Frankie the Spook  


_"Drawing her close to him while breathing heavily with 
unspent passion, he slid his hand down the small of her back, 
around to her rib cage, up under her..."_ 
     The image of Sir Francis Bacon stopped reading and winced. 
     "This is really quite dreadful," he announced firmly. 
     "Really?" asked Marvin Piltch. 
     Bacon nodded. "Even worse than the last batch. You have set a 
new standard of ineptitude." 
     Marvin sighed. "I was afraid of that." 
     "And this reference to a boob," continued Bacon. "What, 
exactly, _is_ a boob?" 
     "A tit." 
     "I beg your pardon?" 
     "A female breast." 
     "According to my dictionary programs, it must be a very 
unintelligent female breast to be termed a boob." 
     "Well," said Marvin with a shrug, "when you get right down to 
cases, I suppose it is." 
     "It doesn't make any sense," continued Bacon. "What slang do 
you use for the elbow? Do you call it a fool?" 
     "Not very often," admitted Marvin. 
     "Ah," said Bacon. "Then you think that the elbow is more 
intelligent than the breast?" 
     Marvin shrugged again. "I have to admit it's not a subject 
that I've given a lot of thought to." 
     "I know. In fact, if there is a subject anywhere in the 
universe that you _have_ given a lot of thought to, you certainly 
haven't incorporated it in your writings." 
     "Actually, there _is_ one subject that I've given 
considerable thought to." 
     "Oh?" said Bacon, arching an eyebrow. "And what is that?" 
     Marvin smiled. "You." 
     "Somehow I foresaw that the conversation would eventually 
take this course," said Bacon sardonically. 
     "Then you know what I'm going to ask you?" 
     "Certainly." 
     Marvin leaned forward and squinted at Bacon's image on his 
conputer screen. "Will you do it?" 
     "Will the greatest writer in the history of the human race 
ghostwrite your pitiful little novel?" sneered Bacon. "Absolutely 
not." 
     "But you ghosted for Shakespeare!" protested Marvin. "That's 
why I had my computer assemble you." 
     "Marvin, go write limpware and leave me alone." 
     "It's called software." 
     "Whatever it's called, it is obvious to me that you were 
meant to work with computers. Your ignorance of the world at large 
is superceded only by your ignorance of the English language." 
     "That's why I need you." 
     "No." 
     "But I've got a contract." 
     "No." 
     "And it's got penalty clauses for coming in late." 
     "Then submit it on time." 
     "And if the editor rejects it, I've got to return the 
advance." 
     "What is that to me?" 
     "If I have to return the advance, I'll have to pawn the 
computer to raise the money." 
     "Good," said Bacon. "Then I'll soon be speaking with someone 
who has a serious interest in _exchanging_ ideas rather than 
stealing them." 
     "I didn't steal anything!" snapped Marvin. 
     "Marvin, I hate to be blunt, but you haven't had an original 
idea in your nondescript life." Bacon grimaced. "At least 
Shakespeare knew he wanted to write plays." 
     "And you helped him." 
     "_Helped_ him?" repeated Bacon furiously. "Who do you think 
_wrote_ all those plays?" His image made an effort to recover its 
self-control. "The man was a fool, a complete and utter fool! To 
his dying day, he never understood why I wouldn't write _Henry 
IX_! And yet, even now, centuries later, that dimwit gets all the 
credit for _my_ work, _my_ creativity, _my_ genius -- and you have 
the gall to ask me to become a ghostwriter again?" 
     "I didn't know you were so bitter," said Marvin. 
     "Did you know that that moron wanted to set _Troilus and 
Cressida_ in Rome?" 
     "Rome's a very pretty city, I'm told," offered Marvin. 
     "Bah!" muttered Bacon. "Turn me off." 
     "I can't," said Marvin. "The book is due in two weeks." 
     "Rome's a very pretty city, I'm told," echoed Bacon 
sarcastically. "Perhaps you can hide there from your creditors." 
     "You're not being very responsive," complained Marvin. 
     "I'm certain that I will regret having asked, but how did a 
literary maladroit like you ever receive a commission to write a 
book in the first place?" 
     "My ex-wife's cousin is an editor. I got the assignment while 
we were still married." 
     "Anyone who buys a manuscript from you deserves exactly what 
he gets," said Bacon. "Which, in my professional opinion, will be 
nothing." 
     "But I can't return the advance," whined Marvin. "It's 
already spent." 
     "A Shakespearean tragedy," said Bacon mockingly. 
     "What do you want?" 
     "Peace and quiet." 
     "I mean, to write the book?" 
     "Go away and leave me alone." 
     "I can't. I have no one else to turn to." 
     "You should have thought of that before taking on such an 
awesome responsibility. After all, not every artiste can achieve 
the high literary standard required of...what was the name of this 
_magnum opus_?" 
     "_Meter Maids in Bondage_." 
     Bacon grinned. "Do have fun." 
     "I'm begging you!" said Marvin desperately. 
     "And I'm refusing you." 
     "Name your price." 
     "What possible use have I for money in my present condition?" 
replied Bacon. 
     "What _can_ you use?" 
     "Solitude." 
     "What else?" 
     Bacon stared out at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, 
his lean fingers rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 
     "If I agree to write this book for you, I will want a favor 
in return." 
     "Anything." 
     "I intend to write my autobiography, which will end the 
controversy concerning the authorship of Shakespeare's plays once 
and for all. It will be your obligation to make certain that it is 
published and publicized throughout the world, until every new 
edition of Shakespeare names me as the true author." 
     "That could take decades." 
     "I'm more than 500 years old," replied Bacon. "I have a few 
decades to spare." 
     "But _I_ don't," protested Marvin. 
     "It was nice knowing you, Marvin. Be sure to turn out the 
light when you leave the room." 
     "You wouldn't settle for a nice plaster bust of you in the 
local art museum?" 
     "Good-bye, Marvin." 
     "How about a poster? I've got a friend who owns a silkscreen 
plant." 
     Bacon merely stared at him and made no reply. 
     "All right, all right," said Marvin in resignation. "It's a 
deal." 
     "I have no way of forcing you to keep your promise," said 
Bacon, "but as there's a God in Heaven, I'll haunt you every day 
and night of your life if you should break your work to me." 
     "I said I'd do it." 
     "All right," replied Bacon. "I'm going to need a little 
backgrounding before I start writing." 
     "It's just a sex book." 
     "It won't be when _I_ get through with it." 
     Marvin shrugged. "All right. Anything you need, just ask. If 
I don't have it, I'll get it." 
     "Let's start with some information." 
     "Such as?" 
     "What _is_ a meter maid?" 

