Blackburn's nylon coat had become too warm, so he unzipped it partway. Then he opened the back cover of The Guy Who Killed People and read the "About the Author" note under Arthur's photograph. The note said that he lived in Long Island, New York, with his wife of thirty-four years, Irma. Blackburn looked up at the real Arthur again and tried to guess what Irma must be like.

Arthur leaned to his right and whispered into the ear of Attractive Woman Number Two. She stood, thanked him for signing her book, and left. He smiled, leaned to his left, and whispered into the ear of Attractive Woman Number One. She scooted her chair a few inches away but didn't leave. Arthur signed another book, and another. Now only four people remained between Blackburn and the autograph table, but Blackburn had decided that he didn't want his copy of The Guy Who Killed People signed just yet. He got out of line and went into the science fiction aisle, where he could observe Arthur's behavior.

The novelist wasn't himself. No one whose written words contained such wisdom could be the sort of fool that he appeared to be now. His slurred speech suggested that he had been drinking, and that in turn suggested that it was his intoxication that was making him come on to women who weren't his wife of thirty-four years, women who were in fact young enough to be his children. It was repulsive and pitiful, but it wasn't the real Arthur doing it.

Another young woman approached the table, and Arthur told her that he would only sign her book if she gave him a kiss. She looked around as if searching for an escape route, but then leaned down and gave Arthur his kiss. He invited her to join him behind the table, but she declined and fled. Attractive Woman Number One, still seated to Arthur's left, had a trapped look in her eyes. Arthur whispered in her ear again. From Blackburn's vantage point, he could see Arthur's hand come down to rest on her thigh.

Blackburn was sickened. He went up the aisle to the wall and followed the wall to the front door. He went out to the February chill and stuck his book into his coat on the right-hand side. The left side was already bulky; his Colt Python was tucked there in a pouch he had sewn in. He zipped up the coat and jammed his hands into its pockets. The sun had set, and the downtown streets held no warmth. He started for the bus stop two blocks down.

On the way to the bus stop he came across a coffee shop, so he went inside and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. As he ate, he reread the first two chapters of The Guy Who Killed People and began to feel better. Artimus Arthur deserved a second chance to be himself, and Blackburn deserved a chance to meet him. The fact that Arthur understood human folly didn't mean he was immune to it. He was bound to backslide now and then.

Blackburn returned to the bookstore and waited outside, stamping his feet to keep warm. He had decided that he would not meet Artimus Arthur under the artificial conditions of the autograph session. Not only was Arthur less able to be himself under such conditions, but Blackburn would not be able to reveal his own true self either. There were too many other people around, too many leather yuppies and nouveau beatniks who, Blackburn had realized, were only buying Arthur's book because it was the hip thing to do, because they were intellectual blanks who craved not wisdom but a brush with celebrity. Most of them wouldn't even read the novel and wouldn't appreciate its truth if they did. Blackburn did not want Arthur to see him as one of them. So he would approach him when the autograph session was over, when the winter air had cleared the writer's head and neither he nor Blackburn would have to behave as anything other than what they were.

But more than a dozen of Arthur's admirers remained when the store closed at seven o'clock, and they all came outside with him, clustering around him like viruses attacking a healthy cell. The cluster moved down the street, and Blackburn followed. He was frustrated and cold.

The entourage swept Arthur into the coffee shop where Blackburn had eaten dinner. Blackburn watched through the window while they shoved tables together. Arthur stood apart, gripping the arm of Attractive Woman Number One. He swayed, looking as if he might fall if he released her. The woman was giving him a fixed smile and nodding at whatever he was saying.

As Arthur and his admirers sat down, Blackburn entered the shop and walked past them, taking a booth in the back. He unzipped his coat, and his copy of The Guy Who Killed People fell onto the table. He stared at the book to keep from staring at its author. Now was still not the time for them to meet, and he didn't want to draw Arthur's attention.

"Weren't you in a while ago?" a voice asked.

Blackburn looked up. A hairnetted waitress was standing beside the booth.

"Yeah," he said. "Decided I wanted some dessert. Banana cream pie."

The waitress scribbled on her pad. "That a good book?" she asked, nodding at The Guy Who Killed People.

"It's okay."

The waitress waved a thumb at Artimus Arthur's group. "One of those people writes books. At least, that's what they told me. If you're interested."

"Thanks."

The waitress left. Blackburn opened the novel and reread Chapters Three and Four, and half of Five. Then he glanced up and saw that his pie was on the table and that Arthur and his entourage were leaving. He closed the book and wolfed down three bites of pie, then dropped money on the table and went out.

Outside, the entourage was disintegrating. Some of the people were walking toward the bus stop, and others were getting into cars parked along the street. Artimus Arthur was still hanging on to the arm of the attractive woman and was speaking to two young men.

"I appreciate the offer, gentlemen," he said, "but Stephanie has offered to see me safely to my hotel, and I have full confidence in her abilities. Thank you for coming. I enjoyed our conversation." He didn't sound drunk anymore.

The two young men turned and left Arthur with the woman. They passed by Blackburn.

"Think she'll fuck him?" one of them whispered.

Blackburn didn't hear the reply. He followed Artimus Arthur and Stephanie. There weren't many people on the sidewalks tonight, but there were enough that Blackburn didn't think he'd be noticed.

Arthur and the woman walked five blocks east to 4th Street and then down three blocks to the Clarion Hotel. Blackburn had dropped back until he was almost fifty yards behind them, and he ran to catch up when he saw them enter the hotel. If they were going to get on an elevator, he wanted to be sure he was on it with them.

They were still in the lobby, standing between a row of pay phones and the elevators, when Blackburn came inside. Arthur was leaning toward Stephanie and murmuring something, and Stephanie was leaning away, smiling and shaking her head. Blackburn went to the pay phone closest to them and pretended to make a call.

Stephanie kissed Arthur on the cheek, then walked past Blackburn and out of the hotel. "If you change your mind," Arthur shouted, "I'm in Room Twenty-one Fourteen!" But Stephanie was already outside. Blackburn was glad to see her go.

Arthur stepped into an elevator with three other people, so Blackburn didn't try to get there before the doors closed. He wanted to meet Arthur alone, and now that he knew the writer's room number, he could be sure that he did. He went to the elevators after Arthur's car had gone and pushed the UP button.

The door to Room 2114 opened on the fourth knock, and Artimus Arthur stood there grinning. Then he saw Blackburn, and the grin disappeared. He leaned out and looked up and down the empty hallway. "Oh," he said. "I was expecting someone else."

Blackburn smelled liquor. He didn't like it. "Hello, Mr. Arthur," he said. "I can't tell you my name, but I've read your novel, The Guy Who Killed People, and I wondered if you would sign the title page for me." He unzipped his coat and pulled out the book. "I'd also like to talk a while, if you have time."