How Brad Became a Millionaire and I Became an Editor
                by Linda J. Dunn 

     Joe sighed as he read the last page and placed it upside down on 
his desk with the other thirty-five sheets of paper.  It was hopeless.

     "So what do you think?"  Brad asked.  "Is it good?   Where do you 
think I should send it first?  Omni?" 

     Joe sighed and searched for something complimentary to say. 

     "The sentence structure was excellent."

     "Well, of course."  Brad leaned forward in his chair and placed both 
hands on Joe's desk.  "So what do you think?   Will Omni buy it?"  Joe 
bit his lower lip and tried to meet Brad's eyes.  He couldn't do it.

     "You don't think it's right for Omni?"

     Joe opened his mouth to speak, licked his lips, and tried to be 
honest without being overly blunt.  "I'm afraid not." 

     "Oh.  Then where should I send it?" 

     He didn't say what he was thinking.  Brad was a brilliant scientist 
and his very best friend but the poor guy couldn't tell a story if his 
life depended on it. 

     Joe sighed, leaned back in his chair, and looked straight at Brad.  
Their eyes met and Joe flinched; but he knew there was nothing to gain in 
prolonging the agony.

     "Don't send it anywhere, Brad." 

     He looked puzzled.  "Are you saying no one would buy my story?  
Why?  What's wrong with it." 

     Joe took a deep breath and plunged in.  "No.  In fact,  I'm
quite certain you could sell it to one of several small publications 
whose editors would love to plaster your name all over the front cover.  
It's not every day they receive a science fiction short story from a 
Nobel prize winning scientist.  But what I am saying is that it's not a 
story that an editor would buy on its own merit."

     Brad looked crushed and Joe cringed slightly as he continued. 

     "You're brilliant in your field.  Your command of the English 
language is excellent.  But you haven't studied the craft of writing at 
all and this story reflects that." 

     He looked up and their eyes met.  Brad's face flushed deep red and 
he turned away.

     "Quite frankly..."  Joe paused and took another deep breath before 
continuing, "... you write like a scientist.  Which is okay, because you 
are a scientist.  But it's dry -- like a report-- and the characters are 
uninteresting and exist for the sole purpose of being manipulated by the 
author.  There's just no life in it."

     He realized Brad was glaring at him and this time Joe was the one 
who was embarrassed and turned away.  He spoke softly, hoping to cushion 
the blow.

     "And the plot is a little too old and too weak.  That bit about the 
two survivors turning out to be Adam and Eve was used to death long ago 
and most editors have that on their list of 'stories we won't accept.'"

     Joe glanced up and noted Brad was standing up and backing away from 
the desk with the story in his handd.  He started talking faster, hoping 
to salvage their friendship. 

     "Maybe if you attended a writer's workshop... I mean, this isn't 
something you just sit down and do.  It requires study, just like any 
other field."   

     He couldn't help noticing Brad's face was bright red except for his 
mouth.  That was a pure white line.  He was biting the inside of his 
mouth again, too.  That was a real danger signal.

     Brad shook his head, smiled tersely, and then spoke slowly,
with an edge to his voice that Joe had only heard once before.
That was when they were both in college and Brad had burst into Joe's 
room one morning while he was still in bed -- with Brad's sister.

     "Thanks for your critique, old buddy.  I'll see what I can do with 
this." 

     "Brad, hey!  Don't be that way.  I'd never have agreed to do this if 
I'd known you were going to take it so intensely."

     Brad walked to the door, opened it, and then turned around to 
speak.  "I bet you a steak dinner that within two months I'll have a sale 
to a well known science fiction magazine.  One that wouldn't accept your 
work."

     "Brad!"  Joe cringed as the door slammed behind his old friend.  
Perhaps, his former friend.

     A few days went by and Joe was half-surprised that he hadn't heard 
anything from Brad.  He wasn't usually one to carry a grudge -- he'd 
forgiven Joe's brief interlude with his sister within a few days -- and 
Brad generally recognized when others were right.  Surely he'd call any 
time now and apologize.

     He didn't.

     Six weeks later, Brad stopped by.  No advance warning.  No apology.
He just threw a contract onto Joe's desk.  "And what do you say to this?" 

     Joe stared down at the paper.  He'd never gotten that much money for 
one of his short stories.  And that magazine's response time was usually 
six to eight weeks.  How did Brad do it?   It was the same title and the 
same rough word count as that awful thing he'd read earlier.  What could 
Brad have possibly done to salvage it? 