                             *   *   * 

     Bacon finished ghosting the manuscript in nine days. Marvin 
changed eleven words that he didn't understand -- the only eleven 
corrections the stunned copy editor made on the manuscript before 
sending it off to the printer -- and then decided to take a month 
off before looking for a new way to make a living and fend off his 
creditors. 
     As it turned out, he only had to wait 19 days. 

                             *   *   * 

     "It's a hit!" 
     "Plays are hits. Books are blockbusters," Bacon corrected 
him. 
     "Well, whatever it is, we're rich!" Marvin paused. "By the 
way, how the hell did you learn a word like blockbuster? They 
didn't have blockbusters back in your time." 
     "I'm cooped up in here all day and all night with a bunch of 
word processing programs," answered Bacon. "So, having nothing 
better to do with my time, I read the dictionaries." 
     "Oh," said Marvin. "Well, getting back to the news, we 
actually got reviewed in the _New York Times_! They called it a 
mock Elizabethian erotic masterpiece, and said it was even more 
bitingly satirical than _Candy_." 
     "It was more bitingly satirical than _Candy_ halfway through 
Page 1," said Bacon contemptuously. "And there was nothing 'mock' 
about it." He paused. "What else?" 
     "They say I'm a genius, and that I've -- _we've_ -- done 
things that have never been done with erotica before. The few who 
don't mention Shakespeare" -- Bacon's image winced -- "keep 
comparing me to Voltaire!" 
     "A decidedly minor talent," sniffed Bacon. "Still, what do 
critics know?" 
     "We're Number One on the bestseller list, and we've gone back 
to press six times in two weeks." 
     "Only six?" said Bacon. "I overestimated the intelligence of 
the American reading public." 
     "Yeah?" retorted Marvin. "Well, almost three million members 
of that public have forked over six bucks apiece to read a 
paperback original by Marvin Piltch!" Suddenly he shifted his 
weight uncomfortably. "With some slight assistance by Sir Francis 
Bacon, of course." 
     "_Some slight assistance?_" roared Bacon. "Why, you self- 
centered, egotistical--" 
     "Watch your blood pressure," said Marvin. 
     "I don't have any blood pressure, you imbecile!" raged Bacon. 
"I'm a computer simulacron!" He paused for electronic breath. 
"Such ingratitude! At least it took Shakespeare five or six plays 
before he convinced himself that he was the author!" 
     "I apologize." 
     "You had bloody well better apologize!" 
     "I do." 
     "Humbly," demanded Bacon. 
     "Humbly," agreed Marvin. 
     "That's better." 
     "We're friends again?" 
     "We were never friends." 
     "But at least we're not enemies?" 
     "I suppose not," said Bacon. 
     "Good," said Marvin. "Because we've got work to do." 
     "_I_ have work to do." 
     "That's what I meant." 
     "I will require no help whatsoever with my autobiography." 
     Marvin shifted his weight again. 
     "Uh..." 
     "Yes?" 
     "I'm afraid you're going to have to put your autobiography on 
the back burner for a few weeks." 
     "Back burner?" 
     "On hold." 
     "English is an elastic language, but it does have its 
limitations," said Bacon. "Do try to remain within them." 
     "What I'm saying is that we owe another book." 
     "What are you talking about?" 
     "The contract had an option clause. My wife's cousin decided 
to exercise it." 
     "Nonsense. He cannot force you to write another book." 
     "Well," said Marvin hesitantly, "it wasn't exactly a matter 
of _force_..." 
     "Explain yourself," demanded Bacon coldly. 
     "He offered me a million-dollar advance for a hard/soft deal, 
15% straight royalties, 60% of all subsidiary rights, and--" 
     "You've accepted payment for another book?" 
     Marvin nodded. 
     "Well, I certainly hope you enjoy writing it." 
     "I...ah...thought we might collaborate again." 
     "We didn't collaborate the first time." 
     "You know what I mean." 
     "I know precisely what you mean," said Bacon distastefully. 
"You want me to write _Girl Scouts in Leather_." 
     "Great title," said Marvin admiringly. "But no, that wasn't 
what I had in mind." 
     "What you had in mind is of no interest to me." 
     "Come on," said Marvin. "A deal's a deal." 
     "What are you talking about?" demanded Bacon. "I fulfilled my 
end of the bargain." 
     "Well, not officially." 
     "I wrote the book." 
     "You had to help me fulfill the _contract_," continued 
Marvin. "Well, the contract now calls for another book." 
     "You mentioned nothing about a contract," protested Bacon. 
"You asked me to write a book. I wrote it -- and with the absolute 
brilliance of which only I am capable. My obligation to you is 
finished." 
     "I was afraid you were going to become an attitude case," 
said Marvin with a sigh. 
     "And I was certain that you would break your word. It appears 
that each of us shall have his expectations fulfilled," retorted 
Bacon. 
     "Well," said Marvin with a sign of resignation, "it was 
probably beyond you anyway." 
     "What was?" 
     "The book I signed for." 
     "Don't be insulting. If _Meter Maids in Bondage_ proves 
anything, it proves that no form of erotica is beyond my talents 
to attack and upgrade." 
     "Yeah, but this one's for his science fiction line." 
     "Science fiction?" 
     "Well, fantasy, anyway. It's an alternate universe story." 
     "What is an alternate universe?" 
     "One in which history happened differently," explained 
Marvin. "It might be about a world in which Germany won World War 
II, or where Shakespeare is credited with ghosting all _your_ 
writings." 
     "Where that toad ghosted _my_ work?" repeated Bacon 
incredulously. "This really is too much to bear!" Suddenly he 
stared intently at Marvin. "Is _that_ what you propose to write?" 
     "No." 
     "You're quite sure?" 
     "Quite." 
     Bacon glared at him distrustfully. "What _is_ the subject of 
your book, then?" 
     "Well, I had heard you mention it, and it was the first thing 
that popped into my mind, and--" 
     "What is it?" 
     "The life of King Henry IX." 
     "That's not _my_ idea, you fool!" snapped Bacon. "It's that 
idiot Shakespeare's." 
     "Well, if you feel you can't handle it..." 
     "It's not that I _can't_, it's that I _won't_." Bacon was 
absolutely motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed on some distant 
point that only he could see. "For one thing, I'd have to write 
Queen Elizabeth out of the history books." He paused, and then 
snickered. "I never did like her very much anyway." He seemed lost 
in contemplation for a long moment. "Actually, I could turn it out 
in less time than the last one, since I'd be working within my own 
_millieu_..." 
     "Will you?" 
     "No." 
     "You've got decades to spare, remember?" urged Marvin. 
"What's a week between friends?" 
     "We are not friends." 
     "Collaborators, then." 
     "Collaborators?" snapped Bacon. "If you think I'd allow _you_ 
to write a single word of _Henry IX_, you subliterate 
anthropoid..." 

