Cyberbooks (9 page)
TEN
For the fiftieth time that cheerless Saturday Carl picked up the telephone, then slammed it back down again. He paced to the window of his sparse hotel room again and looked out at the rain. It spattered the puddles growing on the rooftops across the street, it slanted down onto the cars and pedestrians in the avenue far below. The city allowed private cars into Manhattan on weekends. They and the umbrellas along the sidewalks made a shifting patchwork of colors against the gray stones, gray streets, and gray skies of this somber Saturday.
So you slept with her, Carl said to himself. That doesn't mean anything. Not in this day and age. You're both consenting adults.
But what did you consent to? the other half of his brain asked. A one-night stand? Or do you love her? Would you want to marry her?
Not so fast! This is no time to talk about marriage. Don't even
think
about it. You're in no position to take on responsibilities like that.
But you've got a tricky situation here. You're here in New York because she got her company to invite you. If you go ahead with them on the electronic book project, you're going to have to work with her. How are you going to handle that?
You can't mix business and romance, Carl insisted stubbornly. That's the one thing I learned out of all the management courses I took. Office romances lead to disaster.
So it was just a one-night stand, eh?
It has to be.
Carl nodded, satisfied that he had thought the problem through and come to the correct conclusion. But his hand reached for the telephone, and he asked the information computer for Lori's number.
*
Lori was in the middle of her morning calisthenics. Saturday she could sleep late, then do the week's wash and her exercises at the same time. Instead of riding down to the basement laundry room on the elevator, she jogged the three flights down and back up again. Not only was it better for her cardiovascular system and muscle tone, it avoided the jerk who lived on the ninth floor and seemed to lurk in the elevator, waiting for anything female to leer and lunge at.
She finished the deep bending routine and, wiping a sheen of perspiration from her face, was about to head downstairs again when the phone chimed.
Drat! she said to herself. If that's Momma she'll talk me blue in the face while the clothes wrinkle before I can get them into the dryer.
She touched the phone console's automatic answer button and heard the telephone's flat, emotionless voice say, "You have reached 999-5628. When you hear the tone, please leave your name, your number, and a brief message. Thank you. Please remember to wait for the tone."
Lori had one hand on the front door's knob when she recognized Carl's voice. "Uh, oh, Lori? This is Carl Lewis. I . . . I, uh, I'll call you back later."
She was at the phone before he could hang up.
"Carl? I'm here. It's me."
"Oh! I thought maybe I got a wrong number."
"No, that's just the answering program. It's not a good idea for a woman to use her own voice."
A long pause. Then, "I was wondering if you'd be free for dinner tonight."
Lori's first impulse was to say yes, and then explain that it would have to be early and brief, because she had to work and a belly dancer with a full belly was a belly dancer in trouble.
But she heard her voice replying, "Gee, I'm sorry, Carl. Not tonight. I have to work."
"Oh." Did he sound disappointed? Or relieved? Or some of each?
"How about brunch tomorrow?" she suggested. Brunch would be safer than dinner, she thought. Not so many complications afterward.
His voice brightened. "Sure. That'll be fine."
She gave him the name and address of a neighborhood restaurant. "Is one o'clock okay?" she asked.
"Sure. I've got nothing else to do."
"All right. I'll make the reservation. See you then."
And she sang to herself all the way down to the laundry room and back upstairs again.
*
Sunday morning was warm and bright, a perfect spring day in the city, like a scene from a Woody Allen film. The previous day's rain had washed the streets and the sky; everything seemed to sparkle as Lori walked from her apartment to the restaurant. People were actually smiling on the street and almost being polite to one another. A fantastic spring day in Manhattan.
Just what is it you expect of Carl? she asked herself. And she answered, grinning, Nothing. Not a damned thing. All I want is for him to be himself. And to stay near me.
That's
all
you want?
For now, she admitted. Carl is attractive, intelligent, a little shy, very gentle, very steady. Kind of old-fashioned. Not one of those macho beer-swilling clowns that this town is so full of. Or one of those phony name-dropping intellectuals who try to impress you with how much they know, and then take out a calculator to tote up the dinner check. I'm sick to death of them; the publishing business is filled with them.
And you think Carl's not like that?
Not at all like that. He got angry when those longshoremen were tucking money into my costume. He was ready to fight the whole crowd of them.
Foolish.
Gallant.
He was drunk.
But very lovable.
