I barged into Stan�s office, pushing off Ian and Scott as they tried to hold me back. As I slammed the door behind me, I heard muffled shouts of �Stan, watch out!� coming from the two of them.

Stan looked up. He was sitting at his desk, a pile of slush perched precariously on top, all the way up to his chin. He blinked, rubbed his head, tugged at his beard, and smiled. His eyes twinkled.

�Michael!� Stan got up, allowing the manuscripts to fall over and onto the floor; it turned out that his chin had been holding them in place. He walked over to me and shook my hand warmly. �It�s a pleasure to see you. Glad you finally made that first sale, eh? Wish I could�ve been there when you heard the news. I�ve always wanted to see the joy in my writers� faces when they find out.�

I stared at him for a second, goggle-eyed. Of course, he didn�t realize yet that the jig was up. �Knock it off, Stan!� I exclaimed. �I know as well as you do that you practically were there.�

Stan pulled back from me, a nervous look on his face. His brow began to sweat. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead furiously. �What do you mean?� he whispered.

�I know all about the camera. I want to see my picture.�

Stan put away the handkerchief and retreated behind his desk. �What camera?� he asked.

Now I smiled. �The camera that Sydney told me about. You remember, you ran into her at a convention. A fellow Clarionite. She told me about the magic camera you use to photograph new writers when they make their first sale to you. I want to see my picture.�

�Shhh!� Stan looked around, nervously. �Don�t use that word!�

�What word? Picture?�

�No!� He looked around again, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, �Magic. As the editor of Analog, the bastion of hard science fiction, I could lose my credibility if it was found that I was using magic to serve my ends, and not good old hard-science-with-rivets. And if I lost my credibility, so,� he intoned solemnly, �would the magazine.�

I shuddered; if that happened, I knew that my career as a hard science fiction writer would be over as quickly as it began. All the other writers would point at me and say, �Ha ha! You don�t really write hard SF! Not even soft SF! Your editor uses magic!� I would be forced to turn to fantasy for a living, and as I noted once when a story of mine was trashed in a workshop, for me fantasy is a lot harder to write than science fiction. The only way I�d survive would be by writing ten-volume trilogies about cute elves, since that was all I could handle in the genre. Surely a fate worse than death, or even chairing a Worldcon.

�Your point is well taken,� I replied quietly. �I will not spread the word about the camera, not even until the stars grow old and our Sun grows cold. However,� I continued, �I still want to see my picture.�

Stan nodded and pushed a button on his desk. A dark hole with fuzzy boundaries opened up in mid-air, obviously a product of advanced science or�well, let�s just invoke Clarke�s Third Law and leave it at that. Stan reached in and pulled out an old style accordion camera, along with a thick manila envelope.

�It works by pushing this button,� he said, �and then a photograph magically�I mean, scientifically�appears out of this slot. Similar to a Polaroid. The camera reaches through time and space and finds the correct rays of light to imprint onto the photograph. But it only works if I click the button after the writer has found out. One can�t predict the future, you know, that would be a violation of��

I took the envelope from Stan as he began to spout equations of general relativity and quantum field theory. There was a whole slew of pictures, in chronological order. I recognized some of the other authors, excited looks on their faces, appearing younger than I remembered. That made sense, naturally, because they were younger when they made their first sales. Out of curiosity, I pulled out Ian�s picture; his maniacal grin was unmistakable.

Finally, I reached my picture. There I was, jumping into the air, with the telephone in my hand and a big smile on my face. The perfect souvenir of my first sale; after all, I couldn�t have the check and cash it, too.

�I want the photograph,� I said. Stan stopped his lecture and pulled the picture out of my hands. Frowning, he said, �I can�t give it to you, Michael. I keep them for myself. It reminds me of why I went into editing in the first place.�

�Just this one, Stan? You won�t miss it, and it means a lot to me.� It did, too; my fianc�e wasn�t around when I heard the news, and this would be the best way to share the moment with her.

�Well�� Stan said, �you�ll have to give me something in return.�

�I don�t have much money. I�m only a writer.�

Stan laughed. �Oh, I wasn�t thinking of money! Actually, all I�d want in return is another story from you. We�ve got a hole in the magazine for next month, and I need to fill it with something. The picture could be your payment.�

My ears perked up. In exchange for the picture, Stan was going to publish another story of mine? �Sure! What kind of story would you like?�

�Could you give me a �Probability Zero�? It�s only a small hole, and anyway, you can make one of those short enough to be the right price.�

I was confused. �What do you mean? The right price? What do you consider to be the right price for the photograph?�

�Oh,� he said, with his ubiquitous smile and twinkle in his eyes, �I figure the picture is worth� about a thousand words.�

I hit him with a Hugo rocket on my way out. It felt good.