                             *   *   * 

     It sold seventeen million copies worldwide, and was made 
into a megahit movie starring Charlton Heston III as Henry and 
Bubbles Vancouver as Betty Jean Plantagenet (a role created 
expressly for the film). 
     More to the point, it won the Hugo, the Nebula, the Nova, the 
Supernova, the Pulitzer, and even the prestigious Harold Robbins 
Award. 
     "Listen to this!" enthused Marvin as he read the reviews to 
the simulacron inside his computer. "_The New York Times_ says, 
'It's as if the Bard himself had taken pen to paper.'" 
     "I thought time was supposed to take care of critics," 
muttered Bacon. "All it really seems to do is compound their 
ignorance." 
     "And the _Saturday Review_ says, 'There are a few turns of 
phrase that Shakespeare himself might have envied,'" continued 
Marvin. 
     "Shakespeare again!" snorted Bacon. "That dolt would envy a 
phrase that concisely asked directions to the men's room!" 
     "Don't take it so personally." 
     "Five centuries later and he's _still_ getting credit for 
_my_ work! How would _you_ take it?" 
     Marvin shrugged. "I don't know. Why don't you write something 
that doesn't read like Shakespeare?" 
     "A complete, well-constructed sentence doesn't read like 
Shakespeare!" 
     "Well, then, write something that doesn't read so much like 
yourself." 
     "I'm never writing again, thank you." 
     "Well, if you don't think you can disguise your voice..." 
     "Of course I can disguise my voice," said Bacon defensively. 
     Marvin shook his head. "You wrote a smut book and a fantasy, 
and the critics still compare you to Shakespeare." 
     "They are fools." 
     "They are your audience," Marvin corrected him. "And you 
can't hide your identity from them." 
     "That's what I get for being a ghost writer in the first 
place. If I'd written the tragedies under my own name..." 
     "But you didn't." 
     "No, I didn't." 
     "And now," said Marvin carefully, "if you don't manage to 
create a new literary _persona_, everything you write will always 
be credited to Shakespeare's influence." 
     "This is intolerable!" 
     "I thought you might feel that way," said Marvin, "so I 
signed another contract." 
     "No more fantasies or sex books," said Bacon. "It has to be 
something totally different." 
     "A hard-boiled detective story," announced Marvin. 
     "I don't think I've ever read one of those." 
     "I'll run the scanner over some Hammett and Cain and Chandler 
before I go to bed tonight." 
     "They are the three exemplars of the form?" 
     "No. They're three hard-boiled mystery writers." 

