Chapter 1

The Day of the Two Rejections

If I had been writing it as a romance, I would have called the chapter about that last day in London something like “The Day of the Two Rejections”. It was a nasty day in late December just before the holidays. The weather was cold, wet, and miserable - well, I said it was London, didn’t I? - but everybody was in a sort of expectant holiday mood; it had just been announced that the Olympians would be arriving no later than the following August, and everybody was excited about that. All the taxi drivers were busy, and so I was late for my lunch with Lidia. “How was Manahattan?” I asked, sliding into the booth beside her and giving her a quick kiss.

“Manahattan was very nice,” she said, pouring me a drink. Lidia was a writer, too - well they call themselves writers, the ones who follow famous people around and write down all their gossip and jokes and put them out as books for the amusement of the idle. That’s not really writing, of course. There’s nothing creative about it. But it pays well, and the research (Lidia always told me) was a lot of fun. She spent a lot of time travelling around the celebrity circuit, which was not very good for our romance. She watched me drink the first glass before she remembered to ask politely, “Did you finish the book?”

“Don’t call it ‘the book’,” I said. “Call it by its name, An Ass’ Olympiad. I’m going to see Marcus about it this afternoon.”

“That’s not what I’d call a great title,” she commented -Lidia was always willing to give me her opinion on anything, when she didn’t like it. “Really, don’t you think it’s too late to be writing another sci-rom about the Olympians?” And then she smiled brightly and said, “I’ve got something to say to you, Julie. Have another drink first.”

So I knew what was coming right away, and that was the first rejection.

I’d seen this scene building up. Even before she left on that last “research” trip to the West I had begun to suspect that some of that early ardour had cooled, so I wasn’t really surprised when she told me, without any further foreplay, “I’ve met somebody else, Julie.”

I said, “I see.” I really did see, and so I poured myself a third drink while she told me about it.

“He’s a former space pilot, Julius. He’s been to Mars and the Moon and everywhere, and oh, he’s such a sweet man. And he’s a champion wrestler, too, would you believe it? Of course, he’s still married, as it happens. But he’s going to talk to his wife about a divorce as soon as the kids are just a little older.”

She looked at me challengingly, waiting for me to tell her she was an idiot. I had no intention of saying anything at all, as a matter of fact, but just in case I had, she added, “Don’t say what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I protested.

She sighed. “You’re taking this very well,” she told me. She sounded as though that were a great disappointment to her. “Listen, Julius, I didn’t plan this. Truly, you’ll always be dear to me in a special way. I hope we can always be friends—” I stopped listening around then.

There was plenty more in the same vein, but only the details were a surprise. When she told me our little affair was over I took it calmly enough. I always knew that Lidia had a weakness for the more athletic type. Worse than that, she never respected the kind of writing I do, anyway. She had the usual establishment contempt for science-adventure romances about the future and adventures on alien planets, and what sort of relationship could that lead to, in the long run?

So I left her with a kiss and a smile, neither of them very sincere, and headed for my editor’s office. That was where I got the second rejection. The one that really hurt.

* * * *

Mark’s office was in the old part of London, down by the river. It’s an old company, in an old building, and most of the staff are old, too. When the company needs clerks or copy-editors it has a habit of picking up tutors whose students have grown up and don’t need them any more, and retraining them. Of course, that’s just for the people in the lower echelons. The higher-ups, like Mark himself, are free, salaried executives, with the executive privilege of interminable, winey author-and-editor lunches that don’t end until the afternoon.

I had to wait half an hour to see him; obviously he had been having one of them that day. I didn’t mind. I had every confidence that our interview was going to be short, pleasant, and remunerative. I knew very well that An Ass’ Olympiad was one of the best sci-roms I had ever done. Even the title was clever. The book was a satire, with classical overtones - from The Golden Ass of the ancient writer, Lucius Apuleius, two thousand years ago or so; I had played off the classic in a comic, adventurous little story about the coming of the real Olympians. I can always tell when a book is going really well and I knew the fans would eat this one up . . .