The Slickers by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

rain,” said Chick. “It’s exciting. Things are dark and mysterious. Where’d you find England?”
    â€œI didn’t find him.”
    â€œBut you must have,” said Chick, gloatingly surveying his hero. “Was he stabbed?”
    â€œHe fell in and hit his head on a piling. The fish ate his face.”
    â€œAw.”
    â€œWell if you can’t take it you’ve got no business hanging around the Bureau.”
    â€œYou’re being modest,” said Chick hopefully. “You found him and he was murdered and you know who did it.”
    â€œSherlock Holmes doesn’t happen to be even a faint relation of mine,” said Norton. He slogged through the horizontal sea in the air toward bed at the Sourdough Hotel.
    â€œSay!” said Chick, “did you see that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThose two men come out from behind that truck and turn the corner up there. They looked suspicious!”
    â€œIf they’re suspicious you’ve given them plenty of warning with that brass voice of yours.”
    â€œHonest they did.”
    â€œProbably were having a quiet drink where their pals wouldn’t ask for any.”
    Chick loped up beside Norton, splashing heavily through the puddles like an overgrown tank and thoroughly spattering his despondent boss. Suddenly Chick threw out his arm to stop Norton and almost knocked him flat backwards on the slippery boardwalk.
    â€œLook at that!” said Chick in what he hopefully supposed to be a whisper.
    A young woman had come out of the door of the Sourdough Hotel ahead of them. The lights from the windows were not sufficient to show her features but they were ample to bring into silhouette the two men who emerged from an alleyway. The silhouettes swooped down upon the young woman and grabbed her. Hurriedly they led her straight toward the dock. They evidently did not see Chick and Norton standing on the walk before them for all was blackness in that direction.
    â€œTake your hands off me!” protested a girl’s voice.
    â€œCome along,” said one of her captors.
    Norton was always faintly nervous when he was with Chick. He could never be sure what Chick would do. Chick would follow orders after a fashion—with a few “improvements” of his own—but when Chick had no specific orders, anything might happen.
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L. Ron Hubbard in the
Golden Age of
Pulp Fiction

 
    I n writing an adventure story
a writer has to know that he is adventuring
for a lot of people who cannot.
The writer has to take them here and there
about the globe and show them
excitement and love and realism.
As long as that writer is living the part of an
adventurer when he is hammering
the keys, he is succeeding with his story.
    Adventuring is a state of mind.
If you adventure through life, you have a
good chance to be a success on paper.
    Adventure doesn’t mean globe-trotting,
exactly, and it doesn’t mean great