“I won’t do that,” Slade said. “I have no interest in abstract cosmic ventures on that order.” To him, inspiring Jack Dowland was cosmic enough. And yet he could empathize enough to understand the temptation. In his own work he had seen all kinds of people.

The operator slammed shut the hatch of the time-ship, made certain that Slade was strapped in properly, and then took his own seat at the controls. He snapped a switch and a moment later Slade was on his way to his vacation from monotonous office work—back to 1956 and the nearest he would come to a creative act in his life.

The hot midday Nevada sun beat down, blinding him; Slade squinted, peered about nervously for the town of Purpleblossom. All he saw was dull rock and sand, the open desert with a single narrow road passing among the Joshua plants.

“To the right,” the operator of the time-ship said, pointing. “You can walk there in ten minutes. You understand your contract, I hope. Better get it out and read it.”

From the breast pocket of his 1950-style coat, Slade brought the long yellow contract form with Muse Enterprises. “It says you’ll give me thirty-six hours. That you’ll pick me up in this spot and that it’s my responsibility to be here; if I’m not, and can’t be brought back to my own time, the company is not liable.”

“Right,” the operator said, and re-entered the time-ship. “Good luck, Mr. Slade. Or, as I should call you, Jack Dowland’s muse.” He grinned, half in derision, half in friendly sympathy, and then the hatch shut after him.

Jesse Slade was alone on the Nevada desert, a quarter mile outside the tiny town of Purpleblossom.

He began to walk, perspiring, wiping his neck with his handkerchief.

There was no problem to locating Jack Dowland’s house, since only seven houses existed in the town. Slade stepped up onto the rickety wooden porch, glancing at the yard with its trash can, clothes line, discarded plumbing fixtures… parked in the driveway he saw a dilapidated car of some archaic sort—archaic even for the year 1956.

He rang the bell, adjusted his tie nervously, and once more in his mind rehearsed what he intended to say. At this point in his life, Jack Dowland had written no science fiction; that was important to remember—it was in fact the entire point. This was the critical nexus in his life—history, this fateful ringing of his doorbell. Of course Dowland did not know that. What was he doing within the house? Writing? Reading the funnies of a Reno newspaper? Sleeping?

Footsteps. Tautly, Slade prepared himself.

The door opened. A young woman wearing light-weight cotton trousers, her hair tied back with a ribbon, surveyed him calmly. What small, pretty feet she had, Slade noticed. She wore slippers; her skin was smooth and shiny, and he found himself gazing intently, unaccustomed to seeing so much of a woman exposed. Both ankles were completely bare.

“Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been vacuuming; there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner… its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had not vanished in 1950 as was thought.

Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, “Mrs. Dowland?” The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. “I’m a fan of your husband’s monumental—” Oops, he thought, that wasn’t right. “Ahem,” he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. “Tsk-tsk,” he said. “What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat.” He smiled hopefully.

“You know Jack’s work?” She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.

“On the telly,” Slade said. “Fine scripts of his.” He nodded.

“You’re English, are you?” Mrs. Dowland said. “Well, did you want to come in?” She held the door wide. “Jack is working right now up in the attic… the children’s noise bothers him. But I know he’d like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You’re Mr.—”

“Slade,” Slade said. “Nice abode you possess, here.”

“Thank you.” She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. “JACK!” she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. “THERE’S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!”

Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person’s steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. “I’m at work,” he said curtly. “Even though I do it at home it’s a job like any other.” He gazed at Slade. “What do you want? What do you mean you’re a ‘fan’ of my work? What work? Christ, it’s been two months since I sold anything; I’m about ready to go out of my mind.”

Slade said, “Jack Dowland, that is because you have yet to find your proper genre.” He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.

“Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?” Mrs. Dowland asked.

“Thank you, miss,” Slade said. “Jack Dowland,” he said, “I am here to inspire you.”

“Where are you from?” Dowland said suspiciously. “And how come you’re wearing your tie that funny way?”

“Funny in what respect?” Slade asked, feeling nervous.

“With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam’s apple.” Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. “And why’s your head shaved? You’re too young to be bald.”

“The custom of this period,” Slade said feebly. “Demands a shaved head. At least in New York.”

“Shaved head my ass,” Dowland said. “Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?”

“I want to praise you,” Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him—he was not being treated properly and he knew it.

“Jack Dowland,” he said, stuttering a little, “I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I’m your muse.” He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.

Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.

Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, “Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren’t all muses female?”

“No,” Slade said angrily. “Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male.” He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. “Listen to me, Jack Dowland—”

“For God’s sake,” Dowland said, “either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it’s not natural the way you’re talking. Are you on tea or something?” He sniffed intently.

“Tea,” Slade echoed, not understanding. “No, just a beer, please.”

Dowland said, “Well get to the point. I’m anxious to be back at work. Even if it’s done at home it is work.”

It was now time for Slade to deliver his encomium. He had prepared it carefully; clearing his throat he began. “Jack, if I may call you that, I wonder why the hell you haven’t tried science fiction. I figure that—”

“I’ll tell you why,” Jack Dowland broke in. He paced back and forth, his hands in his trousers pockets. “Because there’s going to be a hydrogen war. The future’s black. Who wants to write about it? Keeerist.” He shook his head. “And anyhow who reads that stuff? Adolescents with skin trouble. Misfits. And it’s junk. Name me one good science fiction story, just one. I picked up a magazine on a bus once when I was in Utah. Trash! I wouldn’t write that trash even if it paid well, and I looked into it and it doesn’t pay well—around one half cent a word. And who can live on that?” Disgustedly, he started toward the stairs. “I’m going back to work.”