I read it through when I finished it, sitting back and puffing happily on a cigarette. Then I put a clip on the pages, patted them fondly and went next door to see Perry. He was a sculptor, and he had his hands full of clay, and his stand full of what looked like a head. "Wash your hands," I said. "Why?" He gouged his thumb at the blob of clay on his stand, and an eye socket magically appeared. I slapped the pages in my hand. "I want you to read this." "Later," Perry said. He gouged out another eye socket. "Now," I insisted. "It's the best thing I've ever done." Perry considered this for the space of three seconds. "Oh, all right." He went to the small sink in the corner of the room, and rinsed the clay from his hands. He dried them quickly on a soiled towel, walked over to the lumpy divan that sprawled beneath his long window, and said, "Let's have it." I extended the manuscript and he took it. I lit a cigarette and watched him while he read, my chest expanding with pride. When he finished, he put the manuscript down beside him and lighted a cigarette of his own. "A bit old fashioned, isn't it?" he asked. "How so?" I answered, ready to spring to the defense of the story. "Well, using Mesmerism for Hypnotism, for example." "They're synonoymous!" I shouted. Perry stared at me curiously. "It's not a very well known story," he said, "but I still don't think you will get away with it--no matter how much innocence you profess." "What in the name of God are you talking about?" I asked. He slapped the back of his hand onto the manuscript. "This. _The Facts In The Case of M. Valdemar._ That's what." "That's not the title I gave it," I said indignantly. "No, but it's the title Poe gave it." My mouth fell open. "Who? Who?" "Stop sounding like an owl. Poe. Edgar Allan...." "No," I said. "Yes. Poe. Carrying this a bit far, aren't you, old boy?" "No," I said blankly. "No. No." "If you intend having a nervous breakdown, I wish you'd do it in your own room. I really have quite a bit of work to...." "No," I said. "Poe." "Really, now, Fred...." "My typewriter," I blurted. "It talks, Perry. It writes. It does stories. Poe. Always Poe. Perry...." "Oh-oh," he said, staring at me curiously. "First _Usher_, and then _The Raven_, and _Masque of the Red Death_, and now...." "_The Facts In The Case Of M. Valdemar._ Quite." "I ... I have to go, Perry. I have to go talk to that typewriter. I have to find out what this is all about." Perry leaped to his feet. "Perhaps you'd like to lie down for a while, Fred. Maybe I can get you something cool to drink." "No," I mumbled. "Thanks. I've got to talk to the machine." I left him and went back to my own room. I put a sheet of paper into the typewriter, and said, "Why'd you do it? Why?" _DON'T GET MELODRAMATIC_, the machine typed. _THE STORY WAS A HUNDRED TIMES BETTER THAN THAT DRIVEL YOU WROTE LAST NIGHT._ "Yes, but it's not _mine_! Can't you understand that? Poe wrote it."