DROOZLE

Jean Lanni could see that his girl friend, Judy Stokes, thought it was
the lamest excuse she had ever heard. If your ballpoint pen won't write
as you want it to, your life doesn't stop, she probably was thinking.
You just get yourself another pen--You don't call off a marriage....

Skeptically the girl with the long, golden red hair pointed at his
breast pocket. "This Droozle I must see. And who's that other member of
the partnership there beside him? An Eversharp pencil named Blackie?"

"No, that is the other end of Droozle. Permit me to introduce you."
Blandly the tall, young artist slid Droozle from his breast pocket,
straightened him from his U-shape and handed his twelve-inch pen to her.

"A snake!" she shrieked.

"What else?"

"Why, I thought those ruby eyes were jewels! I must have squeezed right
up against him when I kissed you," she cried indignantly.

"You did. I felt him squirm a little."

"Oh! And here I thought it was your heart beating wildly."

"Well, maybe it was. It does that sometimes."

"Let's try again. And this time hold your snake behind you." The
long-legged girl stood on tiptoe to reach him.

"It _was_ your heart beating wildly," she decided a moment later. "Which
makes me think you might not just be trying to get rid of me by a silly
excuse."

"Believe me, I'm not," he urged. "Droozle is the key to all my
fortunes."

"All right, tell me about it. But first tell me where in the universe
you got him."

"Oh, that was just after I graduated from art school. I was on my grand
tour. We had an unexpected stopover at the Coffin planetary system. I
discovered ballpoint snakes are the chief export of Coffin Two. When we
lifted ship, I had acquired my little puppy snake, Droozle."

"Is a puppy snake like a puppy dog?" she asked, fascinated. "I mean, do
they have their little domestic troubles, such as the calls of nature?"

"Oh, he was thoroughly pocket-broken before I acquired him. But he did
like his little jokes, and I learned to leave him curled up in a
circular ashtray until maturity sobered him."

* * * * *

"Well, I should say! You drew sketches with him, didn't you tell me?"

He nodded. "At first he only had one color of ink--red--and if I
sketched with him all day he would commence to look wretchedly anemic.
He took two days to refill, normally. But I could use him again in only
one day's time provided I didn't mind the top three-fourths of my pen
laying on my arm."

"I hope his weight didn't get tiresome," she commiserated, holding in
her amusement.

"I coped somehow," he answered sturdily. "Later he learned--after I
squeezed him on the liver a few times just to show him how--to switch to
a lovely shade of ochre, which was delightful on pale green or pink
paper. Why, what's the matter, Judy?"

"Go on," she choked. "Go go go!"

He beamed. "I write my letters with him too. Every day I wrote with him,
first in red, and then in ochre to give him a rest. He seemed to love to
write more than to sketch. He would jump into my hand with tail happily
pointed downward as I sat down to my writing desk. And when I later saw
his dark green stripes turning pastel and knew that anemia was imminent,
and started to lay him down for a earned rest, he would stiffen himself
as if to say, 'Oh, come, come! I'm good for half a page yet!'"

"It sounds as though he was a willing worker, but I still can't see why
his malfunction makes our marriage impossible."

"I haven't gotten to his career as a novelist yet. There lies the heart
of the tragedy."

"Please proceed to the heart of the tragedy."

* * * * *

"It all began when I found him arched up one morning, writing by
himself--with difficulty, it is true. His first message to the world
was, '_I hold that the supine viewpoint is seldom downward!_'"

"I don't see how he could stand up on end to write for very long, even
with such a magnificent philosophy to bolster him."

"What a terrible pun," Jean groaned. "He couldn't stand up very long at
first. But I saw he had talent. I gladly learned the skill of holding
him upright in a relaxed manner so that he could express himself on
paper. In no time at all, he had written what was to be his first,
sensational, best-selling shocker, _Naked Bellies in the Grass_."

"That does sound sensational."

"Not for snakes. He neglected to mention his characters were snakes. _I
Fang You Very Much_ followed swiftly afterward and was just as
successful. Mothers were amused with its lispy title and got it for the
children."