The author leaned back in his chair, staring proudly down at the manuscript in his typewriter. The drafty room caused his fingers to feel stiff and sore with arthritis, and he did his best to warm them before walking to the furnace and adding a few scoops of coal.
“Would be a shame if I died of consumption before getting this one published.” The author felt himself growing warm, partially from the fire, but mostly from the sense of satisfaction he felt. Indeed, his latest novel was a masterpiece, and would undoubtedly be his magnum opus.
Just as he added the last bit of coal and closed the grate, he heard a knock on his door. He looked at it with curious suspicion, then up at the clock. It was past midnight, and the weather outside was atrocious. He grabbed the fire poker and slowly made his way to the door, then quickly opened it and took a step back.
A well-dressed man stood on his stoop, looking unusually comfortable despite the wind and snow.
“Mr. Felthar? May I come in?”
The author eyed the man up and down, sizing up his threat potential. Given the man’s shorter stature and noticeable girth, the author decided that he could overcome the man should the need arise.
He stepped aside and allowed the man to enter.
The portly man walked inside and shook the snow off his hat. He looked over at the desk and smiled. “Is that The Iron-Sided Ghost?” The man asked.
Upon hearing these words the author suddenly grew very defensive. “Who are you? How do you know about that?” The author glanced at his typewriter. “I haven’t told anyone about my masterpiece.”
“No, but you will.”
The author looked confused.
“You’re going to send your manuscript out later this week, and after some back-and-forth edits, it’ll be published. Over the course of your life you’ll sell 600,000 copies and make over 200,000 pounds.”
“200,000.” The author boggled at this number.
The strange man smiled. It was always a good sign when the creator focused on the profits, and not the quantity sold.
“Right? It’s a pretty large sum, but what if I told you I could pay you a million pounds? Right here, right now.”
“I’d say you’re crazy. No one has that much money.”
The strange man opened the briefcase he’d been carrying, and instantly proved the author wrong.
The author’s eyes zipped back and forth between the strange man and the suitcase. “W-What do you want?” He asked in a deep, serious tone.
“Very little. I want you to publish your novel as planned. I want you to make all the money off it you’re going to make. I want you to live a comfortable life. However, upon your death, I want you to sign over the rights to your book to the Green Fountain Corporation.”
The strange man withdrew a contract. The author read the first few lines, then stopped. “Do you think I’m dumb? I’m a writer. I know how this works. I’ve read mystery stories. I’ll sign over the rights to you, then you’ll murder me.”
The strange man laughed. “Far from it, my dear fellow. In fact, it’s in my company’s best interest for you to live a long, fruitful life propagating your story and selling it to any who’ll read it. You see, I’m a time traveler, and in the future creative works grow a bit scarce. Competition is enormous, and every piece of culture is quickly scooped up to the highest bidder. In the future the Green Fountain Corporation will own the rights to your book anyway, but it’ll be very expensive. Our accountants ran the numbers, and we determined that in the long run, it’s cheaper to invent time travel and scoop up intellectual properties before that competition exists. Of course, none of that matters to you, and indeed, everything that happens after your death only benefits third parties.” The strange man nudged the suitcase and lightly tapped the contract. “This, however, benefits you directly.”
The author eyed the contract, took the pen, then signed.
The strange man smiled, took the contract, and slid the money-filled suitcase forward.
“A pleasure.” The strange man said, nodding. “Oh, but before you send your manuscript to the publisher, our company wants to make some small changes. Nothing major, but in the future we have different sensibilities and think it would be less offensive if you addressed these points.” The strange man reached into the depths of his jacket and pulled out a list of suggested alterations. “Nothing extraordinary, you understand, but if you make these changes we’d be willing to double the initial payment to two-million pounds.”
The author eyed the list, eyed his manuscript, then looked to the suitcase.
“Two-million pounds.” He gasped.