THE UNSEEN BLUSHERS By Alfred Bester [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astonishing Stories, June 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] With all kinds of plots twisting in my head, I hadn't slept well the night before. For one thing, I'd worked too late on a yarn that wasn't worth it. For another, there'd been a high wind howling through the streets. It made me restless and did a lot more damage than that. When I got up I found it'd blown a lot of paper and junk in the window and most of the story out--only a part of the carbon was left. I wasn't especially sorry. I got dressed and hustled down to the luncheon. That luncheon's something special. We meet every Tuesday in a second-rate restaurant and gossip and talk story and editors and mostly beef about the mags that won't pay until publication. Some of us, the high-class ones, won't write for them. Maybe I ought to explain. We're the unromantic writers--what they call pulp writers. We're the boys who fill the pulp magazines with stories at a cent a word. Westerns, mystery, wonder, weird, adventure--you know them. Not all of us are hacks. A couple have graduated to the movies. A few have broken the slicks and try to forget the lean years. Some get four cents a word and try to feel important to literature. The rest come to the luncheon and either resign themselves to the one cent rate or nurse a secret Pulitzer Prize in their bosoms. There wasn't much of a turn-out when I got there. Belcher sat at the head of the table as usual, playing the genial host. He specializes in what they call science-fiction. It's fantastic stuff about time machines and the fourth dimension. Belcher talks too much in a Southern drawl. As I eased into a chair he called, "Ah, the poor man's Orson Welles!" and crinkled his big face into a showy laugh. I said, "Your dialogue's getting as lousy as your stories!" I don't like to be reminded that I look like a celebrity. Belcher ignored that. He turned to Black, the chap who agents our stuff, and began complaining. He said, "Land-sake, Joey, can't you sell that Martian story? I think it's good." Before Joey could answer, Belcher turned to the rest of us and said, "Reminds me of my grand-daddy. He got shot up at Vicksburg before his father could locate him and drag him back home. Granny used to say, 'All my life I've believed in the solid South and the Democratic Party. I believed they were good; and if they aren't, I don't want to know about it.'" Belcher laughed and shook his head. I gave Joey a frantic S.O.S. When Belcher gets going on the Civil War, no one else gets a word in for solid hours. Joey didn't move, but he said, "What story?" very incredulously, and then he glanced at me and winked.