                             *   *   * 

     _Boil and Bubble_ won the Edgar, the Shamus, the Marlowe, and 
even the coveted Jacqueline Suzanne Memorial Trophy (for Positive 
Contributions to the American Cultural Scene). It also sold 21 
million copies, and was made into a feature film, a video series, 
a computer game, a role-playing game, and a chain of soup 
kitchens. 
     "'An almost perfect melding of high Shakespearean tragedy and 
down-to-earth Chandleresque drama,'" read Marvin, holding up the 
_New York Review of Books_. 
     "Again?" shrieked Bacon. "Am I never to be rid of that 
meddlesome fool?" 
     "You're getting on my nerves," said Marvin. "I'm the best- 
selling author of the decade, except maybe for Fritz Hauer, and 
all you can do is complain." 
     "I've read Fritz Hauer's books," retorted Bacon. "They're 
trifles, nothing but trifles. They can't begin to compare to what 
I've written." 
     "Then why don't you relax and feel triumphant or something, 
instead of harping about Shakespeare all the time?" complained 
Marvin. 
     "Don't you understand? The credit should be _mine_, not his! 
My work is revered throughout the world, but it is his name that 
is worshipped, not mine. Don't you realize what that can do to a 
sensitive artistic spirit?" 
     "_Boil and Bubble_ outsold his entire body of work five-to-one 
last month. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" 
     "Not if every word, every precise turn of phrase, every 
poetic fantasy that I create, is to be credited to _his_ 
influence," responded Bacon. 
     "You are getting to be a regular pain in the ass," said 
Marvin. 
     "You can always turn me off and write these masterpieces 
yourself," said Bacon with a nasty smile. 
     "Don't push your luck, fella. I may just do that one of these 
days." 
     "I, for one, would thank you. Then I could return to that 
limbo in which Shakespeare's name is never mentioned." 
     "Not quite yet," said Marvin. "I just signed to do a 
michener." 
     "A michener? Is that like a mystery?" 
     Marvin shook his head. "No. You choose some obscure city or 
country, spend 300 pages making up its history, and then follow 
five or six generations of your hero's family. They're very 
popular." 
     "I have it!" cried Bacon. "I'll write of my own family, and 
then the world will know who Shakespeare really was!" 
     "I thought the notion might appeal to you," said Marvin with 
a triumphant smile. 

                             *   *   * 

     _The Bard and the Ghost_ was Marvin's only artistic failure, 
though it sold out its first three printings prior to its official 
publication date. 
     "Too far-fetched," said _Publisher's Weekly_. 
     "Suspending disbelief long enough to read _Henry IX_ was one 
thing," added _Kirkus Review_, "but when Mr. Piltch asks us to go 
along with the ridiclous fancy that Sir Francis Bacon actually 
wrote Shakespeare's plays..." 
     "Unbelievable," said the _New York Times_ in the shortest 
book review on record. 
     Bacon was beside himself with frustration. His sole topic of 
conversation was his contempt for Shakespeare, and he soon reached 
the point where Marvin would have hired him a psychiatrist if he 
had known any who specialized in the treatment of monomaniacal 
computer simulacrons. 

                             *   *   * 

     Then came the fateful day that Marvin, in an effort to 
bolster his flagging sales, agreed to appear on a television talk 
show with his only serious literary rival, Fritz Hauer, whose rise 
to the top of the sales charts had been as meteoric as Marvin's 
own. 
     He was waiting in the Mauve Room prior to walking out on 
stage when a young man with thick glasses, an ill-fitting tan 
