Arthur T. Harris

“ Halmer stammered.
Now Evans' angry voice was loud and I could hear it, too. "No? Well, I just wanted to tell you that 'The Brave Die Hard' is just as good today as when it was first written forty years ago!"
I thought Halmer would have a stroke. "But how—why—what makes you suspect—" now his voice was a shriek—"it's not the same story! It couldn't be! I wrote that story from scratch!"
"Then you didn't scratch hard enough," the phone sneered. "We found the original by checking through bound volumes in the public library. When the word gets around, you'll be skunk bait in the publishing business. ”

“ I am now an established writer. My stories now get top rates. You always were too slow and stodgy, anyway. On a new machine I shall write better than ever!"
That's what you think, my fine-feathered friend, I thought, as my mood shifted violently from abject contrition to bitter anger. That's what you think!
Pascal Halmer had a plot to plagiarize that night. He ripped right along until three in the morning, producing five thousand neatly mortized words with my help for a men's magazine. He typed out "30" at the end of his stolen tale. But he couldn't think of a new title for the story. ”

“ With berserk strength he swept me up, stalked across the room again—and hurled me straight through the dormer window!
There was a sharded crackle as the glass shattered. There was a much louder crash when I hit the flagstones in the courtyard alley, collapsed into a mass of twisted junk.... ”