Frankie the Spook _"Drawing her close to him while breathing heavily with unspent passion, he slid his hand down the small of her back, around to her rib cage, up under her..."_ The image of Sir Francis Bacon stopped reading and winced. "This is really quite dreadful," he announced firmly. "Really?" asked Marvin Piltch. Bacon nodded. "Even worse than the last batch. You have set a new standard of ineptitude." Marvin sighed. "I was afraid of that." "And this reference to a boob," continued Bacon. "What, exactly, _is_ a boob?" "A tit." "I beg your pardon?" "A female breast." "According to my dictionary programs, it must be a very unintelligent female breast to be termed a boob." "Well," said Marvin with a shrug, "when you get right down to cases, I suppose it is." "It doesn't make any sense," continued Bacon. "What slang do you use for the elbow? Do you call it a fool?" "Not very often," admitted Marvin. "Ah," said Bacon. "Then you think that the elbow is more intelligent than the breast?" Marvin shrugged again. "I have to admit it's not a subject that I've given a lot of thought to." "I know. In fact, if there is a subject anywhere in the universe that you _have_ given a lot of thought to, you certainly haven't incorporated it in your writings." "Actually, there _is_ one subject that I've given considerable thought to." "Oh?" said Bacon, arching an eyebrow. "And what is that?" Marvin smiled. "You." "Somehow I foresaw that the conversation would eventually take this course," said Bacon sardonically. "Then you know what I'm going to ask you?" "Certainly." Marvin leaned forward and squinted at Bacon's image on his conputer screen. "Will you do it?" "Will the greatest writer in the history of the human race ghostwrite your pitiful little novel?" sneered Bacon. "Absolutely not." "But you ghosted for Shakespeare!" protested Marvin. "That's why I had my computer assemble you." "Marvin, go write limpware and leave me alone." "It's called software." "Whatever it's called, it is obvious to me that you were meant to work with computers. Your ignorance of the world at large is superceded only by your ignorance of the English language." "That's why I need you." "No." "But I've got a contract." "No." "And it's got penalty clauses for coming in late." "Then submit it on time." "And if the editor rejects it, I've got to return the advance." "What is that to me?" "If I have to return the advance, I'll have to pawn the computer to raise the money." "Good," said Bacon. "Then I'll soon be speaking with someone who has a serious interest in _exchanging_ ideas rather than stealing them." "I didn't steal anything!" snapped Marvin. "Marvin, I hate to be blunt, but you haven't had an original idea in your nondescript life." Bacon grimaced. "At least Shakespeare knew he wanted to write plays." "And you helped him." "_Helped_ him?" repeated Bacon furiously. "Who do you think _wrote_ all those plays?" His image made an effort to recover its self-control. "The man was a fool, a complete and utter fool! To his dying day, he never understood why I wouldn't write _Henry IX_! And yet, even now, centuries later, that dimwit gets all the credit for _my_ work, _my_ creativity, _my_ genius -- and you have the gall to ask me to become a ghostwriter again?" "I didn't know you were so bitter," said Marvin. "Did you know that that moron wanted to set _Troilus and Cressida_ in Rome?" "Rome's a very pretty city, I'm told," offered Marvin. "Bah!" muttered Bacon. "Turn me off." "I can't," said Marvin. "The book is due in two weeks." "Rome's a very pretty city, I'm told," echoed Bacon sarcastically. "Perhaps you can hide there from your creditors." "You're not being very responsive," complained Marvin. "I'm certain that I will regret having asked, but how did a literary maladroit like you ever receive a commission to write a book in the first place?" "My ex-wife's cousin is an editor. I got the assignment while we were still married." "Anyone who buys a manuscript from you deserves exactly what he gets," said Bacon. "Which, in my professional opinion, will be nothing." "But I can't return the advance," whined Marvin. "It's already spent." "A Shakespearean tragedy," said Bacon mockingly. "What do you want?" "Peace and quiet." "I mean, to write the book?" "Go away and leave me alone." "I can't. I have no one else to turn to." "You should have thought of that before taking on such an awesome responsibility. After all, not every artiste can