THE ULTIMATE SALIENT By NELSON S. BOND Brian O'Shea, man of the Future, here is your story. Read it carefully, soldier yet unborn, for upon it,--and upon you--will one day rest the fate of all Mankind. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _He glanced at me slowly, and a bit sadly, I thought. "I'm sorry, Clinton," he said, "but that won't do. It won't do at all. It will have to be written. You see--you won't be here then...."_ I thought at first he was the census-snoop, returning to poke his proboscis into whatever few stray facts he might have overlooked the first time. My wife was out, and when I saw him coming up the walk, that bulky folder under his arm, I answered the door myself--something I seldom do--sensing a sort of reluctant duty toward the minions of Uncle Sam. * * * * * He was a neat and quiet person. One of those drab, utterly commonplace men who defy description. Neither young nor old, tall nor short, stout nor slender. He had only one outstanding characteristic. An eager intensity, a _piercingness_ of gaze that made you feel, somehow, as if his ice-blue eyes stared ever into strange and fathomless depths. He said, "Mr. Clinton?" and I nodded. "_Eben_ Clinton?" he asked. Then, a trifle breathlessly I thought, "Mr. Clinton, I have here something that I know will prove of the greatest interest to you--" I got it then. I shook my head. "Sorry, pal. But we don't need some." I started to close the door. "I--I beg your pardon?" he stammered. "Some?" "Shoelaces," I told him firmly, "patent can-openers or fancy soaps. Weather-vanes, life insurance or magazines." I grinned at him. "I don't _read_ the damned things, buddy, I just write for them." And again I tried to do things to the door. But he beat me to it. There was apology in the way he shrugged his way into the house, but determination in his eyes. "I know," he said. "That is, I _didn't_ know until I read this, but--" He touched the brown envelope, concluded lamely, "it--it's a manuscript--" Well, that's one of the headaches of being a story-teller. Strange things creep out of the cracks and crevices--most of them bringing with them the Great American Novel. It was spring in Roanoke, and spring fever had claimed me as a victim. I didn't feel like working, anyway. No, not even in my garden. Especially in the turnip patch. Hank Cleaver isn't the only guy who has trouble with his turnips. I sighed and led the way into my work-room. I said, "Okay, friend. Let's have a look at the masterpiece...."