The Love Machine Read Free Page A

come to honor the judge, a man he had never heard of. He had come because they paid Universal Lecture Agency five hundred bucks.
He sipped his coffee, cheerful in the knowledge that he would never have to lecture again. It had sounded so easy in the beginning. He had been doing the local IBC news for about a year when Clyde Watson, head of the Universal Lecture Agency, sent for him. The agency occupied an entire floor in a new building on Lexington Avenue. And Clyde Watson, sitting behind the massive walnut desk, looked like a trusted stockbroker. Everything was designed to put the victim at ease, even the paternal smile. “Mr. Stone, why should a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist wind up doing a local news show?”
“Because I quit the Northern Press Association.”
“Why did you quit? Because you had no New York outlet?”
“No. Not being in a New York paper didn’t bother me. That’s just good for free tickets to theaters and free tabs at restaurants. That’s not my scene. I’m a writer. At least I think I am. But NPA allowed every editor in every small town to hack my column to bits. Sometimes they only ran three lines. Three lines of a column that had taken me six hours to write. Writing doesn’t come easy to me. I sweat over it. And for some guy to toss six hours of my life into a wastebasket—” Robin shook his head as if he felt actual pain. “At least at IBC I’m able to be a news analyst and there’s no editing. I’ve got complete freedom—just the usual station disclaimer at the end.”
This time Watson’s smile was accompanied by an approving nod. Then a sympathetic sigh. “But it doesn’t pay well.”
“Enough to live on. My needs are simple. A hotel room. Enough paper for my typewriter,” this time Robin grinned like a small boy, “and I steal all the paper and carbon from IBC.”
“Writing the great book?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“When do you get the time?”
“Weekends, sometimes at night.”
Now there wasn’t any smile on Watson’s face. He was going in for the kill. “Isn’t it difficult doing it piecemeal? How can you keep the flow going? Shouldn’t a writer be able to take a year off and give his book total concentration?”
Robin lit a cigarette. His eyes met Clyde Watson’s with merely a slight show of curiosity. Watson leaned closer. “Universal Lectures could book you on weekends. I’m sure we could ask for five hundred—maybe even work it up to seven fifty.”
“Doing what?”
“You pick a subject. I’ve read your columns.” Watson held up a file to prove his point. “You could talk about amusing incidents that occurred when you were a correspondent. Mix it with anything timely. Play it serious. Play it light. I can promise you a lot of work.”
“Why would anyone come to see me?”
“Look in the mirror, Mr. Stone. Women’s clubs book the guest artists. They’ve had it with the bald-headed professors or comedians without sex appeal. You’d bring some glamour into their lives. A war correspondent, a Pulitzer Prize-winner—you’d be in big demand at dinners and colleges.”
“And when would this leave me time to write my book?”
“Shelve it for now. Forget it. At the rate you’re going it will take years. But two years of lectures and you can save enough to take a year off. Go away somewhere. Then, who knows—maybe another Pulitzer Prize, for the book? You don’t want to be a local newscaster all your life, do you?”
It had sounded great. Even with the thirty-five percent the agency would take out of his fee for booking the lectures. He signed eagerly. His first lecture was in Houston. Five hundred dollars. One seventy-five back to the agency. That left three twenty-five. Then he read the small print: he had to pay his fare and hotel room. On that first lecture he had cleared thirty-three dollars. When he tried to break his contract, Watson merely smiled blandly. Sure he could break it—if he paid it off. That had been a year ago: a year of