Mort stood there for a moment, the handset sinking away from his ear. Then he scooped1 up the bottom half of the Princess-style telephone. He was on the verge2 of throwing the whole combination against the wall before he was able to get hold of himself. He set it down again and took a dozen deep breaths - enough to make his head feel swimmy and light. Then he dialled Herb Creekmore's home telephone.
Herb's lady-friend, Delores, picked it up on the second ring and called Herb to the telephone.
'Hi, Mort,' Herb said. 'What's the story on the house?' His voice moved away from the telephone's mouthpiece a little. 'Delores, will you move that skillet to the back burner?'
Suppertime in New York, Mort thought, and he wants me to know it. Well, what the hell. A maniac3 has just threatened to turn my wife into veal4 cutlets, but life has to go on, right?
'The house is gone,' Mort said. 'The insurance will cover the loss.' He paused. 'The monetary5 loss, anyway.'
'I'm sorry,' Herb said. 'Can I do anything?'
'Well, not about the house,' Mort said, 'but thanks for offering. About the story, though -'
'What story is that, Mort?'
He felt his hand tightening6 down on the telephone's handset again and forced himself to loosen up. He doesn't know what the situation up here is. You have to remember that.
'The one my nutty friend is kicking sand about,' he said, trying to maintain a tone which was light and mostly unconcerned. 'Sowing Season. Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine?'
'Oh, that!' Herb said.
Mort felt a jolt7 of fear. 'You didn't forget to call, did you?'
'No - I called,' Herb reassured8 him. 'I just forgot all about it for a minute. You losing your house and all .'
'Well? What did they say?'
'Don't worry about a thing. They're going to send a Xerox9 over to me by messenger tomorrow, and I'll send it right up to you by Federal Express. You'll have it by ten o'clock day after tomorrow.'
For a moment it seemed that all of his problems were solved, and he started to relax. Then he thought of the way Shooter's eyes had blazed. The way he had brought his face down until his forehead and Mort's were almost touching10. He thought of the dry smell of cinnamon on Shooter's breath as he said, 'You lie.'
A Xerox? He was by no means sure that Shooter would accept an original copy ... but a Xerox?
'No,' he said slowly. 'That's no good, Herb. No Xerox, no phone-call from the editor. It has to be an original copy of the magazine.'
'Well, that's a little tougher. They have their editorial offices in Manhattan, of course, but they store copies at their subscription11 offices in Pennsylvania. They only keep about five copies of each issue - it's really all they can afford to keep, when you consider that EQMM has been publishing since 1941. They really aren't crazy about lending them out.'
'Come on, Herb! You can find those magazines at yard sales and in half the small-town libraries in America!'
'But never a complete run.' Herb paused. 'Not even a phone-call will do, huh? Are you telling me this guy is so paranoid he'd think he was talking to one of your thousands of stooges?'
From the background: 'Do you want me to pour the wine, Herb?'
Herb spoke12 again with his mouth away from the phone. 'Hold on a couple of minutes, Dee.'
'I'm holding up your dinner,' Mort said. 'I'm sorry.'
'It goes with the territory. Listen, Mort, be straight with me - is this guy as crazy as he sounds? Is he dangerous?'
I don't think I'd talk about this to anyone else. That'd be like standing13 out in a thunderstorm and tempting14 the lightning.
'I don't think so,' he said, 'but I want him off my back, Herb.' He hesitated, searching for the right tone. 'I've spent the last half-year or so walking through a shitstorm. This might be one thing I can do something about. I just want the doofus off my back.'
'Okay,' Herb said with sudden decision. 'I'll call Marianne Jaffery over at EQMM. I've known her for a long time. If I ask her to ask the library curator -that's what they call the guy, honest, the library curator - to send us a copy of the June, 1980, ish, she'll do it. Is it okay if I say you might have a story for them at some point in the future?'
'Sure,' Mort said, and thought: Tell her it'll be under the name John Shooter, and almost laughed aloud.
'Good. She'll have the curator send it on to you Federal Express, direct from Pennsylvania. just return it in good condition, or you'll have to find a replacement15 copy at one of those yard sales you were talking about.'
