Astounding! (24 page)

“Are you looking for a specific issue?” asked the salesclerk. She was maybe fifty years old, an inch or two taller than he was, and built like a linebacker. Her gray hair was pulled into a slightly messy ponytail, and she wore jeans and a pink sweatshirt.

“Just browsing,” Carter replied.

“Okay. We have almost the complete set, but if you want one we don’t have, I can probably order it for you.” She pointed at the computer on the front desk.

“They’re pretty expensive for old magazines.”

“They’re in demand. And they should be.
Astounding!
prints just about the best spec fic out there.”

Carter had to hide a grin by ducking his head. “Uh, thanks. That’s good to know.”

He ended up buying a copy of a Bradbury novel he hadn’t read in years and, while he was at it, a LeGuin, an Asimov, and a Vonnegut. “Classics instead of the magazines, huh?” the sales clerk commented as he checked out.

“I’m in a mood.”

She nodded. “Know how that is.” She took his cash, handed him change, and slipped the books into a blue paper bag imprinted with planets and a rocket ship. “Enjoy.”

A
ND
ENJOY
he did. Reading those books was like visiting old friends. And he found that he could appreciate them less critically than he had in the past. He wasn’t quite as tempted to grab a red pen and write comments in the margins.

He returned to Far Out a few days later, and then a few days after that. The bookstore soon became part of his routine. Twice a week he’d jog over there, pick out a book or two, and sit outside the café a few doors down with an iced coffee, reading the first few chapters before running home. Sometimes he spent a long time browsing, partly because it was fun to peruse the titles and partly because he found the store itself inviting. He loved the smells of dust and old paper, and he liked the threadbare armchairs tucked into a few corners. He even liked the store cat, Jules Verne, who would hop into Carter’s lap and stare at him for several minutes before curling up to purr.

Carter came to know and like the salesclerk, Tammy, who turned out to actually be the owner. He would bring her a tea from the café and spend an hour or so sitting with her at a little table near the cash register, discussing books. She never asked him anything about his past, which he appreciated.

But one afternoon in late August when he handed her a paper cup of Earl Grey, she seemed a little down. “Everything okay?” he asked.

She walked over to the table and sat heavily in her usual chair. She waited for him to sit before she answered. “My dad’s not doing too well,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “He’s ninety-two, so it’s not unexpected. He’s been sick for a while.” She sat back in her chair and looked around. “Far Out was his baby. His and Mom’s. They were hippies, back in the day. All with the antiwar protests and everything. But spec fic was their real passion, so they opened this store. I grew up here. Spent more time here than at home.”

“I bet your father’s really proud that you’ve carried on the business.”

She smiled and took a sip of tea. “He is. He says so all the time. Mom did too, before she passed. But you want to know the truth? The whole brick and mortar thing, it’s not my big love. I like doing the online stuff. It’s where I make most of my money nowadays. And….” She paused, glanced around quickly, and leaned forward. Dropping into a near-whisper, she said, “And my real dream is to be a writer.”

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. “What have you written?”

“Hardly anything,” she sighed. “It’s tough to find the time. Plus, well, I’m chicken. I’m afraid everything I write is crap.”

As she worked on her tea, Carter thought. An idea had hit him as soon as she spoke, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But then he remembered Freddy’s advice from months ago—stop thinking and start doing—and where that advice had taken him.

“I have a proposal for you,” he said.

She laughed. “I’m flattered, honey. But I know I’m not your type and I am a confirmed spinster.”

“Well, I’m proposing something a little less significant than marriage. Would you give me a sample of your very best writing and allow me to give you my honest opinion?”

“Why?”

“It’s… part of a plan I’m hatching.”

Tapping her fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop, she considered. “Why would I want your opinion? No offense, Carter. I realize you know more than I do about spec fic. But that doesn’t mean you’re qualified—”

“Hang on.” This was the tricky part. He stood quickly and trotted to the
Astounding!
collection. He pulled an issue at random off the shelf, then smiled when he saw that it contained one of Freddy’s stories. One of Freddy’s best, in fact.

