I could kill for a smoke, thought the writer. Aloud he said, "I really appreciate this."

 

The little green alien — Virg? — gave a perfunctory nod and continued searching his suitcase for contraband. You won't find it in there, he thought smugly.

 

It was true, though: he did appreciate it, which was unusual. He gave little thought to others unless they chanced to annoy him. Recently, though, thanks to his divorce and subsequent loss of creature comforts, the peace he needed so desperately had been in short supply. This retreat invitation was a godsend, manna from heaven.

 

"Anything else you'll need?" his diminutive host asked. He hadn't found the cigarettes — deadly poison to the natives, but vital for the creative process.

 

"Nothing. The desk is comfortable, the lighting perfect." Shame about the decor, he thought. Boring ceramics, metals, cheap plastic. The hut's exterior was worse: a plain steel dome. At least I can't see that.

 

The alien finally left, and the writer was alone. He was free to move around all he liked until dawn, but days here got hot enough to boil lead, and they lasted two Earth weeks. Once the sun rose he'd be isolated, completely unable to leave, with nothing to do but write.

 

Exactly what he needed.

 

He lit a smuggled cigarette and smiled. Forbidden pleasures are the best kind.

 

* * *

 

He showered, then unpacked. His contraband was hidden inside bricks of typing paper. Seven cartons of cigarettes plus his whisky -- not nearly enough for eighteen days. He'd have to ration himself.

 

Next he tried the Synth-E-Matic. It generated a tasteless nutrient brick and a cup of tepid water. His second attempt produced the same.

 

He sat, smoked, and pondered. It had been a mistake to open the cigarettes so soon, he now realized. If he demanded repairs for the evidently malfunctioning machine, even the faint residue from a couple of cigarettes could badly sicken his alien hosts. He'd planned to leave a warning note for Housekeeping and be safely off-world long before anyone billed him for damages.

 

Ah, well; he wasn't here for luxury, but to work. He could live on food bars. He'd done it before.

 

* * *

 

The first day's writing went wonderfully. Weeks ago he'd gotten stuck on a minor plot point, but now, absent any distractions, he realized he could simply ignore it and move on. Whole pages flowed from his eager pen, and he wrote and wrote.

 

This would be his fifth book, the fourth near-clone of his initial breakout novel. His readers loved them, and so long as sales were good so did his publisher. But now he saw just how shallow, how facile his original plot had been. There was so much more he could accomplish!

 

He abandoned his outline, producing eight original chapters in a few short hours, resting for minutes only before diving back into his work. A fever of creation had seized him, and he rode its crest.

 

Dawn was fast approaching when next he came up for air. Food bar wrappers were everywhere, as were empty cigarette packs. He took a rapid inventory: only five cartons of cigarettes remained, though the whisky was untouched. More worrisome, he was nearing the end of his paper. He used the intercom to order more, then added, "Leave it outside the door." It arrived just before the sun.

 

He'd hoped to send off some new pages as proof of work, but the small hut was by now fully impregnated with the rich aroma of tobacco. He mustn't risk getting caught. Instead, he sealed each chapter in its own envelope and filed them carefully away. They were the best he'd ever written, and he dared not risk mixing them.

 

He slept then, long and luxurious rest. When he woke, red sunlight was streaming in through the back window. It had become quite warm despite the air conditioner. Distantly he wondered just how hot it could get in here, but that was unimportant. Last night in his dreams he'd figured out how the villain had gotten away with it, such a clever ruse! He simply had to get it down.

 

As the hours passed, the hut grew steadily warmer, though he never noticed. Uneaten food bars piled up next to him as he drank cup after cup of water, sweating them out immediately. After a while, he fell asleep at his desk.

 

When he woke, the hut had grown unbearable. His head throbbed. Something's terribly wrong, he thought. The heat is killing me. He couldn't remember what to do about it. Eventually, his eyes came to rest on the emergency button. He reached over and pressed it. Nothing happened.

 

Frantically he tore at the plastic casing until it opened. Behind the button were none of the expected wires or circuits. It was a dummy! He tried the intercom — no answer. He was trapped, without help, with sunset more than a week away.

 

He realized then he was going to die, and a strange peace came over him — no more deadlines! He scribbled a note to his publisher, then sealed the manuscript inside his reinforced travel case. It would survive.

 

When death arrived, it found him smiling.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Virg! How's our latest author?"

 

The green creature grinned around a mouthful of pointy carnivore's teeth. "Roasting well by now," he said. "Did you see how fat he was? Perfect marbling, I bet."

 

"What will the story be this time?"

 

"Suicide note," said Virg smugly. "His wife just left him. Nobody will ever question it."

 

His companion was impressed. "You're a barbecuing genius, Virg."

 

"So long as you still say that after the first bite, I'll agree with you," laughed Virg.

 

* * *

 

The next ship's crew discovered the entire colony of green creatures on the beach just before dawn, dead of acute nicotine poisoning. The author was never found, but his final book stayed on the bestseller list for three years running.