d sink back into the trains of thought of the book.
It was a nice feeling to know he was safe.
* * * * *
It was Friday. The sun was shining brightly and the monotony of the blue
sky was relieved here and there by filmy white clouds that gave it a
pleasing three-dimensionalness.
But to Martin Grant there was something unreal about things. He decided
it must be the light. Things stood out with too sharp clarity.
When he reached his office at the university he made arrangements for a
substitute to take his ten o'clock class. Then he called the publishing
company and made an appointment for ten-fifteen.
The hour from nine to ten seemed interminably long. He found it almost
impossible to concentrate on such an unimportant subject as the
application of tensor analysis to electronic circuits.
Ten o'clock came. He hurried to the parking lot and got in his car. It
was real and comforting. But once again everything outside the
windshield seemed too sharply defined.
He timed himself on the way across town to the publishing house. He
would have to allow himself the same time to return for his eleven
o'clock class. It took twelve minutes, plus another two to find a
parking place. Two minutes from the car to the eleventh floor. He was
frowning at his watch as he entered the publisher's office.
"Well, well, Dr. Grant! Glad to see you. I suppose you're anxious to see
your book ready for market. It's coming very well. Just came back from
the typesetters and is going into its first printing right away."
"Huh?" Martin said, completing his mental arithmetic and jerking into an
awareness of his surroundings. "Oh, hello Mr. Browne," he said. "I was
just figuring my time. I have an eleven o'clock class. I can only stay
twenty-seven minutes. That gives me a three minute margin of error for
traffic delays."
"I see," the publisher said, a twinkle in his eye. "As I was just
saying, your book--"
"Oh yes, my book," Martin interrupted. "Just a minute." He took out his
billfold and extracted the check, handing it to Mr. Browne.
"What's this for?" Mr. Browne asked, unfolding it. "Oh, the advance
royalty check. Is something wrong with it?"
"I'm returning it," Martin said. "I can't let you publish my book."
"Can't let me publish it!" Browne exclaimed. "Why not? Don't tell me it
infringes on someone else's copyright!"
"No. Nothing like that. I've merely decided I don't want it published.
I
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