It was a fine letter, full of colorful phrases and split infinitives. To hell with grammar at a time like that, I rationalized. I told him in no uncertain terms just what I thought of him and his criticisms. I'd be a science-fiction writer just to show him up for the incompetent he was, I said. I guess I said a lot of things. It was a letter full of more than fire and brimstone. It was radioactive. I mailed it. Then I had a beer. * * * * * Two days later, while I was bravely punching typewriter keys in a desperate effort to make good my boast, a small, haggard-looking fellow came to the door and rang the bell. "We don't want any," I said. He peered through the screen door and said, "I'm MacDonald," in a nervous, uncertain voice. "MacDonald who?" "Donald MacDonald. May I come in?" "You're kidding. No, by God, you're not. You _are_ Donald MacDonald." He smiled wanly. "May I come in? I flew all the way--" "Just to see me?" "I--er--it was no trouble. I took a _skyorie_." "A what?" "May I come in?" "Sure, sure, c'mon in. Have a chair. Drink?" "No, thanks," he said, seating himself. "I'm afraid I've been--that is--er--No, I don't believe so." "I got your letter," I said, suddenly remembering. My awe at the presence of the great man was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of "Now, what the hell does he want?" "And I got yours," MacDonald said. "That's why I'm here." He gazed at my typewriter as though it were ready to bite him. "You didn't take my advice?" "Hardly," I said, rather flippantly. "Once the bug has bitten you--" "Have you had anything accepted?" I stared at the rug, hating the man for asking. "No, not yet," I admitted grudgingly, "but--" "Then the bug hasn't _really_ bitten you yet," he said. "You'll know it when he does." "I--uh--guess my letter was a bit--er--abrupt," I said, not knowing how else to fill the silence. "You were pretty mad," he admitted, "and I don't blame you; I should have known better than to tell you that way. But in this game, you've--well, you've got to learn to take criticism. If your work's bad, admit it and throw in the towel." "And mine's bad?" He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. "I'm afraid so." But the steam had been released and the period of mourning had ended, so "I'll improve," I told him. "You're wasting your time." "Possibly. What I can't understand, though, is why a big name in science-fiction comes way the devil out here just to advise me to stop knocking my head against a wall." "Perhaps more than your head is at stake," he said. "What?" "Nothing," he said hastily. For a moment his pale face held a haunted look, and he rose, looking like a man unsure of himself. "I can't talk you out of it, so I'd better go." "Wait a minute. Just what did you mean by that other remark?" Donald MacDonald glanced around him as though he were afraid invisible beings might be eavesdropping. "You really want to know the reason why?" I nodded.