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 _Have you ever written science fiction?
 Have your stories been rejected? Herein
 may lie the reason._


The Smiler

By Albert Hernhunter


"Your name?"

"Cole. Martin Cole."

"Your profession?"

"A very important one. I am a literary agent specializing in science
fiction. I sell the work of various authors to magazine and book
publishers."

The Coroner paused to study Cole; to ponder the thin, mirthless smile.
The Coroner said, "Mr. Cole, this inquest has been called to look into
the death of one Sanford Smith, who was found near your home with a gun
in his hand and a bullet in his brain. The theory of suicide has been--"

"--rather hard to rationalize?"

The Coroner blinked. "You could put it that way."

"I would put it even stronger. The theory is obviously ridiculous. It
was a weak cover-up. The best I could do under the circumstances."

"You are saying that you killed Sanford Smith?"

"Of course."

The Coroner glanced at his six-man jury, at the two police officers, at
the scattering of spectators. They all seemed stunned. Even the reporter
sent to cover the hearing made no move toward the telephone. The Coroner
could think of only the obvious question: "Why did you kill him?"

"He was dangerous to us."

"Whom do you mean by _us_?"

"We Martians, who plan to take over your world."

The Coroner was disappointed. A lunatic. But a lunatic can murder. Best
to proceed, the Coroner thought. "I was not aware that we have Martians
to contend with."

"If I'd had the right weapon to use on Smith, you wouldn't be aware of
it now. We still exercise caution."

The Coroner felt a certain pity. "Why did you kill Smith?"

"We Martians have found science-fiction writers to be our greatest
danger. Through the medium of imaginative fiction, such writers have
more than once revealed our plans. If the public suddenly realized
that--"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Coroner broke in. "You killed Smith because he revealed something in
his writings?"

"Yes. He refused to take my word that it was unsalable. He threatened to
submit it direct. It was vital material."

"But there are many other such writers. You can't control--"

"We control ninety percent of the output. We have concentrated on the
field and all of the science-fiction agencies are in our hands. This
control was imperative."

"I see." The Coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane.
"Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the
agents."

"Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such
changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will
not sell."

"The writers always agree?"

"Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves
the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected."

The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled.
They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order.

The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence
could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for
time--try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking.
"You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?"

"Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere.
We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in
the masses of ordinary, everyday people. It is from these sources that
we will draw our shock troops when the time comes."

"That time will be--?"

"Soon, very soon."

The Coroner could not forebear a smile. "You find the science-fiction
writers more dangerous than the true scientists?"

"Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science
disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can
easily prove we do not exist."

"But the science-fiction writer?"

"The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated."

The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this
madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He
tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. "You said a
moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to use on Smith--"

Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a
fountain pen. "This. It kills instantly and leaves no mark whatever.
Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death."

The Coroner felt better. Obviously, Cole was not armed. As the Coroner
raised a hand to signal the officers, Cole said, "You understand, of
course, that I can't let you live."

"Take this man into custody."

The police officers did not move. The Coroner turned on them sharply.
They were smiling. Cole pointed the fountain pen. The Coroner felt a
sharp chill on his flesh. He looked at the jury, at the newspaperman,
the spectators. They were all smiling cold, thin, terrible smiles....

       *       *       *       *       *

A short time later, the newspaperman phoned in his story. The afternoon
editions carried it:

                     CORONER BELL DIES OF HEART ATTACK

    Shortly after this morning's inquest, which resulted in a jury
    verdict of suicide in the case of Sanford Smith, Coroner James Bell
    dropped dead of heart failure in the hearing room of the County
    building. Mr. Bell leaves a wife and--


THE END




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July
    1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.