“Finally,” the author went on, “I hit upon a scheme which, during the last year, has brought me considerable success.”
In spite of himself the editor was interested. “A scheme?” he repeated.
“An extremely simple scheme,” said the author. “Nowadays when I have a story to sell I merely choose an editor, find a way to elude his secretary, hold my manuscript out to him, as I am doing with you now, and speak six words.”
“And those six words are...?” The editor felt some resentment at having to supply all the straight lines.
“And this six words are” — the burly author paused mischievously — “potent. Yes, yes, certainly potent.”
“I imagine they would have to be,” the editor acknowledged with ill-concealed sarcasm, “to achieve such remarkable results. Still, I don’t understand—”
“The first response to them is invariably derisive,” the author admitted, “as yours will no doubt be. Editors, as a class, are preternaturally contemptuous of authors. I would even feel justified in calling them monomaniacally arrogant.”
“Surely,” replied the editor, “that’s a bit of an overstate—”
“In the end, however, I have managed to convince most of them of the seriousness of my intentions. Those few I have not—” he shrugged. “Well, you would no doubt recognize their names at once. I could easily supply documentation.”
“All this is very interesting, Mr.... Mr....?”
“Gillis,” the author stated again. “Lew Gillis.”
“But I’m afraid I must tell you, sir,” the editor continued, probing with his foot as unobtrusively as possible for the emergency alarm button beneath his desk, “that there are no circumstances I can think of, no combination whatever of six words I can imagine, that could force me to publish a story, by you or by anyone else, that I did not expressly choose to publish.”
For a moment the bearded author made no reply. Then once more, without warning, he thrust his manuscript, its tide and author’s name — SIX WORDS by Lew Gillis — now clearly visible, into the face of the editor.
“Publish this,” he began, with an air of once and for all concluding the business.
“Or—?” the editor inquired.
Gillis grinned savagely. “That,” he said, “is the third word.”
The Little Things
by Isaac Asimov
Mrs. Clara Bernstein was somewhat past fifty and the temperature outside was somewhat past ninety. The air-conditioning was working, but though it removed the fact of heat it didn’t remove the idea of heat.
Mrs. Hester Gold, who was visiting the 21st floor from her own place in 4-C, said, “It’s cooler down on my floor.” She was over fifty, too, and had blonde hair that didn’t remove a single year from her age.
Clara said, “It’s the little things, really. I can stand the heat. It’s the dripping I can’t stand. Don’t you hear it?”
“No,” said Hester, “but I know what you mean. My boy, Joe, has a button off his blazer. Seventy-two dollars, and without the button it’s nothing. A fancy brass button on the sleeve and he doesn’t have it to sew back on.”
“So what’s the problem? Take one off the other sleeve also.”
“Not the same. The blazer just won’t look good. If a button is loose, don’t wait, get it sewed. Twenty-two years old and he still doesn’t understand. He goes off, he doesn’t tell me when he’ll be back—”
Clara said impatiently, “Listen. How can you say you don’t hear the dripping? Come with me to the bathroom. If I tell you it’s dripping, it’s dripping.”
Hester followed and assumed an attitude of listening. In the silence it could be heard — drip — drip — drip—
Clara said, “Like water torture. You hear it all night. Three nights now.”
Hester adjusted her large faintly tinted glasses, as though that would make her hear better, and cocked her head. She said, “Probably the shower dripping upstairs, in 22-G. It’s Mrs. Maclaren’s place. I know her. Listen, she’s a good-hearted person. Knock on her door and tell her. She won’t bite your head off.”
Clara said, “I’m not afraid of her. I banged on her door five times already. No one answers. I phoned her. No one answers.”
“So she’s away,” said Hester. “It’s summertime. People go away.”
“And if she’s away for the whole summer, do I have to listen to the dripping a whole summer?”
“Tell the super.”
“That idiot. He doesn’t have the key to her special lock and he won’t break in for a drip. Besides, she’s not away. I know her automobile and it’s downstairs in the garage right now.”
Hester said uneasily. “She could go away in someone else’s car.”
Clara sniffed. “That I’m sure of. Mrs. Maclaren.”
Hester frowned, “So she’s divorced. It’s not so terrible. And she’s still maybe thirty — thirty-five — and she dresses fancy. Also not so terrible.”
“If you want my opinion, Hester,” said Clara, “what she’s doing up there I wouldn’t like to say. I hear things.”
“What do you hear?”
“Footsteps. Sounds. Listen, she’s right above and I know where her bedroom is.”
Hester said tartly, “Don’t be so old-fashioned. What she does is her business.”
“All right. But she uses the bathroom a lot, so why does she leave it dripping? I wish she would answer the door. I’ll bet anything she’s got a décor in her apartment like a French I-don’t-know-what.”
“You’re wrong, if you want to know. You’re plain wrong. She’s got regular furniture and lots of houseplants.”
“And how do you know that?”
Hester looked uncomfortable. “I water the plants when she’s not home. She’s a single woman. She goes on trips, so I help her out.”
“Oh? Then you would know if she was out of town. Did she tell you she’d be out of town?”
“No, she didn’t.”
Clara leaned back and folded her arms. “And you have the keys to her place then?”
Hester said, “Yes, but I can’t just go in.”
“Why not? She could be away. So you have to water her plants.”
“She didn’t tell me to.”
Clara said, “For all you know she’s sick in bed and can’t answer the door.”
“She’d have to be pretty sick not to use the phone when it’s right near the bed.”
“Maybe she had a heart attack. Listen, maybe she’s dead and that’s why she doesn’t shut off the drip.”
“She’s a young woman. She wouldn’t have a heart attack.”
“You can’t be sure. With the life she lives — maybe a boyfriend killed her. We’ve got to go in.”
“That’s breaking and entering,” said Hester.
“With a key? If she’s away you can’t leave the plants to die. You water them and I’ll shut off the drip. What harm? — And if she’s dead, do you want her to lay there till who knows when?”
“She’s not dead,” said Hester, but she went downstairs to the fourth floor for Mrs. Maclaren’s keys.
“No one in the hall,” whispered Clara. “Anyone could break in anywhere anytime.”
“Sh,” whispered Hester. “What if she’s inside and says ‘Who’s there?’ ”
“So say you came to water the plants and I’ll ask her to shut off the drip.”
The key to one lock and then the key to the other turned smoothly and with only the tiniest click at the end. Hester took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. She knocked.
“There’s no answer,” whispered Clara impatiently. She pushed the door wide open.