In his happiness and self-satisfaction, Donovan became more careless with his stories. If he had been able to outwit Crane and the dreaded C.D., surely he could dash off stories good enough for the poor minds of 20th century science-fiction readers!
Then the tide turned. Fan letters in the magazines began really to tear into his fiction; they were third-rate; they lacked imagination. They were ordinary stories written by an ordinary mind; and science fiction required tales written by men whose minds were well ahead of 20th century thought. The day finally came when all the editors began rejecting his stories. First one, then another—and finally every story written received a rejection slip.
Donovan could not understand the reason for the change. A few years ago—or was it decades?—each story of his was labelled a "classic"; now they were not even acceptable. Had science fiction changed so much since his decision to become a writer in 1929? He dared not discuss it with anyone, for he had no friends and he trusted no one. The C.D. was everywhere, but there was one man in whom he had the deepest confidence.
Donovan visited the aging editor and felt sorry for the worn-out old man. He himself had once been like this, but was now free from death. He thought of taking his benefactor with him into the 25th century and saving the editor's life. But suppose Blascomb's laboratory had been captured? Donovan could manage for himself, but it would be cruel to leave the old man in the deadly hands of the C.D. No, it was best to say nothing about rejuvenation to the editor; he would only think Donovan was trying out a story-idea.
"I've been your editor for thirty years," the old man's voice cracked. His half-blind eyes loomed through thick lenses.
"It's been a long time," Donovan said.
"My—My eyes are not what they used to be," the other said, "A man about 50 years old wrote that great classic, "Turn Backward, O Time!" He must be about 80 now. But you look only 20. Ah, laddie, you're trying to fool me. You must be his son!"
"That's right," Donovan said quickly, "We have the same name."
"Then that explains it," the other said wearily; "it would break my old heart if a talent like your father's disintegrated. But we came to talk about your stories. No, son, you're not the writer your father was. Your tales lack imagination; there is no originality in them. The ideas are hackneyed, the writing third-rate. They sound like poor imitations of the great tales told by your father. There was a man! There was a writer!"