- Hello, Mr. Fairfield Mr. Maltrem is currently on the phone. But soon he will come to you.
“Thank you, miss, uh, Ku.” Perhaps I'll pour myself something to drink. To smooth the wait.
Flat as a wall, Ku's face becomes even more austere.
- As you please.
Corso pours himself the best malt whiskey from the stocks of Multrem. Often often dreamed of, but rarely tried. Writers Corso level. With a sip of pleasure. Slides his eyes on the shelves. Where they stumble upon a long series of books by Malachi Stiltjack. Since it was Stiltjack who served Corso as a pass under Malthram's wing. Far from the only thing Corso owes him. At the right end of the row is an unfamiliar heading. "Gods on the horizon." Removes from the shelf. Published last month. And perhaps the second edition is already being prepared. Quickly looks through the text. Yes, yes, transparent style, lively action, great ideas.Here is the winning formula. Which he will apply in "The Dule of the Black Hole". As soon as he gets home. With a face-saving check in your pocket. So that there was something to get rid of from debt collectors. And load the fridge. Beer and smoked herring.
- Corso, you bastard, did you decide to cry out my whole bar.
Maltrem cheerfully pats Corso on the back. Why does the precious liquid spill out. On the shirt of Corso.
“What are you, nothing like that, Clive.” Only a bit. To revitalize the juices in the body. And run the digestive system. For lunch.
Maltrem takes Corso by the elbow. A large, fragrant cigar sticks out of his mouth. An agent takes Corso away from the bar. Silver-haired man of medium height. Purely shaved and smelling, besides Cuban tobacco, is also an expensive lotion. Available only to literary agents whose income exceeds a certain level. You can be sure. His face is wrinkled with wrinkles that strangely capture both a familiar smile and an equally haughty grimace. Not puffy, but covered with a generous layer of smug flesh. As if saying: "I am warmed by my success."
“So you haven't had dinner yet?” What a surprise. Well, so am I. Let's go to the Papoon Skluts. I have a serious conversation with you.
- And in this, uh, Sklutse is probably expensive.
Another slap that shakes Corso's bones. Hey buddy, quit it. We are all adults here. Forget even thinking about your damned poverty. Koresh.
- Not dust, buddy, I'm crying!
“How sweet of you, Clive.”
- Let's tie this shit and move.
Taxis transfer them to the Papoon Skluts. During the trip, Corso is not able to think about anything except the mysterious words of Maltrem. Serious talk. A man feels an ax, ready to fall. The bum anticipates the hard sidewalk. Lenders swallow your bones. Fate is unfair to the ingenuous. Which never asked for much. But from his very youth he only dreamed of traveling along stellar paths in prose. And which deserves some relief. Now that he has a creative crisis. Due to lack of faith in one's own fiction. And at the same time besieged. The same science fiction concepts that have become reality.
By the end of the trip, Corso is almost ready to give vent to tears from self-pity. But courageously suppresses them. Leaving instead a cheerful, energetic look. Appropriate atmosphere reigning inside a chic restaurant. Where variegated eliterator writers ring champagne glasses. Among the expensive fabrics, exquisite candelabra and servile servants. And they absorb tiny portions of artificially spoiled foods. On plates as huge as the shields of great warriors. In a bad fantasy trilogy.
Above your head. In the face of the arrogant elite. You must die with taste. Here is the motto of Corso. Regardless of the alcohol-soaked shirt, soap-stained trousers, and a briefcase containing only a return ticket for Amtrak, a toothbrush, and the latest issue of the Fantasy Journal. With a photo of Hugo Gernsback on the cover.
“What will you eat, Corso.” Can't decide, uh? I'm used to ordering through a car window, ha ha? Well, let me order for a start.
Maltrem gives out a long crackling litany of dishes. The service staff brings them drinks. Corso allows himself a sip. Before Maltrem gets down to business.
“Now listen to me, Corso.” You and I both know what shit you got with Wankel and Book Hill. I bargained for you one last respite. However, the real terms are tied to the fact that you came there personally to lick some ass.
“Exactly my own strategy, Clive.” Bowing and bowing. I'm not too proud to ask. Yes, of course. I have an appointment with Roger tonight, later.
- Great. And then return home - and immediately for the Neutron Cannon.
- Uh, "The Muzzle of the Black Hole."
- Of course of course. But first, you will do us both a big favor. You will have to give another novel to the load. Westin Opdijk from Schumann and Shaister called me, they desperately need to urgently replace Jerome Arizona with someone. Arizona ruined their project, and they needed it yesterday.
The second portion of alcohol today boosts Corso's brain. Prone to hallucinatory conditions. But no adverse incident follows. There are no morons or toths [70] smashing a restaurant. As it happened once at the Val-Mart supermarket. When these animals did not wait for a joyful greeting. From an oblivious administration representative.
Allowing an influx of relaxation to swallow this uneasy day:
“But Arizona is usually so reliable.” He never delayed the time.
