"Burstein, Michael A - Sentimental Value" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burstein Michael A)

Sentimental Value
by
Michael A Burstein

I barged into Stan's office, pushing off Ian and
Scott as they tried to hold me back. As I slammed the door behind me, I
heard muffled shouts of "Stan, watch out!" coming from the two of them.
Stan looked up. He was sitting at his desk, a pile of slush perched
precariously on top, all the way up to his chin. He blinked, rubbed his
head, tugged at his beard, and smiled. His eyes twinkled.
"Michael!" Stan got up, allowing the manuscripts to fall over and onto
the floor; it turned out that his chin had been holding them in place. He
walked over to me and shook my hand warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you.
Glad you finally made that first sale, eh? Wish I could've been there when
you heard the news. I've always wanted to see the joy in my writers' faces
when they find out."
I stared at him for a second, goggle-eyed. Of course, he didn't realize
yet that the jig was up. "Knock it off, Stan!" I exclaimed. "I know as
well as you do that you practically were there."
Stan pulled back from me, a nervous look on his face. His brow began to
sweat. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his
forehead furiously. "What do you mean?" he whispered.
"I know all about the camera. I want to see my picture."
Stan put away the handkerchief and retreated behind his desk. "What
camera?" he asked.
Now I smiled. "The camera that Sydney told me about. You
remember, you ran into her at a convention. A fellow Clarionite. She told
me about the magic camera you use to photograph new writers when they make
their first sale to you. I want to see my picture."
"Shhh!" Stan looked around, nervously. "Don't use that word!"
"What word? Picture?"
"No!" He looked around again, leaned close to my ear, and whispered,
"Magic. As the editor of Analog, the bastion of hard science
fiction, I could lose my credibility if it was found that I was using
magic to serve my ends, and not good old hard-science-with-rivets. And if
I lost my credibility, so," he intoned solemnly, "would the magazine."
I shuddered; if that happened, I knew that my career as a hard science
fiction writer would be over as quickly as it began. All the other writers
would point at me and say, "Ha ha! You don't really write hard SF! Not
even soft SF! Your editor uses magic!" I would be forced to turn to
fantasy for a living, and as I noted once when a story of mine was trashed
in a workshop, for me fantasy is a lot harder to write than science
fiction. The only way I'd survive would be by writing ten- volume
trilogies about cute elves, since that was all I could handle in the
genre. Surely a fate worse than death, or even chairing a Worldcon.
"Your point is well taken," I replied quietly. "I will not spread the
word about the camera, not even until the stars grow old and our Sun grows
cold. However," I continued, "I still want to see my picture."
Stan nodded and pushed a button on his desk. A dark hole with fuzzy