'Is there any chance all this could happen by the day after tomorrow?' Mort asked. He felt miserably16 sure that Herb would think he was crazy for even asking ... and he surely must feel that Mort was making an awfully17 big mountain out of one small molehill.
'I think there's a very good chance,' Herb said. 'I won't guarantee it, but I'll almost guarantee it.'
'Thanks, Herb,' Mort said with honest gratitude18. 'You're swell19.'
'Aw, shucks, ma'am,' Herb said, doing the bad John Wayne imitation of which he was so absurdly proud.
'Now go get your dinner. And give Delores a kiss for me.'
Herb was still in his John Wayne mode. 'To heck with that. I'll give 'er a kiss fer me, pilgrim.'
You talk big, pilgrim.
Mort felt such a spurt20 of horror and fear that he almost cried out aloud. Same word, same flat, staring drawl. Shooter had tapped his telephone line' somehow, and no matter who Mort tried to call or what number he dialled. it was John Shooter who answered. Herb Creekmore had become just another one of his pen names, and
'Mort? Are you still there?'
He closed his eyes. Now that Herb had dispensed21 with the bogus John Wayne imitation, it was okay. It was just Herb again, and always had been. Herb using that word, that had just been
What?
Just another float in the Parade of Coincidences? Okay. Sure. No problem. I'll just stand on the curb22 and watch it slide past. Why not? I've already watched half a dozen bigger ones go by.
'Right here, Herb,' he said, opening his eyes. 'I was just trying to figure out how do I love thee. You know, counting the ways?'
'You're thilly,' Herb said, obviously pleased. 'And you're going to handle this carefully and prudently23, right?'
'Right.'
'Then I think I'll go eat supper with the light of my life.'
'That sounds like a good idea. Goodbye, Herb - and thanks.'
'You're welcome. I'll try to make it the day after tomorrow. Dee says goodbye, too.'
'If she wants to pour the wine, I bet she does,' Mort said, and they both hung up laughing.
As soon as he put the telephone back on its table, the fantasy came back. Shooter. He do the police in different voices. Of course, he was alone and it was dark, a condition which bred fantasies. Nevertheless, he did not believe - at least in his head - that John Shooter was either a supernatural being or a supercriminal. If he had been the former, he would surely know that Morton Rainey had not committed plagiarism24 - at least not on that particular story - and if he had been the latter, he would have been off knocking over a bank or something, not farting around western Maine, trying to squeeze a short story out of a writer who made a lot more money from his novels.
He started slowly back toward the living room, intending to go through to the study and try the word processor, when a thought
(at least not that particular story)
struck him and stopped him.
What exactly did that mean, not that particular story? Had he ever stolen someone else's work?
For the first time since Shooter had turned up on his porch with his sheaf of pages, Mort considered this question seriously. A good many reviews of his books had suggested that he was not really an original writer; that most of his works consisted of twice-told tales. He remembered Amy reading a review of The Organ-Grinder's Boy which had first acknowledged the book's pace and readability, and then suggested a certain derivativeness in its plotting. She'd said, 'So what? Don't these people know there are only about five really good stories, and writers just tell them over and over, with different characters?'
Mort himself believed there were at least six stories: success; failure; love and loss; revenge, mistaken identity; the search for a higher power, be it God or the devil. He had told the first four over and over, obsessively25, and now that he thought of it, 'Sowing Season' embodied26 at least three of those ideas. But was that plagiarism? If it was, every novelist at work in the world would be guilty of the crime.
Plagiarism, he decided27, was outright28 theft. And he had never done it in his life. Never.
'Never,' he said, and strode into his study with his head up and his eyes wide, like a warrior29 approaching the field of battle. And there he sat for the next one hour, and words he wrote none.
收听单词发音 |
1
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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xerox
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| n./v.施乐复印机，静电复印 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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12
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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13
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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15
replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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16
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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17
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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18
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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22
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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23
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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24
plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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25
obsessively
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| ad.着迷般地，过分地 | |
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26
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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27
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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29
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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