“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes,” said Marmie Tallinn, in sixteen different inflections and pitches, while the Adam's apple in his long neck bobbed convulsively. He was a science fiction writer.

“No,” said Lemuel Hoskins, staring stonily through his steel-rimmed glasses. He was a science fiction editor.

“Then you won't accept a scientific test. You won't listen to me. I'm outvoted, eh?” Marmie lifted himself on his toes, dropped down, repeated the process a few times, and breathed heavily. His dark hair was matted into tufts, where fingers had clutched.

“One to sixteen,” said Hoskins.

“Look,” said Marmie, “what makes you always right? What makes me always wrong?”

“Marmie, face it. We're each judged in our own way. If magazine circulation were to drop, I'd be a flop. I'd be out on my ear. The president of Space Publishers would ask no questions, believe me. He would just look at the figures. But circulation doesn't go down; it's going up. That makes me a good editor. And as for you-when editors accept you, you're a talent. When they reject you, you're a bum. At the moment, you are a bum.”

“There are other editors, you know. You're not the only one.” Marmie held up his hands, fingers outspread. “Can you count? That's how many science fiction magazines on the market would gladly take a Tallinn yarn, sight unseen.”

“Gesundheit,” said Hoskins.

“Look,” Marmie's voice sweetened, “you wanted two changes, right? You wanted an introductory scene with the battle in space. Well, I gave that to you. It's right here.” He waved the manuscript under Hoskin's nose and Hoskin moved away as though at a bad smell.

“But you also wanted the scene on the spaceship's hullcut into with a flashback into the interior,” went on Marmie, “and that you can't get. If I make that change, I ruin an ending which, as it stands, has pathos and depth and feeling.”

Editor Hoskins sat back in his chair and appealed to his secretary, who throughout had been quietly typing. She was used to these scenes.

Hoskins said, “You hear that, Miss Kane? He talks of pathos, depth, and feeling. What does a writer know about such things? Look, if you insert the flashback, you increase the Suspense; you tighten the story; you make it more valid.”

“How do I make it more valid?” cried Marmie in anguish. “You mean to say that having a bunch of fellows in a spaceship start talking politics and sociology when they're liable to be blown up makes it more valid? Oh, my God.”

“There's nothing else you can do. If you wait till the climax is past and then discuss your politics and sociology, the reader will go to sleep on you.”

“But I'm trying to tell you that you're wrong and I can prove it. What's the use of talking when I've arranged a scientific experiment-”

“What scientific experiment?” Hoskins appealed to his secretary again. “How do you like that, Miss Kane. He thinks he's one of his own characters.”

“It so happens I know a scientist.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Arndt Torgesson, professor of psychodynamics at Columbia.”

“Never heard of him.”

“I suppose that means a lot,” said Marmie, with contempt. “You never heard of him. You never heard of Einstein until your writers started mentioning him in their stories.”

“Very humorous. A yuk. What about this Torgesson?”

“He's worked out a system for determining scientifically

the value of a piece of writing. It's a tremendous piece of work. It's-it's-”

“ And it's secret?”

“Certainly it's secret. He's not a science fiction professor. In science fiction, when a man thinks up a theory, he announces it to the newspapers right away. In real life, that's not done. A scientist spends years on experimentation sometimes before going into print. Publishing is a serious thing.”

“Then how do you know about it? Just a question.”

“It so happens that Dr. Torgesson is a fan of mine. He happens to like my stories. He happens to think I'm the best fantasy writer in the business.”

“ And he shows you his work?”

“That's right. I was counting on you being stubborn about this yam and I've asked him to run an experiment for us. He said he would do it if we don't talk about it. He said it would be an interesting experiment. He said-”

“What's so secret about it?”

“Well-” Marmie hesitated. “Look, suppose I told you he had a monkey that could type Hamlet out of its head.”

Hoskins stared at Marmie in alarm. “What are you working up here, a practical joke?” He turned to Miss Kane. “When a writer writes science fiction for ten years he just isn't safe without a personal cage.”

Miss Kane maintained a steady typing speed.

Marmie said, “You heard me; a common monkey, even funnier-looking than the average editor. I made an appointment for this afternoon. Are you coming with me or not?”

“Of course not. You think I'd abandon a stack of manuscripts this high”-and he indicated his larynx with a cutting motion of the hand-”for your stupid jokes? You think I’ll play straight man for you?”

“If this is in any way a joke, Hoskins, I’ll stand you dinner in any restaurant you name. Miss Kane's the witness.”

Hoskins sat back in his chair. “You’ll buy me dinner? You, Marmaduke Tallinn, New York's most widely known tapeworm-on-credit, are going to pick up a

check?”

Marmie winced, not at the reference to his agility in

overlooking a dinner check, but at the mention of his name in all its horrible trysyllabicity. He said, “I repeat. Dinner on me wherever you want and whatever you want. Steaks, mushrooms, breast of guinea hen, Martian alligator, anything.”

Hoskins stood up and plucked his hat from the top of the filing cabinet.

“For a chance,” he said, “to see you unfold some of the old-style, large-size dollar bills you've been keeping in the false heel of your left shoe since nineteen-two-eight, I'd walk to Boston…”

Dr. Torgesson was honored. He shook Hoskin's hand warmly and said, “I've been reading Space Yarns ever since I came to this country, Mr. Hoskins. It is an excellent magazine. I am particularly fond of Mr. Tallinn's stories.”

“You hear?” asked Marmie. “I hear. Marmie says you have a monkey with talent, Professor.”

“Yes,” Torgesson said, “but of course this must be confidential. I am not yet ready to publish, and premature publicity could be my professional ruin.”

“This is strictly under the editorial hat, Professor.”

“Good, good. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down.” He paced the floor before them. “What have you told Mr. Hoskins about my work, Marmie?”

“Not a thing, Professor.”

“So. Well, Mr. Hoskins, as the editor of a science fiction magazine, I don't have to ask you if you know anything about cybernetics.”

Hoskins allowed a glance of concentrated intellect to ooze out past his steel-rims. He said, “Ah, yes. Computing machines-M.I.T.-Norbert Weiner-” He mumbled some more.

“Yes. Yes.” Torgesson paced faster. “Then you must know that chess-playing computers have been constructed on cybernetic principles. The rules of chess moves and the object of the game are built into its circuits. Given any position on the chess board, the machine can then compute all possible moves together with their consequence and choose that one which offers the highest probabilityof winning the game. It can even be made to take the temperament of its opponent into account.”

“Ah, yes,” said Hoskins, stroking his chin profoundly.

Torgesson said, “Now imagine a similar situation in which a computing machine can be given a fragment of a literary work to which the computer can then add words from its stock of the entire vocabulary such that the greatest literary values are served. Naturally, the machine would have to be taught the significance of the various keys of a typewriter. Of course, such a computer would have to be much, much more complex than any chess player.”