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One More Body in the Pool
Ray Bradbury
    I walked across the beach and stood in the hot sun for a long moment, staring down at the man lying there with his head covered by a newspaper.
    I took a deep breath, held it, and at last said. “Scottie?”
    There was no motion beneath the paper.
    I took another breath and said, “Mr. Fitzgerald?”
    At last the paper drifted aside and the young old man underneath it opened his eyes.
    His face was familiar and young and terribly haunted. The cheeks were smooth and the chin was very fine. The eyes, which were clear blue, seemed to have trouble focusing on me.
    “Well?” he said at last.
    I replied, “God, I hate to bother you, but I’m a sort of literary agent and, well, forgive me, but I have an idea that I want to offer you.”
    I stopped, blushing at what I’d said, as the newspaper drifted back over the old young face.
    I took another breath and blurted, “Scottie.”
    There was only silence.
    “I apologize,” I said. “But Mr. Fitzgerald, please.”
    The paper drifted aside again and he stared up at me, waiting patiently.
    “This is ridiculous, I know,” I said. “Let me find a way to put it. Do you believe that you can travel back in time just by thinking about doing it? I know we all can do this in our minds, but if you keep thinking about traveling to a specific point in time and then start walking, and keep on walking, oh, a number of days, a number of weeks, maybe you’ll really wind up there.”
    “For God’s sake,” said the voice under the newspaper.
    The man shoved the newspaper aside, propped himself up on one elbow, and watched me as if I were the bearer of bad news.
    “You don’t look half as loony as you sound,” he said, “Continue. Just what is it that you want in the middle of a fine afternoon on a beach in southern Florida?”
    I could feel my fingers twitching at my side and I had to stop myself from blinking.
    “Well, I’ve been reading the reviews of your latest book, which upset me terribly, I’ve read all the reviews of your whole life, for that matter, well, for at least the last ten or fifteen years, and, well, I feel you need a literary friend. Don’t get me wrong. I mean no insult. I feel that at a time like this—” I stopped, for I was out of breath.
    Fitzgerald looked like he was going to lie back down, which panicked me, but then he must have read something in my face, for he sat up again and examined me.
    “You’re a very nervy fellow, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “I can’t help it. When I like someone’s work I feel I should support him. Like is the wrong word. Love is more like it.
Tender is the Night
is the finest novel written in the last forty years.”
    “You’ve just said the right thing.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald sat up even further and a smile touched his lips. “Sit down,” he said.
    I sat down on the warm sand, looked at him quietly, and waited for him to go on.
    “Now, just what is it that you want to suggest and why in hell would you want to suggest it?”
    “Well,” I said, “I have just come from a series of literary travels. First I visited Ernest Hemingway and then I went south and met up with William Faulkner. I won’t fill you in on the particulars, as you would probably find them hard to believe, but I will tell you that along the way I came up with ideas for those two and you, because I feel that the three of you have the potential for writing the most popular kind of fiction in the world today.”
    “And what kind of fiction is that?” said F. Scott Fitzgerald.
    “Mysteries,” I said and stopped, confused. “But no, not anything like Agatha Christie. No, no, that wouldn’t do. The murder mystery. I know that sounds strange, but it’s become an accepted form among modern writers, and I believe you would bring something special to the field. It’s really come into its own just this last half century, but think further back in time. Consider
Hamlet
, for instance. It’s