What was that word? Did you say "love"? Be careful girl, that's the way careers turn into pregnancies.
I know what I'm doing.
Do you?
Then she saw Carl sitting at one of the rickety tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, and ended her dialogue with herself. He was staring off into some private vision, somber and serious, just gazing at nowhere as he sat there in the early afternoon sunlight. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade could have passed by and he wouldn't have noticed it. Still in that rumpled tweed jacket. But suddenly he did recognize Lori and his face brightened into a million-kilowatt smile. He stood up as she approached.
Carl saw Lori approaching and automatically got to his feet. She smiled brilliantly at him and he felt himself grinning back. In the warm spring sunlight she wore a sleeveless tan blouse and a knee-length skirt of darker brown. She seemed to glow, she looked so beautiful.
He held her chair for her as she sat down. The sunlight felt warm and good. Not even the foul-smelling diesel buses lumbering past on the avenue or the filthy bag lady rummaging through the dumpster on the corner could spoil the beauty of the moment.
They spoke about inconsequential matters at first: would you rather sit out here or go indoors? Do you think the eggs Benedict would be better than the bagels and lox?
"What is lox, anyway?" Carl asked.
"A kind of smoked salmon."
"Oh. In the lab it's an abbreviation for liquid oxygen."
Lori laughed.
Carl ordered the eggs Benedict. After a tussle with her conscience, Lori skipped the bagels and rich cream sauces and settled for a salad. After the waiter had brought their trays, Carl started to say, "Lori—about what happened a couple of nights ago . . ."
She stopped him by placing her hand gently on his. "What happened, happened. It was lovely, and there's nothing we can to to change it. So let's just forget about it."
He looked into her dark eyes and saw that there was no regret, no anger, in them. "I don't think I can forget about it," he said. 'I don't think I want to forget about it."
With a smile, Lori replied, "Okay. Neither do I. But let's just leave it as a nice memory. Let's not make it more important than it is."
Now he felt puzzled. Does that mean she doesn't care? Or is she trying to make me feel better about it?
"You're supposed to see Mr. Bunker tomorrow," she changed the subject.
"If he doesn't cancel out again."
"He'll see you," she said firmly, then added, "Sooner or later."
"What's he like?" Carl asked.
Lori shrugged her shoulders, a move that churned Carl's entire glandular system.
"I've never met him," she said.
"But you've seen him around the office, haven't you?"
"I told you, he never comes to the office. Honest. Mrs. Bee holds the title of publisher; she's in the office every day. Mr. Bee is the president and owner of the company. We never see him."
With an exasperated sigh, Carl asked, "What kind of a business is this, anyway? Nobody can do anything without Bunker's okay, and nobody gets to see him!"
"Publishing is unique," Lori admitted.
"It sure isn't anything like the business management courses I've taken."
She took a leaf of her salad and agreed. "What other business puts out a product that you can return for a full refund even after you've used it?"
"Huh?"
"No book sale is ever final. All the books we send out to the regional distributors and wholesalers, they're all taken on consignment. If they don't sell, they come back to us. If you buy a book in a store, you can return it a day or two later and they'll refund your money. The store management might argue, but they'll give your money back if you insist on it—and if the book is still in decent shape."
"But that's crazy! How can you tell what your sales are?"
"You can't. Not for a couple of years."
In the back of his mind Carl realized that his electronic book would change all that. He would bring the publishing business into the twenty-first century. By now, though, Lori had lapsed into tales of the editorial department.
". . . every year she would send us a manuscript, a totally unpublishable piece of junk," Lori was saying, "and every year we would send it back with a standard rejection form. You know, 'Dear Sir or Madam: Thank you for submitting the enclosed manuscript, but we find that it does not suit our needs at the present time.' "
Without waiting for Carl to ask what happened next, Lori went on, "So one year Arleigh Berkowitz—he's not with us anymore—he gets fed up with Mrs. Kranston and her terrible prose, so he writes her a really nasty letter: 'Stop bothering us with this rotten material! It's a waste of your time and ours!' "
"That must have hurt her feelings," Carl said.
"Are you kidding? We're talking about a would-be
writer
,"
Lori retorted "She sent us a letter back in the return mail that said Arleigh's letter was the first personal response she's ever gotten from an editor, and she's so inspired she's going to work twice as hard. Now we get
two
unpublishable manuscripts a year from her, every spring and every fall."
