"Oh, God," muttered Rubin, his eyes rolling upward in mute appeal.

Gonzalo said instantly, "Science fiction? That's what your friend Isaac Asimov writes, isn't it, Manny?"

"He's not my friend," said Rubin. "He clings to me out of helpless admiration."

Trumbull raised his voice. "Will you two stop having a private conversation? Go on, Roger."

"Have you written any science fiction?"

"I've tried, but I haven't submitted anything. I'm going to, though. I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"I made a bet."

"What kind?"

"Well," said Peterborough, helplessly. "It's rather complicated-and embarrassing."

"We don't mind the complications," said Halsted, "and we'll try not to be embarrassed."

"Well," said Peterborough, and there appeared on his face something that had not been seen at the Black Widowers banquets for years, a richly tinted blush, "there's this girl. I'm sort of era-I like her, but I don't think she likes me, but I like her anyway. The trouble is she goes for a basketball player; a real idiot-six foot five to his eyebrows and nothing above."

Peterborough shook his head and continued, "I don't have much going for me. I can't impress her with chemistry; but she's an English Lit major, so I showed her some of my stories. She asked me if I had ever sold anything, and I said no. But then I said I intended to write something and sell it, and she laughed.

"That bothered me, and I thought of something. It seems that Lester del Rey-''

Rubin interposed. "Who?"

"Lester del Rey. He's a science fiction writer."

"Another one of those?" said Rubin. "Never heard of him."

"Well, he's no Asimov," admitted Peterborough, "but he's all right. Anyway, the way he got started was once when he read a science fiction story and thought it was terrible. He said to his girl, 'Hell, I can write something better than that,' and she said, 'I dare you,' and he did and sold it.