- Right. But that was before the local cops caught him in bed with two sixteen.
- Wow!
“So you're on board.”
“But what kind of project is this?”
- A novel based on the movie Star Maker.
Corso does not believe his ears.
“But this is Stapledon, a classic ...”
“Yes, that seems to be the name of that guy.”
“But the book is already there.” Several hundred pages, magnificent author's text. It must have been used as a source for the script. Can't they just reissue the original?
- The film now does not quite correspond to the original text. New love affairs and space battles alone require a different version. Come on, it's easy money. Although, however, no fees. Strictly self-employed.
Corso is baffled. Looks down at the immaculate whiteness of a napkin on her lap. How to answer here? Fuck idol of his youth. However, quick money. And step into the gate to Schumann and Shister. And perhaps a means to cope with their own stagnation. Write off from the master. Well, the choice.
Corso looks up to Maltrem's face.
The forehead of the agent mutates into an overhanging ledge. Features are coarsened. Hair grows on the face. Dirty yellow horse teeth protrude from the mouth. Maltrem de-evolves. To the state of Neanderthal. And with it, and other diners. And the staff. Clumsy shuffling between tables with bent backs and legs crooked. With ties crashing into swollen necks. Like a barbed wire rooted in a tree.
Maltrem begins to show impatience. His voice remains unchanged. Thank God. There is no danger of misunderstanding some primitive sound combination.
“So Corso, what do you say?”
And while Corso is trying to dig out his own voice, Maltrem continues to mutate. Scales. Fangs Horns. Spiky tail. Maltrem turns into a humanoid lizard. Dinosaur in a costume from the "Hugo Boss". And other visitors. They have the same antediluvian appearance. One dinosaur. Identified by the dress. Picks up his steak disproportionately small forelimbs. And completely throws him into a salivating, razor-toothed mouth.
Corso's shirt is saturated with sweat. From his companion bears an amphibious stench. It is necessary to choose the most well-meaning words to express your consent to this disgusting task. Not that the agent will take it as an insult. And with one careless kick, he will release his guts.
For corso sincerely doubts
Maltrem wants to stop
when only fifteen percent
his client
will be eaten.
The third female gatekeeper of the day. Secretary at Book Hill. The cheeks are still teenage round, like a hamster. Purple nail polish. The reddish hair is tightly tied in two braids sticking out on the sides of the
face. At the same time too understanding and completely naive. Surely a recent graduate. Some prestigious college. Which should be ashamed. To cultivate and feed countless numbers of such clear-eyed ill-fated romantics. Publishing insatiable and avariciously paying womb.
“Uh, my last name is Fairfield, I'm with Mr. Wankel. ”
- Yes, come in, please.
Corso thought he would have to wait. Easy access confuses him. Because he needs a toilet.
“Excuse me if I can, first, er, use the restroom.”
- Sure. Here is the key. On this corridor to the left.
Holding a sacred key in his hand. Almost like he works here. In this company, ignoring all his offers. Regarding the cover of Cosmocopy. When instead of Whelan or Eggleton. He received the frankly pastel work of Murrell Purifoy. Whose oeuvre [71] consists almost exclusively of the covers of humorous fantasy novels. Apart from the image proposed by Purifoy for the device of the same name in the book of Corso. Which came out of him like a hybrid of a juicer, a postmodern Volkswagen and a penis-like pump.
Through the door for the initiates. To the farthest booth. Hanging a briefcase on a hook for clothes. Thankfully lowering trousers and boxer shorts. Sitting on a toilet seat. Blessed peristaltic relief. Still easily accessible. Unlike its mental variety.
Noisy new visitors enter. One voice is familiar, the other is not. The first is Wankel himself. Good-natured gregot against the backdrop of an energetic splash of urine.
“So that means you're dating Corso Fast Food.” How is he doing today.
- A hopeless case. There is more than enough talent. But he was completely bogged down in this, so to speak, myth of the genre. He thinks that NF is almost a mystical calling. But this is just a job, like any other. He imagines that he writes for some community of supermen. And not for a bunch of jerk, messed up teenage books.
Laughter from an unidentified interlocutor.
- Lord God! Doesn't he see that this is all interchangeable. Mysticism, techno thrillers, westerns. One pile of crap is worth another. Well, all right, I know one thing. I will not make this mistake. I will not get into this dead end. Another year or two, and I will get away from here. I have already launched several tentacles in Maxim.
The crackle of zippered zippers.
- "Maxim", hmm ... Well, there are a lot of beautiful women.
- Still would.
Wash your hands. Are leaving. A sob comes from a distant cabin, ejected by black despair.
Corso Fast Food. His nickname is among his brothers. Known to everyone except him. His passion, his devotion to the chosen field of activity. Ridiculed and thrown away. Any motivation is considered ridiculous. If it is not based on direct benefit. Not to mention the initial denial of all artistic desire. Work based on the works of the heroes of the past. Giants of the genre. They met, no doubt, a similar attitude. From their own treacherous editors.
