The Turlak job went like a collector's item. They're screaming for more. Can do?
Henry.
Enclosed was another check that would have made Wesley drunk with triumph but for the knowledge that June was only three weeks away.
The Porizinian story was mailed. Another brochure arrived, and another; life became a predictable routine; half labor, half escape. Wesley wrote and dreamed and talked briefly over the gate with Charlie Birdsall. Now and then, too tired to sit longer at his typewriter, he sat on the verandah at night with his Aunt Jessica and Miriam.
They did not press him now because their victory was won and their laurels assured. May dwindled away, quiet as a candle; Wesley's account fattened in the Sampson City bank; his agent promoted an anthology of his later stories and suggested a novel.
Wesley, in his room, laughed hollowly. Success, now that it had come, had an ashy taste.
The Sonimuiran booklet arrived on the twenty-fifth of May. A newly-envious Charlie Birdsall passed it to him over the gate, and a bombshell of disillusion with it.
"Have to admit I figured you wrong all these years," Charlie said. "You do know a good deal when you see it. Glad to see you making the most of it, Wes."
Wesley hefted his packet. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," Charlie said. "When Miss Jessica retires you'll really have it made, with Miriam looking after the inn while you pull in big money writing."