THE PLAGIARIST FROM RIGEL IV

I bought the typewriter in a pawn shop on Third Avenue.

The pawn shop proprietor was a balding old man with a walrus mustache.

"How much?" I asked him.

"Five dollars," he said casually.

I glanced at him skeptically. The machine was a Remington Noiseless,with italics, probably worth a little over a hundred new, and itcouldn't have been more than a year or two old.

"How much?" I asked.

"Five dollars, is what I said. Five." He held up the fingers of hiswidespread hand. "Five. One-two-three...."

"What's wrong with it?" I asked suspiciously.

The old man shrugged. "Something has to be wrong with it? Listen,young man, don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"How come it's so cheap?"

The old man sighed deeply. "You try to do a favor, you get all kinds ofquestions. Would you feel happier if I charged you fifty-five dollars?"

"I wouldn't pay fifty-five dollars. I haven't got that much money."

"Have you got five dollars? Can you pay that much?"

"Yes. But...."

"All right, take the machine. A case goes with it. Believe me, youngman, this is a bargain."

"Five dollars?" I asked again.

"Five dollars. You want it? Yes or no? I got other things to do."

"I'll take it."

The old man smiled. "Good, you'll never regret it."

He slid the machine off the counter and put it into its case. Hesnapped the case shut then, locked it, and handed me the two keys.

"Keys even," he said, still smiling. "A good buy. If I had fivedollars, I'd buy it myself." His smile widened in appreciationof his own humor, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he wasimmensely relieved about something. I handed him the five dollar billreluctantly, scooped up the case, and left the shop—glancing back overmy shoulder to see him still grinning behind the counter.

I stopped at the grocer's to pick up some salami and a loaf of bread,and then I went back to my apartment. I lived in a small, one-room flatin the Village. I'd migrated there because I wanted to be surrounded bycreative people. I'd been surrounded by them for close to six monthsnow, but none of it had rubbed off on me. I'd finally been forcedto sell my old typewriter to pay the rent, so that finding this onetoday—and at the ridiculous price of five dollars—had really been agodsend. I was almost happy as I prepared the salami sandwiches formy supper. When they were ready, I took them, together with a quartof milk and a glass, over to the small table that served as my desk.I carefully took the typewriter out of its case and rested it on thetable. I closed the case then, brought it to the closet, and put it onthe top shelf alongside my rainy-day hat. I went back to the table,sipped a little milk, munched a little of the salami sandwich, and puta sheet of paper into the machine.

I knew exactly what I wanted to type, mind you.

I'd had the opening lines of the story in my mind for a good manyweeks, only waiting for a typewriter to get them onto paper. They werefairly bubbling out of my head as I placed my hands on the keys.

What I wanted to type was:

...