Eric Rauch's eyebrows flattened themselves out meditatively. "What sort of a novel would you give us?" Then, with a laugh: "See here, I don't see that we need look as far ahead just yet… . A novel takes time; but meanwhile there's the Pulsifer Prize, don't forget. We're going to put up a big fight to get that for you."

Vance looked at him, perplexed. The Pulsifer Prize—two thousand dollars for the best short story of the year! He could pay off Bunty Hayes at a stroke, and live on Easy Street with the balance … buy Laura Lou some pretty clothes, and have time to think over subjects, and look round… . His heart beat excitedly… . But what could The Hour do about it? he asked.

"Why, boom you for all we're worth. You can get even a short story into the limelight nowadays with money. And we mean to spend money on 'Unclaimed.'"

"But I don't understand. Who gives this Pulsifer Prize anyhow?"

"Oh, a rich society woman: widow of old Pulsifer, the railroad man. It's the event of her life—"

"Why, does she award the prize herself?"

"Bless you, no: it's done the usual way. Bunch of highbrows as judges." Rauch paused, and added with his exquisite smile: "Even judges are human… ." He let the rest of the smile drift away through his cigarette spirals.

Vance understood and winced. The use of the business vocabulary was what he recoiled from. That there should be "deals," transactions, compromises in business was a matter of course to him. That was business, as he understood it; his father's life was a labyrinth of such underground arrangements. But Vance had never taken any interest in business, or heard applied to it the standards of loyalty which are supposed to regulate men's private lives, and which he had always thought of as prevailing in the republic of letters. To him an artist's work was essentially a part of the private life, something closer than the marrow to the bone. Any thing that touched the sanctity, the incorruptibility, of the creative art was too contemptible to be seriously considered. As well go back to doing write-ups for the Free Speaker… . Vance looked at the clever youth behind the smoke wreaths, and thought: "Queer that a fellow who writes poetry can care for that sort of success … " for the poets seemed to him hardly lower than the angels.

He said curtly that he didn't care a darn for prizes, and Eric rejoined: "Not for two-thousand-dollar ones?"

Vance, a little dizzy, nevertheless echoed: "Not a darn—"

"Well, The Hour does, then. It's something you owe us if we take you on—see? A beginner … Everything's a question of give and take … fair play. Not that I mean … of course little O'Fallery may pull off the prize anyhow, with 'Limp Collars.' Shouldn't wonder if he did. His publisher's hustling round for him—I know that. And we don't guarantee anything … See?"