The Mind Digger
By Winston Marks
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories ofScience and Fantasy April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment whenevery playwright worth his salt was playing in France, prostituting inHollywood or sulking in a slump. I needed a play badly, so I told Ellieto get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready.
When she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and ayoungster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped inlike a carelessly aimed champagne cork.
I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides wearen't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks."
His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find onfarms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across myPersian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losingtennis player.
"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, andyour girl just told me you'd see me."
"You—are Hillary Hardy?"
"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingersthat gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with aRed-Cross life-saving hold.
"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too."
"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the firsttime."
"Did what?"
"Sold the first play I wrote."
"This—is—your first work?"
"My very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row ofwhite teeth a yard wide. "They said I'd have to go to college, and thenI'd have to write a million words before I'd produce anythingworthwhile."
If he hadn't owned such an honest, open face I'd have thrown him out asan imposter right then. The ream of neatly typed pages on my desk wouldhave fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on Broadway. Theformat was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialoguebreezy as a May afternoon in Chicago and the motivation solidly adult.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Nineteen."
"And you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's anoriginal work?"
"Certainly!" The smile faded a little. "Look, Mr. Crocker, you're notjust kidding about this contract, are you? Is the play really okay?"
"That," I said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determinedon the boards. But I'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on yoursignature to this." I shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen ontop.
He didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while hepored over the fine print I had time to catch my breath.
His play competed rather well with the high average output of mostprofessionals I knew—not exactly terrific, but a relatively safegamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. Well, I made amental note to pass the script around a bit before I signed the contractmyself. After all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere.
He finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me withan air of expectancy. I stalled, "I, uh, will have the c