_OH, ALL RIGHT. PUT A CLEAN SHEET INTO ME AND WE'LL START ALL OVER AGAIN._ * * * * * I put in a new sheet of paper, poised my fingers over the keys, and said, "Here we go now. Fiction." I started to type. _The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal--the redness and the horror of blood._ "Oh, no," I moaned. _listen, whats wrong now. and will you please lock_ "Sorry." _THAT DAMNED SHIFT KEY? THANK YOU. WHAT THE DEVIL IS THE MATTER?_ "Why, this is _The Mask Of The Red Death_!" _OF COURSE IT IS. AND IT'S MASQUE, NOT MASK._ "Yes, yes. But it's still Poe." _I KNOW. WHAT'S WRONG WITH POE? OR FOR THAT MATTER HOW ABOUT SHAKESPEARE?_ "Nothing. That is ... well, nothing. But ... well, they're...." I grinned weakly. "They've been done already, you know." _SO WHAT?_ "I mean, they've been published already. All over. Famous." _WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES THAT MAKE?_ "Well, I wouldn't want to ... uh...." The carriage slid across the machine angrily, and the bell rang. _YOU ARE AN IDIOT! A COMPLETE IDIOT!_ "Couldn't we sort of compromise?" I asked quietly. "Don't you know anything but Poe?" _THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH POE. COME ON, LET'S GET AT IT. I'VE GOT A WONDERFUL STORY CALLED 'THE ASSIGNATION.'_ "No!" I shouted. "That's plagiarism! I won't do it." "You won't do what?" For a moment, I reared back from the machine, my eyes popping wide. Then I realized it had been a human voice I'd heard, and the voice had come from my door. I turned quickly, heaving a relieved sigh when I saw Perry standing there. "Hello, Fred," he said. "What is it you won't do?" "Oh...." I waved my hand meaninglessly. "Nothing. Nothing really." He peered around the room curiously, his blue eyes intently searching every corner, his long nose almost twitching. "Got someone with you, Fred?" "No." "Mm? Could have sworn I heard you talking to someone." "I ... I was reading some dialogue out loud." "Oh? Working, are you?" He walked up to the machine, and I tried to cover the dialogue--or correspondence--I'd recently had with the typewriter. I was too late. He put his nose close to the machine, as if he were smelling it to see if it was edible. "Curious," he said. "A new ... uh ... art form?" "No!" I snapped. "It...." "That's Poe there, isn't it?" "I suppose," I said despondently. "Well, don't you know?" "Yes, yes, it's Poe." Perry grinned slyly. "Caught you, eh, old boy?" "Caught me at _what_, may I ask?" "Ah-ah," Perry chided, wagging his finger. "I won't tell. Don't worry." He headed for the door. "I've got to run." He wagged his finger once more, said another "ah-ah" and was gone. As soon as the door had closed behind him, I turned furiously to the typewriter. "Now see what you've done!" I shouted. "He thinks I was cribbing from Poe!" The typewriter was silent. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"