Lori laughed, but Carl failed to see the humor. "And her stuff never gets better? She doesn't improve at all from one year to the next?"
"She doesn't learn a thing. I think it gets worse."
"You've read them?"
"We've all read them, at one time or another. They're
awful
!"
"It's a strange business, all right," Carl said. But in the back of his head he kept thinking, I'll change all this. Electronic books are going to totally change the publishing industry.
He mentally squared his shoulders in preparation for his meeting with P. T. Bunker, his rendezvous with destiny.
Telephone Transcript
"You have reached the Murray Swift Literary Agency. There are no humans at work over the weekend. Please leave your name and number and someone will get back to you first thing Monday morning."
"This is the Bunker Books automated message transmitter. Please have Mr. Swift call Ms. Scarlet Dean no later than three p.m. on Monday to discuss contract terms for Sheldon Stoker's new novel,
The Terror from Beyond Hell
."
"I am programmed to accept contract offers electronically. Please transmit the contract and state orally the amount of the advance being offered."
(Delay of four seconds.)
"Contract transmitted. Advance offered is one million dollars."
"Thank you. I am programmed to respond that the advance is too low. Mr. Swift will call you on Monday."
ELEVEN
Monday morning. The city stirred to life much as it did in O. Henry's time, bleary-eyed, reluctant. Gleaming silver subway trains streaked through their tunnels, their anodized surfaces immune to the spray paints and felt pens of even the most rabid graffitists. Inside the swaying,
swooshing
cars working men and women sat crammed in plastic seats, numbly inanimate, ignoring their fellow workers who stood jammed together shoulder to shoulder hanging by one arm from the overhead hand rails. Darwin smiled from the grave.
Most of the men read the sports sections of their newspapers. Most of the women read the fashion pages. After all, it was Monday, time for the latest new styles to appear. The columns were illustrated by color photographs showing the fashion of the week: the smoldering, sensuous, slutty look—tangled kinky hair, sloppy sweatshirts that exposed at least one shoulder, very tight knee-length skirts slitted to the hip, patterned stockings, and spike heels. Accessories included voluminous handbags that carried mace and tranquilizer dart guns.
The sports pages carried ads that showed subtle changes in last week's biker image: tear the sleeves off the leather jackets, add a new broad-brimmed hat, buy a pair of glitter gloves and elevator boots, and the new pimp image was yours, just in time to match your girlfriend's slutty look.
On the city's streets buses lumbered over potholes and detoured around repair crews, depositing streams of workers at every corner. The clothing stores were open early, of course, for those enterprising men and women who wanted to show off the new fashion first thing upon starting work.
Carl Lewis wore his usual corduroy slacks and tweed jacket as he walked through the sunny morning to the Synthoil Tower. Lori had taken him shopping after their brunch on Sunday, and he had bought some shirts and underwear and socks. But he had not yet worked up the nerve to try the flamingo-pink pimp slacks that the salesman had shown him as a special preview of the coming week's new style.
"You can be ahead of all your friends by buying now," the salesman had prompted.
While Lori could barely conceal her giggles, Carl had decided to remain behind.
A phone message inviting him to demonstrate his invention at the Monday morning editorial board meeting had been waiting for him when he returned to his hotel room after walking Lori back to her apartment. He had spent the night checking and double-checking the electro-optical reader, and then had slept with it under his pillow.
Now, with a small but discernible dent in his temple left by one of the reader's hard corners, he strode past fake bikers staring at the newest fashions in store windows, determined to make the editors realize that they were witnessing the dawn of an entirely new era in the history of publishing.
It's more than publishing, Carl reminded himself. Publishing is only the first step. Electro-optical communications is going to allow the human race to live in harmony with the whole Earth's ecology. No more chopping down forests to make paper. No more ignorance and poverty. The price for information will go down to the point where everyone on Earth can obtain all the knowledge they need. They won't even have to know how to read; the next improvement on my invention will be the talking book. The singing book. The device that speaks to you just like the village story teller or your own mother.
*
P. Curtis Hawks started the work week in the most unpleasant way imaginable. He found that Gunther Axhelm was waiting for him in his office when he arrived there, shortly after nine o'clock.
Since Hawks rode his private elevator from the underground parking garage directly to his office, neither his secretary nor his communications computer was able to warn him of the Axe's presence. Hawks stepped out of the elevator and saw a strange man leaning over the billiard table in the far corner of the spacious office.
