INDIRECTION

The best way to keep a secret is to publish it in aquite unbelievable form—and insist that it is the truth.

BY EVERETT B. COLE

Illustrated by Freas

Elwar Forell leaned back in hischair, looking about the small diningsalon. The usual couples were there,he noticed. Of course, the faces weredifferent from those of last evening,but the poses were similar. And thepeople were there for the same reasons.They were enjoying the foodand drinks, just as many others hadenjoyed them before. But like allthose others, their greater enjoymentwas in the company of one another.Forell glanced at the vacant chairacross the table from him and sighed.

It would be nice, he thought, if— Butany arrangement involving a permanentcompanion would be hardlypractical under his circumstances.After all, prudence dictated limits.

He picked up his cup and drainedit, then leaned back and beckonedthe waiter over.

"The reckoning, please," he ordered.

He looked again at the letter onthe table before him, then folded itand put it in his pocket. It was well,he thought. His latest book of fairytales and fantasy had enjoyed goodacceptance. And the check in theletter had been of satisfactory size.He smiled to himself. There werecompensations in this job of his. Itseemed to be profitable to have apurpose other than the obvious andusual one.

He paid his bill and left the restaurant,to walk slowly along thestreet, enjoying the mild, spring air.

As he passed a sidewalk café, aman beckoned from one of the tables.

"Oh, Forell," he called. "I washoping I'd see you this evening." Heheld up a book.

"Just finished your 'Tales of theSorcerers,'" he added. "Some ofthose yarns of yours seem almostreal."

Elwar Forell nodded. They should,he thought. Factual material, howeverdisguised, often shines throughits fictional background. And he hadan inexhaustible source of material,drawn from many sources. He twistedhis face into a gratified smile.

"That's my objective," he saidaloud. "I do all in my power to placethe reader inside the story."

Charo Andorra nodded. "It's thesecret of good fiction, I know," headmitted, "and every storyteller triesto do it. But I seem to see more thanthat in your stuff. There's an almostbelievable pattern." He hesitated."You know, while I'm reading it, Ican almost see beings of superiorpowers walking the earth. And sometimes,I visualize us working withthem." He laughed shortly.

"Of course, I may be more credulousand imaginative than most.Probably why I'm a critic. And Ireally should know better." He lookeddown at the book in his hands.

"But that stuff of yours can bemighty convincing." He tilted hishead. "Somehow, I can't help butlook at some of the old legends—andsome of the things that havehappened in more recent years, too.Can't help but wonder if we actuallyare babes of the cosmos, and if wehaven't been visited and watched bysome form of extra-planetary life atone time or another."

Forell looked closely at his friend.Andorra, he knew, was a clearthinker in his own right. And he justmight start a serious analysis—andpublish it. He grimaced. It wasn'ttime for that, he knew. Many yearsmust pass before it would be time.

He placed a hand on the back ofAndorra's chair, remembering thewords of one of the teachers.

"Remember, Elwar," he had beentold, "your objective is clear, butyour methods must be most indirect—evenunclear. Some things youmust obscure in a mass of obviouslyimaginative detail, while you bringothers to the fore. You must hint.You must suggest. You should neverfully explain or deny. And you mustn