Carter sat down again. He opened the magazine to the note from the editor and pointed to the signature. “That’s me.”

Tammy’s eyebrows flew up so quickly they threatened to escape her face. “You’re claiming that you’re Carter S. Evans?”

“I don’t think anyone else is clamoring to be me.” He pulled out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license, the Oregon one that he traded for Washington’s a couple months earlier. “See? You can quiz me if you still don’t believe me. Ask me anything about any issue of
Astounding!
”

He thought she was going to accept the challenge, but Jules Verne chose that moment to hop onto the table—nearly knocking over the cup of tea—and flop contentedly in front of Carter.

“Jules Verne likes you,” Tammy said. “I don’t think he’d like you if you were a fake.”

Carter wasn’t so sure about that. How the hell would a cat know whether he was lying? But it wasn’t a point he wanted to argue. “Thanks for vouching for me,” he said, stroking Jules Verne’s back.

Tammy looked at the magazine in front of her and then at Carter. “If you’re him, what are you doing hanging out
here
?”

“I’m… a little at loose ends. The magazine folded.”

“Dammit! That’s what the distributor said. I was hoping they were wrong.” She looked almost as upset over the news as he’d once been. “What happened? You were so
good
!”

“We were damn good. But that doesn’t pay the bills, and the banks don’t care how good the stories are.”

She nodded sadly. “I understand. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times before. I was just hoping
Astounding!
was immune.”

“Me too.” He continued petting the cat. It soothed him. Maybe he should get one of his own. “So will you let me read your work?”

“Why?”

“Because, Tammy, I’ll give you brutally honest feedback. Then you won’t have to be chicken anymore because you’ll know for sure.”

She looked at him, then at the magazine. “I’ll think about it.”

C
ARTER
SAT
down at the table a week later, and Jules Verne hopped onto the pile of papers in front of him. Automatically, Carter began to rub behind the cat’s ears, and Jules Verne purred his approval.

“You didn’t burn it, at least,” Tammy said, taking her seat.

“Nope.”

She peered at the bit of paper visible beneath the fur. “I see red ink.”

“That’s what I do.”

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t just e-mail it to you. It’s scarier in the flesh.”

He understood that. Everything felt more real when it had physical substance. “I told you. I don’t do computers anymore.”

“Is it a weird phobia?” she asked, squinting at him.

“Something like that.”

Carter recognized delaying tactics, so he just waited silently. Finally Tammy blew out a lungful of air. “Okay. Give it to me straight, doctor.”

Carter smiled at her. “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?”

“You need a good editor really badly. You fall into passive voice too often and you have a rather eccentric use of past perfect tense. You have a tendency to descend into purple prose. You have several POV slips and one egregious case of head-hopping. Also, you need to lose the entire last scene. It’s a pancake part.” He and Freddy had coined that term years ago. It meant the story dragged on too long. The two love interests finally conquer their conflicts? That was the climax. They have wild, passionate sex to celebrate? Ironically, not the climax but the denouement. The next morning they get up, read the paper, and eat breakfast?
That
was the pancake part.

Tammy didn’t know this, of course, but was clearly trying very hard not to look crestfallen. “Oh. So it does suck.”

“I didn’t say that. I said it’s not bad.” He tapped a corner of the manuscript. “This is better than a lot of new authors’ work. It’s far better than the dreck Freddy Morgan started out with. Your characterizations are good, and you have an excellent sense of a story’s rhythm. Your dialogue is snappy. And I love what you did with a tired old theme—it feels really fresh and current. Get yourself a good editor or two, keep on writing, and I think you have the possibility of a promising career. By which I mean hours of caffeine-fueled hard work rewarded by abject poverty, but hey, that’s the life. You’ll be published. You’ll have work to be proud of.”

Tammy’s mouth had been hanging slightly open and her eyes were wide, but now she broke into an enormous smile. “Are you bullshitting me? Is that part of your secret plan?”