"Who the hell are you?" Hawks grumbled, even while his brain (which was often slower than his tongue) told him that it could be no one other than the Old Man's newly hired hatchet man.
The tall, slim, blond stranger stood ramrod straight, the pool cue gripped in one hand like a rifle. He clicked his heels and made a curt bow.
"Sir. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Gunther Axhelm. Mr. Weldon ordered me to meet with you first thing this morning. I assumed that he meant nine a.m. precisely."
Hawks groaned inwardly. It was going to be a difficult relationship.
Hawks crossed to his desk and Axhelm carefully replaced the cue in its rack, then went to the padded leather chair in front of he desk and sat himself on it. Neither man offered to shake lands. Hawks took a long look at his new "assistant." Axhelm was long-limbed, athletic. Not an ounce of fat on him. His face was sculptured planes, sharp nose, slightly pointed chin, gray killer's eyes. Blond hair cut ruthlessly short. Instead of a business suit he wore a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt and form-fitting slacks. All in black The uniform of a burglar.
"My assignment here," he began without preamble, "is to reduce the workforce by fifty percent before—"
"Fifty percent! That's impossible!"
Axhelm allowed a wintry smile to bend his lips slightly. "Sir. My assignment was given me directly by Mr. Weldon. He
is
the chief executive officer of Tarantula Enterprises, is he not? And therefore your superior."
"We can't cut fifty percent of the workforce," Hawks insisted. "We wouldn't be able to handle the work load with only half the people we have now."
Again the smile. "It is my intention to go further. I have examined the personnel files, and I believe it will be possible to cut perhaps seventy or even seventy-five percent."
Hawks gave a strangled little cry.
"Do not be alarmed, sir. Your position is quite secure."
That's what Macbeth told Banquo just before he hired the assassins, Hawks thought.
Leaning back in the leather chair, stretching his long legs casually, Axhelm explained, "You see, you have not taken complete advantage of the benefits of modern technology. You have computers, but you do not use them as fully as you could. For example—how many editors do you have on staff?"
"Um . . . thirty or so," Hawks guesstimated.
"Thirty-two, full time," corrected Axhelm, "and six part time. They can all be eliminated by a computer programmed to read incoming manuscripts and make selections based on criteria such as word length, subject matter, and writing quality."
"How can a computer judge writing quality?" snapped Hawks.
Axhelm's smile turned pitying. "Come now, sir. Programs capable of judging writing quality have been used in university examinations for nearly twenty years. Even high school teachers use such programs, rather than relying on their own faulty judgments."
"You can't use a program developed to grade freshman English compositions to judge the value of incoming manuscripts!"
"And why not?"
"Because the
quality
of the writing isn't really important! Take a look at the best-seller lists: none of those books would pass freshman English!"
Axhelm fell silent, stroking his chin absently with his long, slim fingers.
"It's
salability
that counts," Hawks insisted. "And to determine salability you need human judgment."
"Is that why ninety-five percent of the books that Webb Press publishes lose money?"
Hawks grimaced, but countered, "It's the five percent that
make
money for us that count."
With a nod and a sigh, Axhelm said, "Then we must develop a computer program that can determine salability."
"Impossible!"
"Of course not. If your editors can do it, a computer program can be written to do it better. More efficiently. I will make that my first priority."
Hawks said nothing.
"In the meantime, we will begin reducing the workforce. Today."
At precisely eleven a.m. the eight editors of Bunker Books filed into their shabby conference room, with Carl Lewis and Ralph Malzone added to their number. The two men took seats on either side of Lori, down at the end of the table.
Mrs. Bunker's chair remained vacant, as did the chair for the editor-in-chief. But all the others were there: the mountainous Maryann Quigly, the cadaverous Ashley Elton, ferret-faced Jack Drain, Concetta Las Vagas (who needed hardly any change of clothes at all to look slutty), and the rest. Before anyone could say a word, P. T. Junior entered the conference room, dragging his own chair from his own office.
"My mother will be here in a minute or two," he announced, sitting at the head of the table. "She's chatting with the new editor-in-chief." He eyed them all with his sly, smirking look.
A murmur went around the table. Before it died away, Junior spoke up again.
"You know, I've been looking over the publishing business for some time now . . ."
"Yeah, the whole weekend," Ralph Malzone whispered.
Unperturbed, Junior was going on, ". . . and I see that there are some books that get onto the best-seller lists, and they make a lot of money."
