Frederik Pohl - Waiting for the Olympians

If I had been writing it as a romance, I would have called the chapter about that last day in London something like The Day of the Two Rejections. It was a nasty day in late December just before the holidays. The weather was cold, wet, and miserablewell, I said it was London, didnt I?but everybody was in a sort of expectant holiday mood; it had just been announced that the Olympians would be arriving no later than the following August, and everybody was excited about that. All the taxi drivers were busy, and so I was late for my lunch with Lidia. How was Manahattan? I asked, sliding into the booth beside her and giving her a quick kiss.

Manahattan was very nice, she said, pouring me a drink. Lidia was a writer, toowell they call themselves writers, the ones who follow famous people around and write down all their gossip and jokes and put them out as books for the amusement of the idle. Thats not really writing, of course. Theres nothing creative about it. But it pays well, and the research (Lidia always told me) was a lot of fun. She spent a lot of time travelling around the celebrity circuit, which was not very good for our romance. She watched me drink the first glass before she remembered to ask politely, Did you finish the book?

Dont call it the book, I said. Call it by its name, An Ass Olympiad. Im going to see Marcus about it this afternoon.

Thats not what Id call a great title, she commented. Lidia was always willing to give me her opinion on anything, when she didnt like it. Really, dont you think its too late to be writing another sci-rom about the Olympians? And then she smiled brightly and said, Ive got something to say to you, Julie. Have another drink first.

So I knew what was coming right away, and that was the first rejection.

Id seen this scene building up. Even before she left on that last research trip to the West I had begun to suspect that some of that early ardour had cooled, so I wasnt really surprised when she told me, without any further foreplay, Ive met somebody else, Julie.

I said, I see. I really did see, and so I poured myself a third drink while she told me about it.

Hes a former space pilot, Julius. Hes been to Mars and the Moon and everywhere, and oh, hes such a sweet man. And hes a champion wrestler, too, would you believe it? Of course, hes still married, as it happens. But hes going to talk to his wife about a divorce as soon as the kids are just a little older.

She looked at me challengingly, waiting for me to tell her she was an idiot. I had no intention of saying anything at all, as a matter of fact, but just in case I had, she added, Dont say what youre thinking.

I wasnt thinking anything, I protested.

She sighed. Youre taking this very well, she told me. She sounded as though that were a great disappointment to her. Listen, Julius, I didnt plan this. Truly, youll always be dear to me in a special way. I hope we can always be friends I stopped listening around then.

There was plenty more in the same vein, but only the details were a surprise. When she told me our little affair was over I took it calmly enough. I always knew that Lidia had a weakness for the more athletic type. Worse than that, she never respected the kind of writing I do, anyway. She had the usual establishment contempt for science-adventure romances about the future and adventures on alien planets, and what sort of relationship could that lead to, in the long run?

So I left her with a kiss and a smile, neither of them very sincere, and headed for my editors office. That was where I got the second rejection. The one that really hurt.

Marks office was in the old part of London, down by the river. Its an old company, in an old building, and most of the staff are old, too. When the company needs clerks or copy-editors it has a habit of picking up tutors whose students have grown up and dont need them any more, and retraining them. Of course, thats just for the people in the lower echelons. The higher-ups, like Mark himself, are free, salaried executives, with the executive privilege of interminable, winey author-and-editor lunches that dont end until the afternoon.

I had to wait half an hour to see him; obviously he had been having one of them that day. I didnt mind. I had every confidence that our interview was going to be short, pleasant, and remunerative. I knew very well that An Ass Olympiad was one of the best sci-roms I had ever done. Even the title was clever. The book was a satire, with classical overtonesfrom The Golden Ass of the ancient writer, Lucius Apuleius, two thousand years ago or so; I had played off the classic in a comic, adventurous little story about the coming of the real Olympians. I can always tell when a book is going really well and I knew the fans would eat this one up

When I finally got in to see Marcus he had a glassy, after-lunch look in his eye, and I could see my manuscript on his desk.

I also saw that clipped to it was a red-bordered certificate, and that was the first warning of bad news. The certificate was the censors verdict, and the red border meant it was an obstat.

Mark didnt keep me in suspense. We cant publish, he said, pressing his palm on the manuscript. The censors have turned it down.

They cant! I cried, making his old secretary lift his head from his desk in the corner of the room to stare at me.

They did, Mark said. Ill read you what the obstat says: of a nature which may give offence to the delegation from the Galactic Consortium, usually referred to as the Olympians and thus endangering the security and tranquillity of the Empire and, well, basically it just says no. No revisions suggested. Just a complete veto; its waste paper now, Julie. Forget it.

But everybody is writing about the Olympians! I yelped.

Everybody was he corrected. Now theyre getting close, and the censors dont want to take any more chances. He leaned back to rub his eyes, obviously wishing he could be taking a nice nap instead of breaking my heart. Then he added tiredly, So what do you want to do, Julie? Write us a replacement? It would have to be fast, you understand; the front office doesnt like having contracts outstanding for more than thirty days after due date. And it would have to be good. Youre not going to get away with pulling some old reject out of your trunkIve seen all those already, anyway.

How the hells do you expect me to write a whole new book in thirty days? I demanded.

He shrugged, looking sleepier and less interested in my problem than ever. If you cant, you cant. Then youll just have to give back the advance, he told me.

I calmed down fast. Well, no, I said, theres no question of having to do that. I dont know about finishing it in thirty days, though

I do, he said flatly. He watched me shrug. Have you got an idea for the new one?

Mark, I said patiently, Ive always got ideas for new ones. Thats what a professional writer is. Hes a machine for thinking up ideas. I always have more ideas than I can ever write

Do you? he insisted.

I surrendered, because if Id said yes the next thing would have been that hed want me to tell him what it was. Not exactly, I admitted.

Then, he said, youd better go wherever you do to get ideas, because, give us the new book or give us back the advance, thirty days is all youve got.

Theres an editor for you.

Theyre all the same. At first theyre all honey and sweet talk, with those long alcoholic lunches and blue-sky conversation about million-copy printings while they wheedle you into signing the contract. Then they turn nasty. They want the actual book delivered. When they dont get it, or when the censors say they cant print it, then there isnt any more sweet talk and all the conversation is about how the aediles will escort you to debtors prison.