so covered it was too convex to suit a normal bum like his, pleasing as that convexity might well have been to the trend-blurred eye of whatever youthful fart had designed it. He sat regardless and faced Rosenberg across a circular table made of a semi-transparent amber-coloured substance. Huge photographs of Wild West people and scenes covered the walls.
'I had lunch recently with a friend of mine,' announced Rosenberg.
'Oh yes?' said Jake encouragingly, but not just encouragingly in case what he had heard had been deemed worthy of remark in itself, which he thought was possible.
'Have you ever come across a magazine called 'Mezzanine?''
'Yes, in fact—'
'This friend of mine is the editor. He's been in the job for about four years would be my guess. That's a long time in that sort of journalism, he says. The pace, you know. I doubt if he'll stick it much longer. I'll be sorry when he goes, because he and I have been fortunate enough to build up an excellent working relationship. In practice it benefits me distinctly more than him.' The doctor gave his deep laugh; the present rendering gave an effect of reluctant self-congratulation. 'Oh dear. Of course he has a very acute social conscience, which makes him anxious not to publish any material. that might in any way be harmful.'
'What sort of material would that be?'
'Encouragement of anti-social fantasies involving violence chiefly but also such matters as simulated hanging which can be dangerous.'
'You mean physically dangerous.'
'I do. Death from that cause is not uncommon.'
'Mm. So what people see and read in that way does affect their actions.'
Rosenberg put down his glass, which was still nearly full. He laughed again slightly. 'Why my dear sir, of course it does. If it didn't, my work would have to take a very different form. You must realise that, even from the little we've done together.'
'I suppose I do. But going back—can't your editor pal spot what to steer clear of for himself? I mean for instance I can tell straight away that a chap whipping a girl involves violence.'
'It's not always as simple as that,' said the doctor rather peevishly, then went on in the sunniest of spirits. 'Where I score is having access to the unpublished 'Mezzanine' correspondence, which is most valuable. They write things they'd never dare say to fellows like me.'
'For fear of bursting out laughing in your face.'
'Ah not at all, not at all. You can always spot the ones who're trying to take you for a ride.'
'Always? How?'
'Let me put it to you the way my friend put it to me. If you say when you write, if you call something warm, or soft, or firm, or moist, or hard, or anything like that then you're not serious. You don't use adjectives when you're serious. Which brings us by a long way round to the fantasy you wrote for me, Mr Richardson. But first let me get you another drink.'
'My turn. Same again?'
'No thank you, I'll just nurse this.'
Jake would have cancelled his own drink at that but he wanted a couple of minutes to reflect. Standing at the counter he decided it was dull of Rosenberg to have moved with such speed and determination from what had sounded like the start of a nice credulity—stretching story or two about 'Mezzanine' to that bloody fantasy. And there had been something dull too, in a different sense, about the tone of voice in which he had mentioned the editor and the four years in the job and the pace and the working relationship. More than dull. In the act of ordering his sherry Jake became conscious that he had heard that very tone elsewhere in the last couple of weeks, and at the same time that Rosenberg reminded him of someone. He went on trying to think where and who until he got back to the table and saw that the typewritten pages of his fantasy were spread out on it.
'Uncontrollable passion. Irresistible desire.' Rosenberg sipped slowly at his beer. 'Colossal breasts. Quivering thighs. Delirious response. Do you know if I hadn't heard different from you I think I'd be wondering whether you'd ever performed sexual intercourse?'
At the first phrase Jake had looked hurriedly about. No one was in earshot, not yet, although the bar now held twice as many youngsters as before and an additional two, moustached and flat chested respectively, were entering at that moment. He sat down, spreading his arms slightly to try to screen off Rosenberg and his reading- matter. 'Would you?' he said.
'I think I would. As the friend I was mentioning to you would put it, you're not serious.'
'Good God, do you imagine I'd have come to you in the first place and gone through all that .... rigmarole this afternoon if I weren't serious?'
'Why did you come to me in the first place?'
Jake started to speak and then found he had to consider. 'I realised something that used to be a big part of my life wasn't there any more.'
'And you miss it.'
'Of course I miss it,' said Jake, instantly seeing that the next question ought to have to do with how he could be held to miss what he no longer wanted; you don't miss a friend you'd be slightly sorry to run into, do you? Can you miss wanting something?
Perhaps Rosenberg already knew the answers. 'Any other reasons?' was what he asked.
'Well, there's my wife to consider. Obviously.'
'There is, obviously. Very well. I didn't mean you weren't serious in your overall approach to your condition, I meant you weren't serious when you wrote this. You weren't in a state of sexual excitement.'