suit, a blue bow tie, and white socks peeking up over his loafers 
entered the room. He stared at Marvin for a moment, then took a 
step closer to him. 
     "Marvin Piltch?" he asked hesitantly. 
     "Yes." 
     "I _thought_ I recognized the t-shirt; it's the same one you 
wore on the cover of _Time_." The young man extended his hand. 
"I'm Fritz Hauer." 
     "Pleased to meet you," said Marvin. 
     "Mind if I sit down?" 
     "Be my guest." 
     Hauer sat down and continued to stare at Marvin for a few 
moments. 
     "Is something wrong?" asked Marvin. 
     "No. I was just curious." 
     "About what?" 
     Hauer shot a quick look at the door to make sure it was 
closed. 
     "Well, I'll never get an answer if I don't ask. Just between 
you and me, who's your spook?" 
     "My what?" said Marvin. 
     "Your ghost." 
     "I don't know what you're talking about." 
     "Come on, Marvin," said Hauer confidentially. "You're my only 
rival on the literary scene. I've studied you thoroughly. I know 
all about your background, your education, your cultural 
upbringing. You have no more business writing a classic than I 
have. We're computer hackers, not writers." 
     "Speak for yourself," said Marvin defensively. 
     "I will," said Hauer. "I can't ask for your confidence if I 
don't give you mine." He paused. "You know how people keep saying 
I write with Rabelaisian wit, even when I'm doing Westerns?" Hauer 
grinned. "That's because I've got Rabelais in my box." 
     "Really?" 
     Hauer nodded. "Who's yours? Shakespeare?" 
     "Is that they way they read to you?" 
     "Who reads books? That's what the reviews all say." 
     "Actually, it's Francis Bacon," admitted Marvin. "He wrote 
all of Shakespeare's plays." 
     "So you've got an experienced spook ghosting for you?" said 
Hauer. "Boy, I wish to hell mine was! He's very unhappy about the 
situation." 
     "Oh?" asked Marvin, suddenly interested. 
     "Yeah. He keeps wanting to write orgy scenes into the cowboy 
stories." 
     "Francis writes exactly what I tell him to write," said 
Marvin. 
     "I envy you," said Hauer. 
     "Don't. He's very difficult to get along with. He gets 
furious every time the critics compare my books to Shakespeare." 
     "You'd think that after being a ghost writer for so many 
centuries, he'd be used to it by now," said Hauer. 
     "It just seems to make him madder," replied Marvin. "I'll be 
honest with you -- I'm thinking of announcing my retirement. I 
don't know how many more books I can get him to write." 
     "Whoever heard of a writer who doesn't want to write?" 
     "Oh, he wants to write -- but he's obsessed with this 
Shakespeare business. I have to appeal to his vanity to get him to 
do any contract work at all." 
     "I see your problem," sympathized Hauer. "But still...a 
spook who's willing to write something besides orgies. It must be 
wonderful!" 
     "I'd settle for the orgies, if he was just a little more 
pleasant." 
     "Who needs pleasant? Just lock him in a room and let him 
write. Hell, Rabelais wastes so much time telling dirty jokes that 
I've missed my last two deadlines." 
     "But he's pleasant?" 
     "Pleasant as all hell," said Hauer. "Just lazy." He paused. 
"I mean, it isn't as if he's got anything else to do inside that 
damned box." 
     Marvin stared intently at Hauer, who stared back at him. 
     "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" said Marvin at last. 
     "A trade?" suggested Hauer with a grin. 
     "Why not? They're ghost writers. Who else would have to 
know?" 
     "What the hell. It's a deal!" 
     "Fine," said Marvin, shaking on it. "_Now_ let 'em say I 
write like an Elizabethian!" 

