Dugan looked around expectantly, but it'd laid an egg. There was an uncomfortable pause while Mallison mumbled bitterly to himself. Jinx was very unhappy and tried to say complimentary things. I suppose he felt responsible.

Only I wasn't doing much supposing because I had the most peculiar sensation.

I believed Dugan's story.

I was thinking of that manuscript that'd blown out the window and I was trying to remember whether I'd used a paper weight to anchor it down. I was thinking of that gadget with buttons and I was realizing how this mysterious Dugan'd slipped from one tense to another—which is a thing all writers are conscious of and which began to have psychological import for me.

But the most convincing thing of all was how the others were looking at Dugan. Belcher was staring keenly from under his black eyebrows—Belcher, who wrote that sort of stuff and who should have been sophisticated. The little guy with the pipe was absolutely electrified. I knew it couldn't be the story because the story was lousy even for pulp.

Finally Dugan said, "That's all there is. How d'you like it?"

Mallison said, "It stinks!" and probed in his pockets for cigarettes.

"What was this new Shakespeare's name?" Belcher asked slowly.

Dugan said, "I haven't decided yet."

The little guy took the pipe out of his mouth. "What was the name of the story he took?"

Belcher said, "Yes, what was it?"

Dugan shrugged and smiled. "I haven't decided yet. It's not really important, is it?"

I said, "Dugan, when was that manuscript taken?"

I know it was foolish, but I had to ask—and none of the others seemed to think it peculiar. They leaned forward with me and waited for Dugan's answer. He looked at me, still smiling, and as I stared at those blurry eyes behind the vast thick lenses, I began to shake with uncertainty. In all that blur there was a strangeness, a something—Oh, hell!

Suddenly Belcher began to laugh. He laughed so hard he overturned his 

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