clocker went through them, hoping anxiously for no more than a single note that would show his message had come through to somebody. He finished and looked up blankly.
"You see?" the editor asked proudly. "You're a find."