An hour later he got an e-mail from Melanie Dain, explaining that her eighty-five-thousand-word novel was two hundred thousand words and still going strong, but that her agent would soon be in touch about splitting it in half on the reasonable assumption that Press of the Dells would pay her double since it would now be two books. When he asked if the first book, or first half, or whatever they were calling it, would have a satisfying conclusion, since not every reader would be buying both books, she explained that it could easily be done—for triple the advance. He explained that triple the advance for a single book that was running long through no fault of the publisher’s was an unreasonable request, and she explained that she never talked money, that he’d have to speak to her agent.

“But you just did talk money,” he pointed out. “You asked first for double, then triple the advance.”

“That was a matter of principle,” she explained archly. “My agent talks dollars and cents.”

Suddenly NASA and Washington weren’t looking all that bad.

Things went more smoothly for the next two days. Then Schyler Mulhauser, the award-winning science-fiction artist, delivered his cover painting for Richard Darkmoor’s newest book.

“It’s very nice,” said Jerry, looking at the painting.

“One of my best,” said Mulhauser.

“But I’m afraid we can’t use it.”

“Why the hell not?” demanded Mulhauser. “I worked three weeks on the damned thing.”

“Schyler, you put a naked woman in the middle of the painting. She’s absolutely beautiful, but she’s absolutely naked.”

“That scene’s in the book.”

“I haven’t read it, but I’ll take your word for it,” said Jerry. “But we can’t use it anyway.”

“Why not?” repeated Mulhauser.

“Most of the distributors won’t handle it because most of the stores won’t display it.”

“And you’re going to let a bunch of middle-class churchgoing bigots tell you what to do?” demanded Mulhauser.

“Those middle-class churchgoing bigots probably constitute 80 percent of our population,” answered Jerry. “We’re in business to sell books; we can’t sell what the stores won’t take.”

“Publish them as e-books and skip the stores.”

Jerry was getting a little tired of artistes. “Good idea. We’d save the cost of printing, shipping, and cover art.”

“WHAT?”

“Mulhauser, hang the painting at a convention’s art show and sell it at auction, or find some publisher who hasn’t figured out that busty naked ladies don’t get displayed in bookstores, but I need some acceptable cover art, and I’m not okaying payment until I get it.”

“I’ll think about it,” muttered Mulhauser. He turned and walked to the door, then turned back. “I don’t like you much.”

“I’m desolate,” replied Jerry.

“Just remember: I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”

“In Wisconsin?” said Jerry, as Mulhauser stalked out of his office. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

—

On Monday, the printer phoned to say the press he was using for Jerry’s books had broken down, which meant he’d be three days late. Jerry had to call the trucking company, which wanted a fee for canceling on such short notice, and 15 percent more than usual for supplying trucks on Thursday on almost as short a notice, and one of the distributors explained that the science-fiction, romance, and political-essay lines would probably hit the stores two to three weeks late, despite only arriving at his warehouse three days late. Of course, if Press of the Dells really had to get the books out sooner, he was sure something could be worked out. It was a phone call, but Jerry could almost hear the distributor’s hand stretching out to Wisconsin, palm up.

—

The next day, Jerry was eating lunch in a nearby sandwich shop (which he had to admit gave him twice as much for half the price of its Florida equivalents) when Sarah McConnell, one of the editors, found herself in the same restaurant and sat down across from him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“I’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted with you,” she said. “How do you like it here, after being on television every day and hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”

“NASA scientists are neither rich nor famous,” he replied with a smile. “As for the job, I’m getting used to it.”

“Good. I don’t know how you can deal with those science-fiction people. They’re all crazy. And the mystery people . . . the women want such neat, cozy, comfortable murders, and you get the feeling the men really enjoy describing decapitations.”

“Are any writers totally sane?” he asked with a smile.

“My writers are,” replied Sarah.

“You’re mainstream and romance, right?”

“Mainstream and paranormal romance,” she corrected him. “Plain romance is, well, passé.”

“But women falling for werewolves and zombies isn’t?”

“I’m talking about my writers, not the subject matter demanded by their readers.”

“Okay, I see the difference.”

“And my writers are absolutely normal. Well, as writers go, anyway.”

“I met one of them my first day on the job,” he said.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Millicent Vanguard. She wants me to kill a reviewer.”

“Well, Stanley is incredibly cruel to her.”

“Stanley?” he repeated, frowning. “No, I think the guy’s name is Harley someone-or-other?”

She laughed. “Harley Lipton?”

“Yes.”

“At least he uses some wit. Stanley Pierson is positively vicious to her.”

“If they all hate her writing, why do we keep buying her manuscripts?” asked Jerry.

“You mean, beside the fact that she’s the best-selling writer for the entire publishing house?”

He sighed. “Give me time. I’m still new on the job.”

“Isn’t it the same everywhere?”

He shook his head. “Everyone can love a rocket’s design and its cost, but if it won’t get off the ground, we scrap it and try another approach.”

“No wonder the country’s so deep in debt,” remarked Sarah.

“Wouldn’t good be nice, too?” asked Jerry.

“Good is what pleases the public. We’re just the conduit between the artists and the readers.”

—

Then, on his twelfth day on the job, a manuscript arrived. It went to the nonfiction editor, who walked into Jerry’s office and tossed it on his desk.

“Here,” he said. “This is much more your field of expertise than mine. Have fun with it.”

Jerry looked at the title: Reaching High: A History of Our Space Program.

“Oh, Lord, another one!” he muttered, but, out of a sense of duty, he began reading at the top of page one, figuring he’d stop before the end of the prologue and send a little note saying that it was a nice concept, but others had thought so, too, and covered the same subject many times before.

But when he put it down to grab a cup of coffee, he realized that he was on page forty-three and was anxious to get back to it. He took it home with him, read far into the night, and finished it at his desk in midmorning. The second he was through, he walked into Cliff Egan’s office and told him that he’d just read the best damned book on our space program he’d ever experienced.

“Who published it?” asked Egan.

“No one,” said Jerry, surprised. “I’m talking about a manuscript we received.”

“Oh,” said Egan with no show of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Everyone will like it once we bring it out. I’d like to be in charge of the publicity campaign.”

Egan stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “We won’t be publishing it, Jerry.”

“Don’t you want to even read it?” demanded Jerry.

“I’m sure it’s as captivating as you say,” said Egan.

“Then why—?”

“You’re new to the field, Jerry. We’re in business to make money, and books about the space program just don’t sell. Write the author a glowing personal rejection and suggest some other publisher, someone big enough to publish it for the prestige, knowing it’s a loser.”