PLUME: How do you do. May I help you? (They shake hands. Plume is seen intermittently rubbing his, until feeling gradually returns.)

MUSCLEBOUND: Greetings, pal. Saaa-ay, Man! You never been to a gym? You oughta do great in one of them Self-Improvement Contests.

P: (Flattered.) No-I've always wanted to work out, but never had the time. I might start one of these days, though.

M: Maybe you wonder why I came around. Well, I figured there's a couple of things I could tell you how to fix up your mag better.

P: (Glances sadly at enormous stack of correspondence marked "Rush" and sighs inaudibly.) Sure, go ahead.

M: First off-you ONCE guys got guts, all right. But I ask myself-Have ya got any sense? For instance, how long you been in this--this hole in a wall? P: You'd think this is pretty good if you had been publishing out of the upper right drawer in a filing cabinet until a couple of months ago.

M: I say it's no office if it isn't big enough for a workout. (He notices a curtain rod in the doorway.) Look-hardly room to chin yourself. (He leaps upward, gripping the rod with both hands. There is a rending sound as he lands back on the floor, still clutching the now-bent rod. Bits of plaster and lath clatter to the floor. Musclebound looks at Plume accusingly.) You shoulda had it in better.

P: (Watching, transfixed.) Don't apologize. It was just a little something our Woman's Editor was going to hang some drapes on.

M: (Dusting the plaster off his pants, and looking cheerful once more.) If you really want to see a classy joint, come on over for a look at the MIGHTY MUSCLE place. Some layout! Covers a whole block-magazine in the middle, John Barbell's gym at one end, and Pierre's Photo Studio at the other.

P: We couldn't use that much-

M: (Flexing biceps absent-mindedly.) And you know how they built her up? Health! Exercise! Work hard, play hard, eat good, sleep good-that's what John Barbell says will make you go places. For instance, look what it's done for my pecs here in the last eight months-(He begins to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt.)

P: (Hastily.) No, no. Don't bother. I really do believe you. This isn't a gym,

you know.

M: Well-all right. (Disappointment is written over his face, but he rebuttons shirt.) But like I was saying, this health stuff pays off a lot better than the hardto-read business you put in your sheet. Take my advice and switch over to the weightlifting game-you know: yeast pills, suntan oil-the works. Maybe you even got people to put on your cover. Is there anybody else around that's a little more the-ah-model type?

P: (Thinks a moment. Brightening.) There's Alfred. He can lift the whole run of one issue in his right hand. Would he do?

M: I bet he would! (Enthusiastic.) Tell you what-you have this guy go over and get Pierre to take a picture of him lifting the next issue-you know, put him in a Roman helmet and he can wave a sword around with the other hand. You'd sell so many that he'd need to use both hands the month after! (Whacks desk with fist so that the piled papers leap and twist, dervish-like.)

P: Yes, but I think-

M: (Carried away.) Another thing—if you go for health you can put pictures, any kind of picture, right through the magazine. You're showing all these guys getting healthier and healthier, and that's good for national defense. Even the President says we need national defense.

P: I'm all in favor of national defense too, but-