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THE EARTH BOOKS ROBERT F. YOUNG Robert Young, whose stories have appeared regularly both here and in our companion magazine, AMAZING SF, returns with a remarkable story about an author and his creation Illustrated by TONY GLEESON MY MUSE does the darnedest things. Her favorite trick, of course, is hiding on me. The other day when she came up missing I found her down at the corner bar, sipping a slow gin, and last night after searching through the whole house for her I found her sitting all alone on the back porch steps, gazing up at the stars. And it was only ten above, mind you! "What in the world are you doing, sitting out here on a night like this looking at the stars?" I asked her sternly (not too sternly, of course: Muses take offense easily, and when they do they go away and if they're real mad they never come back). She pointed heavenward at the constellation Auriga where bright Capella shone. "That's my birthplace," she said. "If you came from another planet, wouldn't you look up at it now and then, even if you couldn't see it?" "Not on a night like this. Not when it's ten above. I'd wait till spring, or, if I couldn't wait, I'd move down south. And if I couldn't wait and I couldn't move, I'd at least put my overcoat on." "Tsk. You writers are all alike. Chicken. On Capella XII we consider weather like this a heat wave. As a matter of fact, when the temperature gets all the way up to ten, we carry fans with us and fan ourselves." "Cardboard fans?" "Well we don't carry air conditioners, if that's what you mean." "In
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