     He looked up for answers but all he saw was a smug look on Brad's 
face.  "Okay, I give up.  How did you do it?" 

     Brad pulled out a package and dropped it on Joe's desk.  It 
contained the original story he had read; only this time he didn't find 
it so awful.  In fact, it was the most brilliantly written story he'd 
ever read in his life.  He loved it!  The plot was incredible.  The 
ending a complete surprise.  The characters were people with whom he 
could empathize.  He'd never read anything so grand. But what was changed?

     He went back to page one and read it again.  The words were exactly 
as he remembered them from the first draft yet the total effect was 
different.  He looked at Brad again and could almost see the answer in 
his eyes.  "You didn't change a word." 

     "That's right."

     "So why is it different?" 

     "It's not.  But your response is." 

     "Huh?" 

     "Can't you guess?" 

     Joe picked up a single page, held it to the light, and inspected the 
paper.  Nothing extraordinary there.  He looked at the quality of the 
printout.  Obviously from a good quality laser printer.  He shook his 
head and said, "I give up."

     "Do I win?" 

     "Only if you tell me how you did it." 

     "You promise not to tell anyone?"

     Joe smiled.  If Brad was a cat, there's be feathers dangling from 
his mouth.  He'd obviously pulled off some kind of major coup.

     "Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me."

     "It's the toner."

     Joe picked up the paper and examined it a little more closely. 

     "Smell it." 

     He sniffed.  There was nothing to smell.

     Brad grinned and then laughed.  "You're the one who said I'm a 
scientist, not a writer.  The human body constantly responds to stimuli 
that pass totally unnoticed by us.  I happened to find a chemical that, 
when mixed with the toner sold in most refill kits, triggers certain 
emotional responses in the human brain."

     "But how--" 

     "Computer simulations.  Think of it as something like an architect 
designing a house on a computer and then running a program to see how the 
structure responds to certain weather conditions.  Or like chemists 
testing a drug by looking at the molecular composition of the model."

     "Of course, I couldn't be sure it worked until I tested it on a few 
volunteers; but getting those was easy." 

     "But Brad.... The story, when it's published, will be printed with 
standard--"

     Brad shook his head.  "Don't worry about it."  He grinned and then 
shrugged his shoulders.  "I admit I can't write.  In fact, I'll even buy 
you the steak dinner--" 

     "That's not--"

     "Yes it is.  I just got mad and wanted to prove I could do it.  It 
didn't take long and by the time I finished the anger had dissipated and 
I realized you were right.  Just because I'm a natural puzzle solver 
doesn't mean I can turn on a word processor and move into your field and 
expect to be equally successful."

     He hesitated a second and then winked.  "From now on,  I'll leave 
the writing to you.  Which brings me to my next question: How would you 
like to edit your own publication?" 

     "What?" 

     "Well, I'm looking to diversify my portfolio and it occurred to me 
that a science fiction magazine would be a good tax write off.  And who 
knows, maybe it'll even show a profit someday."

     Joe stared at Brad for a moment and then spoke softly. 
    "Brad, what are you talking about?  Portfolio?  You don't have two 
cents to rub together.  Heck, you told me just two months ago that you 
were having trouble paying your rent."

     Brad pulled out his wallet, opened it, and spread a wad of bills on 
the desk.  "Does it look like I'm broke?" 

     Joe stared at the cash for a moment and then held up one of the 
bills to the light to verify it was real and this wasn't some silly 
joke.  It was good. 

     "Where did you--" 

     Brad took the money and stuffed it back into his wallet.  He put it 
into his back pocket and then checked his watch.  

     "Come join me for lunch and I'll fill you in on all the details. 
I figure I owe you anyway since this all would never have happened if 
you hadn't made me angry."

     "But I still--?"

     Brad walked to the door and opened it for Joe.  He rather 
reluctantly grabbed his jacket and followed.

     "First time in my life I ever developed something that had a 
commercial application."

     Joe looked up as he locked the door behind them.  "Commercial 
application?  For what?" 

     "The chemical.  I sold it to a cosmetic firm.  They're marketing a 
new line of perfume with it that they're calling 'The Love Potion'.  It 
really is too.

     "Now all I have to do is figure out how to get the same effect 
without leaving those awful black smudges on the skin."


                         * THE END *

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