achieve the high literary standard required of...what was the name of this _magnum opus_?" "_Meter Maids in Bondage_." Bacon grinned. "Do have fun." "I'm begging you!" said Marvin desperately. "And I'm refusing you." "Name your price." "What possible use have I for money in my present condition?" replied Bacon. "What _can_ you use?" "Solitude." "What else?" Bacon stared out at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, his lean fingers rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If I agree to write this book for you, I will want a favor in return." "Anything." "I intend to write my autobiography, which will end the controversy concerning the authorship of Shakespeare's plays once and for all. It will be your obligation to make certain that it is published and publicized throughout the world, until every new edition of Shakespeare names me as the true author." "That could take decades." "I'm more than 500 years old," replied Bacon. "I have a few decades to spare." "But _I_ don't," protested Marvin. "It was nice knowing you, Marvin. Be sure to turn out the light when you leave the room." "You wouldn't settle for a nice plaster bust of you in the local art museum?" "Good-bye, Marvin." "How about a poster? I've got a friend who owns a silkscreen plant." Bacon merely stared at him and made no reply. "All right, all right," said Marvin in resignation. "It's a deal." "I have no way of forcing you to keep your promise," said Bacon, "but as there's a God in Heaven, I'll haunt you every day and night of your life if you should break your work to me." "I said I'd do it." "All right," replied Bacon. "I'm going to need a little backgrounding before I start writing." "It's just a sex book." "It won't be when _I_ get through with it." Marvin shrugged. "All right. Anything you need, just ask. If I don't have it, I'll get it." "Let's start with some information." "Such as?" "What _is_ a meter maid?" * * * Bacon finished ghosting the manuscript in nine days. Marvin changed eleven words that he didn't understand -- the only eleven corrections the stunned copy editor made on the manuscript before sending it off to the printer -- and then decided to take a month off before looking for a new way to make a living and fend off his creditors. As it turned out, he only had to wait 19 days. * * * "It's a hit!" "Plays are hits. Books are blockbusters," Bacon corrected him. "Well, whatever it is, we're rich!" Marvin paused. "By the way, how the hell did you learn a word like blockbuster? They didn't have blockbusters back in your time." "I'm cooped up in here all day and all night with a bunch of word processing programs," answered Bacon. "So, having nothing better to do with my time, I read the dictionaries." "Oh," said Marvin. "Well, getting back to the news, we actually got reviewed in the _New York Times_! They called it a mock Elizabethian erotic masterpiece, and said it was even more bitingly satirical than _Candy_." "It was more bitingly satirical than _Candy_ halfway through Page 1," said Bacon contemptuously. "And there was nothing 'mock' about it." He paused. "What else?" "They say I'm a genius, and that I've -- _we've_ -- done things that have never been done with erotica before. The few who don't mention Shakespeare" -- Bacon's image winced -- "keep comparing me to Voltaire!" "A decidedly minor talent," sniffed Bacon. "Still, what do critics know?" "We're Number One on the bestseller list, and we've gone back to press six times in two weeks." "Only six?" said Bacon. "I overestimated the intelligence of the American reading public." "Yeah?" retorted Marvin. "Well, almost three million members of that public have forked over six bucks apiece to read a paperback original by Marvin Piltch!" Suddenly he shifted his weight uncomfortably. "With some slight assistance by Sir Francis Bacon, of course." "_Some slight assistance?_" roared Bacon. "Why, you self- centered, egotistical--" "Watch your blood pressure," said Marvin. "I don't have any blood pressure, you imbecile!" raged Bacon. "I'm a computer simulacron!" He paused for electronic breath. "Such ingratitude! At least it took Shakespeare five or six plays before he convinced himself that he was the author!" "I apologize." "You had bloody well better apologize!" "I do." "Humbly," demanded Bacon. "Humbly," agreed Marvin. "That's better." "We're friends again?" "We were never friends." "But at least we're not enemies?" "I suppose not," ...
margozap