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However, I was awake, so I grabbed my robe. Fasts dark eyes turned on Paul Bleeker. "You have heard it said, a man owes a debt to his profession. This may be true. But no professional man pays his debt by writing for the profession. If he is an independent, say a consulting engineer, or a partner in a law firm, or a history professor in a big university, he publishes because its part of his job to advertise himself and his establishment. There's very little money in itper se. If he's a rising young man in a corporate research or corporate law department, he writes for the reputation. It helps him move up. If his own company doesn't recognise him, their competitors will. But if he's already at the top of his department in his company, he has none of these incentives. But he doesn't need them. If such a man writes, he has behind him the strongest force known to the human mind." The Big Names of SF—the names everybody knows—Sturgeon, Heinlein, Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke—how many of them are actually SF writers today? Only Heinlein still writes primarily in the genre. Is that what you think? Paul looked at the older man. That Jeanne, while asleep, is somehow transposed into a future time?” Biev was the kind of person that in a Western society would be termed a screwball and doomed to menial garbage-emptying and ditchdigging chores, since he didnt conform to the proper behavior-personality-interest pattern of an overlaid, rectangular-hole-punched pasteboard computer card. Instead, Biev was in a society where his kind were looked upon as crude ore to be assayed and appreciated. A tongue-in-cheek appreciation, it was true, but appreciation nonetheless, with a bit of eyebrow-raising and tongue-wagging as kind of a price to pay for being unorthodox. And more than just different, he was the epitome of the Different. Persons less individual than Biev cast envious eyes upon him—where in a Western society they threw stones—and thankedtheir gods that they didn’t have to be like him since the world already had a Biev. If homage was in the coin of envy, you might say Biev was the Unorthodox’s Unorthodox. "And Andrea?" During the evening I heard the dull sound of far-away bomb explosions, the drone of planes. That would be the English Luftwaffe doing exercises over the still-inhabited suburbs. Before he left, though, he had one more task. It was not important—actually only a mere formality: to give the scientists a chance to correct the conditions he had exposed. They would refuse him, of course—he expected that—but when they refused, they would lose their right to protest when he aroused public censure against them. I am pleased to report, Dr. Tschirgis note concludes, that I was laughed off the podium. Ive told you before, Father. He won’t have anything to do with killing. Paul Bleeker broke in. "You say a professional man writes for a variety of reasons, John. Name one. Why do you write?" A SERIOUS SEARCH FOR WEIRD WORLDS It flopped, palm up, on the pavement. The little fingernail was three quarters of an inch long, the way a lot of the golden wear it. (Like his face, the tips of Sandys fingers are, all masticated wrecks. Still, something ... ) "Now isnt that something." Ratlit shook his head. "What do you want to do with him, Vyme?" In the light from the cabs interior lamp, John’s jaw hung agape like a puppet’s; for once he was utterly speechless. It was Sabina who had to give his Leavenworth Street address to the driver. The pilot kept them low. They followed the low ridge and crossed several more trails, all of them headed in the same direction.Looks like a hunting pack to me, the pilot judged..