And when he meets Wankel face to face. He will have a great temptation. Spit in his eyes. Or punched in the same place. But this, of course, is impossible. For then Maltrem will tear his unbridled and quick-tempered client to pieces. Just one bite in size each. So that you can share it with other predators. Corso has no choice. Except how to swallow your grudge. And move on.
Back to the secretary. Return the key. And in the Wankel holy of holies.
Roger Wankel, standing near the table in front of the window. View of the canyons of glass and metal. Lush, careless take-off of the facades. Birds cut the air. Boyish mop of brown hair, lying at an angle on a wide editorial forehead. Close set eyes. Nose and lips selected from a catalog of children's facial features and then mistakenly placed on an adult matrix. Rummaging through a stack of cover art mockups. Perhaps Purifoy has already agreed to work on the “Black Hole Muzzle”. If so, then only two questions remain. Whether glass is impenetrable here. And how far to the earth.
- Corso! I am very glad to see you! How's ginny doing?
“You probably mean Jenny.” She is doing well.
Of course, it remains unspoken. That she is doing well with his mechanic.
- So that's great. I think you came to talk about extending the term. I never would have thought it would be possible to push through. But Maltrem is a great intermediary. You are lucky that you are in his team.
- Yes. He has a thick skin.
- Right, right. So, what can you show me to convince me that you really joined in this project.
Hardly refraining from bringing bitter accusations to him. In corruption and double-dealing. Babbling instead is something incoherent. About the likely development of events. The main character is Corso. Russa Radikansa. The owner of the Black Hole Dule. Artifact left over from an ancient extinct race. Acheropithecus. And beloved Russ. Zulma Scientific Spacecraft pilot. Under the name "Grauler." And her evil clone sister. Zinza, the ruthless killer. And so on. And Wankel, listening to all of this. Nodding thoughtfully. The hypocritical scumbag.
They knock on the cabinet door. Wankel pays no attention. But the worker enters without an invitation. Mustache, dirty brown overalls, a hammer hanging from the loop, work gloves are plugged into the back pocket. And without a single word. The worker begins to disassemble one of the walls of the office. With a spatula. Peeling thin sheets. Not plaster or particleboard, but something like elastic plywood. And exposing under it not beams and crossbars. And the open blue sky in a dozen floors above the ground. Corso's cheeks are touched by a gentle breeze.
Corso stumbles and falls silent. Wankel is at a loss. But only because of the confusion of its author.
- Speak on, I'm listening.
And then Corso realizes. What is another hallucination. He is trying to continue. He is trying to accept the unpredictable unreality of his feelings.
A few more workers are coming up. Like two drops of water similar to the first. Business crowd of dismantlers. And they are accepted to help the first in dismantling the walls. Until soon, Corso and Wankel do not remain sitting on top of a bare column soaring up. A few square feet of carpeted floor. Open from all sides. Manhattan's tough gaze. As the rest of the office inexplicably disappeared. The scenery is removed. Hidden Puppeteers. Decided to finally destroy. His solipsic self.
The wind stirs corso's hair. He cannot go on. Because he is looking at one of the workers. Which confidently leaves the column. And now it's climbing right across the sky. It's like it's not air, but just a gentle blue slope. Heading towards the sun. And approaching his ball, the worker does not decrease in size. On the contrary, when it becomes near the sun, the true scale of the luminary is revealed. This is a hub-sized drive from a car's wheel Worker pulls his gauntlets. And begins to unscrew it.
Other workers, meanwhile, turn off Wankel. With the help of a knife switch on his head. Confirming Corso's persistent suspicions about the existence of such a switch. Then the workers raise the editorial chair with the editor. And turn upside down. But Wankel remains attached to it. With a wacky grin on her lips.
And then, when the sun is finally completely pulled out of its nest, absolute darkness descends.
As if
Russ Radikans
applied the Black Hole Dulo
to your own creator.
- Corso, my boy. Get up!
That juicy voice. Soaked with all the luxury of a cozy life. So familiar. On commercial televisions dedicated to credit cards. And one about the Saturn cars. And discussions in many meetings. Apart from the occasional telephone conversations. At midnight hours. When despair came to my throat. Unfortunate protege. And he dialed the home number of his mentor. A number for which millions of fans would have killed without hesitation. What was once the now extinct young Corso himself. And even now that he has reached his own small professional height. He still barely dares to believe. That he was granted such a high privilege.
Corso opens his eyes. He is spread on his back. Half-naked. On a hospital gurney. Protected by a dirty curtain on the ringlets. From the mournful and compassionate eyes of the neighbor sufferers. Ob
viously, he is in the hospital emergency room. And beside him sits Malachi Stiltjack.
On Stiltjack an expensive jet black suit. Countless yards of Italian matter encircling its vast footage. Better cut than even Maltrem. Vest. Hour chain. Other dandy accessories. Silver hair is cut short and perfected. An old face shining with a bishop's smile shines. Apparently, because Corso regained consciousness.
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