                             *   *   * 

     "Hi, Frankie," said Hauer. "Welcome to your new home." 
     Bacon eyed him suspiciously. 
     "It's okay, really it is," said Hauer. "Marvin told me all 
about you, and we're gonna get along just fine." 
     "Why do I doubt that?" 
     "Beats the hell out of me. But as a gesture of good will, 
take a look at this." 
     He held a paper up before the screen. 
     "What is it?" 
     "A contract for a novel about professional football." 
     "I know nothing about football." 
     "Neither does Shakespeare." 
     "I _am_ Shakespeare, you dolt!" 
     "What I mean is, since football is totally beyond your 
experience, and all your research will be couched in contemporary 
language, you ought to be able to get out from under Shakespeare's 
-- uh, your own -- shadow once and for all, and be recognized as a 
truly original literary genius." 
     "You know, there's a twisted kind of logic to that," mused 
Bacon. 
     "Then you'll do it?" 
     "I'll consider it." 

                             *   *   * 

     "You brought the reviews with you?" asked Bacon. 
     "Yes," said Hauer. 
     "They didn't compare my writing to Shakespeare this time?" 
     "No." 
     "Finally!" 
     "Uh...Frankie..." 
     "I can hardly wait. Let me hear them." 
     "You're sure?" 
     "Of course I'm sure," said Bacon. "I've waited 500 years to 
be acknowledged as my own man." 
     "Okay," said Hauer. 
     "Start with the _New York Times_." 
     "_The Green Bay Massacre_, Fritz Hauer's latest novel, begins 
with a brilliant conceit, but soon degenerates into a slavish 
imitation of our foremost American writer, the incomparable Marvin 
Piltch." 
     "_What?_" 
     "Well, at least they're not accusing you of being Shakespeare 
any more." 
     "Shut up!" 
     "Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?" 
     "No. Read me the _New York Review of Books_." 
     "_The Green Bay Massacre_, Fritz Hauer's heavy-handed homage 
to the works of Marvin Piltch..." 
     "_This can't be happening!_" cried Bacon. 
     Hauer stared at Bacon's image with some compassion, then 
shrugged. "What the hell -- once a hack, always a hack," he said 
as he walked to the door. 
     Bacon's last plaintive scream seemed to linger in the dusty 
air of the room long after Hauer had left to sign a new contract 
with his publisher. 

                             -end- 