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

SENTIMENTAL VALUE
by
Michael A. Burstein
Copyright © 1995 by Michael A. Burstein. All rights reserved.
First appearance in Analog, October 1995.


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,"