The Good Doctor

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“There’s a new patient here to see you, Dr. Butcher,” said the pleasant contralto over the intercom.

Shaggy eyebrows above craggy countenance lifted in mild irritation. “Well, what is it? Human? Dolphin? Quint?”

“It’s a Kogloo, sir.”

“A Kogloo! Send it in.” A Kogloo on Earth was about as rare as a current magazine chip in Butcher’s waiting room. The hunched human ushered the barrel-shaped being into his office. “What can I do for you?”

“Doctor, doctor, I is terrible problem.” The words were thick, but, to its credit, the Kogloo was working without a translator. “I try to writing Skience Fiction, no?”

“So?”

“So this!” The Kogloo upended a satchel over Butcher’s already cluttered desk. Countless cards and pieces of paper cascaded out.

“Rejection slips?” Butcher grunted. He had his own collection from The Lancet. “Unless you’ve got writer’s cramp, I can’t help you.”

“No, please.” The alien’s tripartite mandible popped the P. “I write good, in mine own language, no?” Butcher had heard that the big four SF chips had Kogloonian editions now. “I send novella to Amazing—they love it! They even buy! Effing SF is eating out of my foot. Analog, the same. But that other one—!” The Kogloo waved its antennae expressively. “Bah, they no want.”

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