He waved his hand at Jules Verne. “Hey. Your cat believes me, remember? Seriously, Tammy, I don’t lie about this stuff. When somebody writes garbage, I tell them so. Gently, but—” He winced slightly, remembering that damn letter he wrote to John. “Um, usually gently. But I never lead them on. That’s not fair to anyone.” And that was honest. Being a good editor—and he thought he was a good editor—meant not pulling punches.

“So you truly think I can write well?”

“I truly do.” Which was a considerable relief.

Now she managed to look both pleased and sad at the same time. “Well, thank you. It means a lot to me. Now if I could only find the time….”

“Now,
that’s
bullshit. Writers
make
the time to write. They miss some sleep, they stop watching TV, they tell their friends and family to go away. It’s rough, but that’s what you have to do. However”—he held up a finger—“this is where my dastardly plan comes into play.”

“Oh?”

“Hire me, Tammy.”

There went her eyebrows again. “To edit my stories?”

“Nope. To work here. You concentrate on the computer stuff and your writing. I keep the shelves stocked and steer customers to the stuff they should buy. I’ll write a monthly newsletter with recommendations and you can e-mail it out. I’ll feed the cat. I know a lot of authors, and quite a few live around here. I can help you organize readings and other events. Most authors are eager for the publicity, and it helps bring customers through the door.” He paused and then delivered the coup de grâce. “I am fairly positive that I could persuade Fred C. Morgan to come and do a book signing.”

And Carter found himself gainfully employed.

“T
AM
, I’
M
going to redo the window display in the morning. Is that okay?”

She turned from her computer screen. “Sure. I guess a Halloween-themed window does get old after November first. Too bad, though. I like what you did with it.”

He was kind of proud of that display too. He’d chosen a nice selection of horror novels and propped them among skulls, plastic eyeballs, stage blood, and various other grisly effects. He’d even set up a fog machine. The display caught a lot of people’s notice, especially kids and teenagers, whose parents became prey to Carter’s persuasive sales techniques. The only downside to the whole thing was that Jules Verne kept stealing the fuzzy spiders and rubber rats and hiding them around the store.

“I have a good theme for the new display—mythical creatures. You know, sprites, shifters, dragons, giants… things like that. My friend Karl suggested it, and his boyfriend Ery—who’s a pretty well-known artist—has agreed to do a background mural.”

“I can’t afford—”

“For free. Because he thinks it’ll be fun and because Karl talked him into it.” Carter still wasn’t sure exactly what Karl was—and he hadn’t yet spilled the beans as to his own true nature—but they’d probably get there pretty soon. Carter was becoming good pals with both of them. And by extension, with
their
friends, Travis and Drew. Drew was the man who played guitar with Karl. He’d been a best-selling author before an accident stole his ability to write or speak. But that didn’t stop Travis from loving him, or Drew from leading a happy life. And if Drew could recover from a loss like that, well, Carter could damn well put on his big-girl panties and stop mourning the end of
Astounding!
Anyway, Carter liked his new job quite a lot.

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing what you come up with,” Tammy said.

“You should be looking forward to seeing Karl and Ery when they show up tomorrow. Eye candy, both of them.”

“I knew there was a good reason why I hired you.” She glanced to the front of the store, where rain pelted the window glass. “Do you want a ride home? It’s really coming down out there. And it’s cold!”

“Nah, thanks. I won’t melt.” And he was never cold anymore, no matter how low the temperatures dropped.

He slipped into the back room to change into running pants, a light rain jacket, and his new pair of shoes. He regularly wore out his shoes nowadays. Then he tucked his work outfit into a waterproof backpack and patted Jules Verne, who was napping atop a cardboard box. “Night, Tam!” he called as he returned to the front of the store. She waved, and he ventured out into the rain.

He was completely soaked by the time he got home, but he didn’t particularly care. He stripped to the skin as soon as the front door shut, and he quickly carried his wet things to the laundry sink. He was a lot neater since he’d moved into John’s place. John himself had been so tidy, and messes seemed somehow disrespectful.