Prescription for Chaos Read Online Free
and the user must be sure the ink reservoir was full and the paper dispenser loaded.
"Oh, boy," said Fred, who was art editor. "Check the paper reservoir, chief." Surreptitiously he turned dial A (sex), all the way to the right.
"I notice there's no humor dial," said Don coldly, looking over Fred's shoulder. As fiction editor and part-time writer, he did not look on the machine with enthusiasm. "It'll be a hell of note if this thing doesn't turn out humor," he said. "I hope we haven't got a white elephant here."
"One way to find out," said Howard. He opened the cabinet in back. "Plenty of paper and ink there."
"Let's go," said Fred. "Can I push the button?"
"I'll push it," said Howard. He glanced at the settings. "A little one-sided, but let's see what happens." He pushed the On button.
There was a soft, continuous, muffled clacking sound, and a faint sliding noise of sheets of paper slipping over one another. At one point the Writivac hesitated and then went on, just like an author hunting for the right word.
"Sounds O.K." said Fred eagerly.
"Maybe it'll hatch an egg," grumbled Don.
"I don't like your attitude," said Howard, thinking of the $5,750 he had tied up in this.
"Sorry," said Don.
The machine whirred on.
At length there was silence. Then there was a loud plop, and a massive stack of papers dropped into view through the Out slot. A bell rang once, like the timer on a stove.
Fred and Don and Howard looked at each other.
Howard recovered first and reached in the slot.
Fred coughed. "Should we say some historic words?"
"I can't think of any," said Howard.
"Wait till later," said Don ironically, "and we can have the machine run some up for us."
Howard glanced at him suspiciously, then pulled out the paper. The first sheet was a title page. In the exact center of the white sheet, capital letters spelled:
LUST
They huddled around the stack of paper at a large table, and Howard cautiously removed the title sheet to glance at the first page. Immediately his face reddened. Fred's eyes bulged out like onions. Don pursed his lips and made as if to blow live steam out of his mouth.
After a lengthy silence interrupted only by the turning of pages, Don reached out a shaky hand to the carafe and poured himself a glass of water. Howard grabbed it. Fred quietly appropriated the rest of the manuscript.
" Whew! " said Howard. "I feel scorched."
Across the room, the machine rang its bell.
"What did you set the length for?" asked Don.
"I forgot to set the length," said Howard. He leaned forward and squinted.
"You've got a novel coming up," said Don, staring at the machine. "But we still don't know if the thing will write stuff for Varlet ."
"Boy!" said Fred, looking up. "Where's the rest of it?"
"There's another ten thousand words or so in the Out slot," said Howard.
Fred shot across the room, and wandered back, reading as he walked.
Howard glared. "Don't hog it!" he roared. "Over here with it!" The three of them hunched over the new set of sheets as the machine clacked busily across the room.
The sun was a faint glimmer in the west as they finished the last page. Howard cleared his dry throat, and squeezed a last drop of water from the carafe. He glanced at Don. "What do you think?"
"My eyes feel like sandpaper just from reading it."
"How about it," said Fred. He made motions with his hands in the air. "A half-dressed babe on the cover, her negligee down over one shoulder. LUST in big red letters behind her. Nothing else. No background. No nothing. Just a plain cover with the babe and LUST. How about it?"
"It'll be banned in Boston," said Don dubiously.
"So what?" said Fred. "That's good advertising."
"We'll have to sell it under the counter," said Don. "We'll have to ship it out in lead-lined trucks and have it hustled over the state line by men in asbestos suits."
"Oh, it's not that bad," said Howard. "We'll say it's frank and outspoken, a down-to-earth novel. Could we call it a 'psychological
"Oh, boy," said Fred, who was art editor. "Check the paper reservoir, chief." Surreptitiously he turned dial A (sex), all the way to the right.
"I notice there's no humor dial," said Don coldly, looking over Fred's shoulder. As fiction editor and part-time writer, he did not look on the machine with enthusiasm. "It'll be a hell of note if this thing doesn't turn out humor," he said. "I hope we haven't got a white elephant here."
"One way to find out," said Howard. He opened the cabinet in back. "Plenty of paper and ink there."
"Let's go," said Fred. "Can I push the button?"
"I'll push it," said Howard. He glanced at the settings. "A little one-sided, but let's see what happens." He pushed the On button.
There was a soft, continuous, muffled clacking sound, and a faint sliding noise of sheets of paper slipping over one another. At one point the Writivac hesitated and then went on, just like an author hunting for the right word.
"Sounds O.K." said Fred eagerly.
"Maybe it'll hatch an egg," grumbled Don.
"I don't like your attitude," said Howard, thinking of the $5,750 he had tied up in this.
"Sorry," said Don.
The machine whirred on.
At length there was silence. Then there was a loud plop, and a massive stack of papers dropped into view through the Out slot. A bell rang once, like the timer on a stove.
Fred and Don and Howard looked at each other.
Howard recovered first and reached in the slot.
Fred coughed. "Should we say some historic words?"
"I can't think of any," said Howard.
"Wait till later," said Don ironically, "and we can have the machine run some up for us."
Howard glanced at him suspiciously, then pulled out the paper. The first sheet was a title page. In the exact center of the white sheet, capital letters spelled:
LUST
They huddled around the stack of paper at a large table, and Howard cautiously removed the title sheet to glance at the first page. Immediately his face reddened. Fred's eyes bulged out like onions. Don pursed his lips and made as if to blow live steam out of his mouth.
After a lengthy silence interrupted only by the turning of pages, Don reached out a shaky hand to the carafe and poured himself a glass of water. Howard grabbed it. Fred quietly appropriated the rest of the manuscript.
" Whew! " said Howard. "I feel scorched."
Across the room, the machine rang its bell.
"What did you set the length for?" asked Don.
"I forgot to set the length," said Howard. He leaned forward and squinted.
"You've got a novel coming up," said Don, staring at the machine. "But we still don't know if the thing will write stuff for Varlet ."
"Boy!" said Fred, looking up. "Where's the rest of it?"
"There's another ten thousand words or so in the Out slot," said Howard.
Fred shot across the room, and wandered back, reading as he walked.
Howard glared. "Don't hog it!" he roared. "Over here with it!" The three of them hunched over the new set of sheets as the machine clacked busily across the room.
The sun was a faint glimmer in the west as they finished the last page. Howard cleared his dry throat, and squeezed a last drop of water from the carafe. He glanced at Don. "What do you think?"
"My eyes feel like sandpaper just from reading it."
"How about it," said Fred. He made motions with his hands in the air. "A half-dressed babe on the cover, her negligee down over one shoulder. LUST in big red letters behind her. Nothing else. No background. No nothing. Just a plain cover with the babe and LUST. How about it?"
"It'll be banned in Boston," said Don dubiously.
"So what?" said Fred. "That's good advertising."
"We'll have to sell it under the counter," said Don. "We'll have to ship it out in lead-lined trucks and have it hustled over the state line by men in asbestos suits."
"Oh, it's not that bad," said Howard. "We'll say it's frank and outspoken, a down-to-earth novel. Could we call it a 'psychological
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