he doesn't finish this thing in a few days, I'll have to
go look for work again."

"Oh. That isn't so good. How am I going to take care of the house and
do Leo's writing for him?"

"I know, but--"

"All right. If it works out, fine. If it doesn't--he must be near the
end by now." She stubbed out her cigarette abruptly and sat up, hands
over the keyboard. "He's getting ready again. See about that coffee,
will you? I'm half dead."

Len poured two cups and carried them in. Moira was still sitting
poised in front of the typewriter, with a curious half-formed
expression on her face.

Abruptly the carriage whipped over, muttered to itself briefly and
thumped the paper up twice. Then it stopped. Moira's eyes got bigger
and rounder.

"What's the matter?" said Len. He looked over her shoulder.

The last line on the page read:

TO BE CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT

Moira's hands curled into small helpless fists. After a moment, she
turned off the machine.

"What?" said Len incredulously. "To be continued--what kind of talk is
that?"

"He says he's bored with the novel," Moira replied dully. "He says he
knows the ending, so it's artistically complete; it doesn't matter
whether anybody else thinks so or not." She paused. "But he says that
isn't the real reason."

"Well?"

"He's got two reasons. One is that he doesn't want to finish the book
till he's certain he'll have complete control of the money it earns."

"Yes," said Len, swallowing a lump of anger, "that makes a certain
amount of sense. It's his book. If he wants guarantees...."

"You haven't heard the other one."

"All right, let's have it."

"He wants to teach us--so we'll never forget--who the boss is in this
family."

* * * * *

"Len, I'm awfully tired," Moira complained piteously, late that night.

"Let's just go over it once more. There has to be some way. He still
isn't talking to you?"

"I haven't felt anything from him for the last twenty minutes. I think
he's asleep."

"All right, let's suppose he _isn't_ going to listen to reason--"

"I think we'd better."

Len made an incoherent noise. "Well, okay. I still don't see why we
can't write the last chapter ourselves. It'd only be a few pages."

"Go ahead and try."

"Not me. You've done a little writing. Damned good, too. And if you're
so sure all the clues are there--Look, if you say you can't do it, all
right, we'll hire somebody. A professional writer. It ha