None of the editors said a word. All eyes were focused on Junior.
"What we ought to do," he said with the fervor of true revelation, "is stick to those books! Just publish the best-sellers and forget all the other stuff!"
There was a long,
long
moment of utter silence. Then someone coughed. Another editor scraped his chair against the uncovered floor. Maryann Quigly emitted a loud, labored sigh.
Ted Gunn rose to the occasion. "Uh—Junior . . . that's exactly what we try to do. We don't
deliberately
publish books that lose money. You just don't know which books are going to become best-sellers beforehand."
Junior stared at him disbelievingly. "You don't?"
Gunn slowly shook his head.
"Oh," said Junior, with vast disappointment.
"Wait a minute, though," said Ralph Malzone. "In his own way, I think Junior's got a point there."
All eyes turned to the wiry sales manager questioningly. Malzone, trying to curry favor with the Boss's son? Carl saw the expression on Lori's face: somewhere between surprise and disgust.
"What I mean is this," Ralph explained. "Most of the books we publish are doomed to lose money before they even get into print."
"How can you—"
"We publish them on the theory of minimum success," Malzone said.
"The theory of minimum success?"
"Yeah. Take this new novel Lori's just bought, this Midway book. We're giving the author the minimum advance, and we're putting out the minimum investment in the book all the way down the line. When we print it, it's going to be the minimum number of copies."
"That's to minimize our risk," snapped Ted Gunn.
"Yeah. Sure. But it also minimizes our chances of making the book profitable."
Lori started to ask something, but Malzone went on before she could frame the words.
"We print a small number of copies, we don't spend money an advertising or promotion. The book flops and we lose money on it—or break even, at best."
"But it's up to your sales people to
sell
the book," Jack Drain pointed out.
Malzone made a sour grin. "Sure. They've got a hundred-some books per season to push, and you expect them to spend any effort on an also-ran? A book the editorial department thinks so little of that they only print a couple thousand copies? Come on! My people ain't stupid, for chrissakes. They're not going to waste their time on a book after you've convinced 'em it's going nowhere."
"But it's a good novel," Lori insisted.
"Doesn't matter," replied Malzone. "What's inside the covers doesn't really matter at all. Not when my sales people are out here trying to get the wholesalers and bookstore managers to order the title. None of those people read! They take a look at he cover and ask how many copies we've printed. If
we
don't show any faith in the book, they sure as hell don't buy it in any quantity."
"But . . ."
"And how in hell can you sell books that haven't been printed?" Malzone went on with some heat of passion coloring his lean cheeks. "Suppose your author gets on all the TV talk shows and a zillion people go rushing to the bookstores for his novel. And the stores only have a couple thousand copies of the book because that's all we've printed. You think those customers are going to wait six weeks—or six months—while we make up our minds to go back to press? The hell they will!"
"So the book bombs," said Lori, "and the writer gets blamed for writing an unsuccessful book."
"Hey, it's not
our
fault if a book doesn't sell! Why don't you . . ."
At that moment the door opened again and Mrs. Bunker entered, accompanied by Scarlet Dean. The argument ended like a light being switched off. Everyone snapped to their feet.
Mrs. Bunker was all in white, as always: she had bowed to the new slutty look only to the extent that her hair had been frizzed and her silk suit jacket had no blouse beneath it. Pearls adorned her throat, wrists, and earlobes.
Smiling, she said in her tiny voice, "I'm sure I really don't need to introduce Scarlet Dean. Even those few of you who haven't met her before know of her fine work at Webb and elsewhere. We're truly fortunate to have her join our team."
Still standing, the assembled editors gave their new chief a smattering of applause. Carl, noticing that Ralph Malzone smacked his hands together along with the rest of them, clapped a few times also.
Scarlet Dean was a vision in red. Tall and leggy, like a fashion model, her hair was flame, her eyes the green of a deep forest. She wore a sheath of fire-engine red adorned with spangles; Carl immediately thought of a circus trapeze artist. A rope of carnelians lay over her slim bosom. Her face had a slightly evil cast to it, the eyes darting from one person to another, the thin red lips twitching slightly in what might have been an attempt at a smile.
"Thank you," said Scarlet Dean. "Please—let's sit down and get to work." Her voice was low, sultry, suggestive. Despite himself, Carl felt a thrill of excitement stir him. He felt strangely stimulated and guilty, at the same time.
