“Having your name as editor would do as much,” I said.

“The offer’s open,” Bob said. He leaned forward and murmured: “For you—fifty cents a word.”

I laughed. “What’s a cent, these days?”

“I’m talking euros,” Bob said. “Half a euro a word.”

My wife heard that, and yelped. I must admit I sat up sharply myself.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “A few grand a story?”

“Not for every story,” said Bob, ostentatiously glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. Not much chance of that—the bar was loud, and the conversation of the SF writers made it louder yet. “From you, I’ll take ten-kay words. Five grand.”

For the first time in weeks, I had a craving for a cigarette.

“I’ll have to go outside and think about it,” I said.

I bummed a Gitane off Nicole, grinned at my wife’s frown, and headed out. The rain had stopped. The street was dark, half the street-lamps out. My Zippo flared—I keep it topped up, for just these contingencies. After a minute, Bob joined me. He took a fresh pack from his pocket, peeled cellophane, and lit up.

“You too?” I said, surprised.

He shrugged. “Only when I’m travelling. Breaks the ice in some places.”

“I’ll bet,” I said. I glared at him. “Fucking Yank.”

“What?”

“Don’t mess with my friends.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re up to,” I said. “Checking them out, seeing who’s all mouth and who’s serious enough to be interested in one of your little schemes.”

“Have you got me wrong,” said Bob. “I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you.”

He spread his hands, flashed me a conspiratorial grin.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Come on, you hate the bastards as much as I do.”

“That’s the trouble,” I said. “You don’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” He sounded genuinely indignant, almost hurt. I knew that meant nothing. It was a tone I’d practiced often enough.