Chapter 27: Is This the Same Author?

The Dickinson Bookstore is one of many "independent bookstores" scattered throughout Greenwich Village.

The term "independent bookstore" refers to shops run by individuals or small teams, characterized by an utter disregard for commercial viability, prioritizing instead the owner's personal intellectual pursuits. Simply put, they sell only the books they love; they prioritize their own satisfaction above all else. While this business model is a disaster for profitability and is pursued only by a handful of dreamers and free spirits, Greenwich Village, a haven for artists and intellectuals, is teeming with such small, independent shops. There are "poetry bookstores" specializing in verse, "labor bookstores" stocked with leftist literature, and even niche shops dedicated solely to avant-garde works.

Naturally, the Dickinson Bookstore, which Edward Weeks walked into, is one that specializes in "pulp fiction." The owner is a middle-aged man with glasses and a wild, flowing hairstyle—a look that perfectly fits the stereotype of a literary enthusiast who cares little for appearance and seeks only spiritual fulfillment.

When Edward Weeks entered, the owner was still engrossed in a magazine. The publication in his hands was *Weird Tales*, a veteran magazine founded in 1923. Its stories focus on the "weird," serving as spiritual sustenance for countless fans of horror, suspense, and the supernatural. Such unique, genre-specific magazines have been selling very well in recent years. Weeks had once considered introducing this type of literature, but the style was so distinct and talented authors were so difficult to find that he eventually gave up.

Currently, the only magazine on the market with a similar style to *Weird Tales* is *Mysteries and Terror Tales*, published by Clayton Magazines. It is worth noting that the "Clayton Magazines" house was the publisher of *Astounding Stories* before it was acquired by Smith Publishing. However, comparing the two, Weeks personally felt that *Weird Tales* was far more competitive. The stable of brilliant writers the magazine possessed made even him envious.

There was H.P. Lovecraft with *The Outsider*, *The Call of Cthulhu*, and *The Whisperer in Darkness*... Robert E. Howard with the *Conan the Barbarian* series, including *The Phoenix on the Sword*, *The Hour of the Dragon*, and *The Tower of the Elephant*... Clark Ashton Smith with *The White Sybil*, *The Dark Eidolon*, and *The Seven Geases*... These three exceptional writers were the pillars—the "Big Three"—of *Weird Tales*.

Unfortunately, Weeks couldn't poach them—two of the three, Lovecraft and Howard, had already passed away, and Clark Ashton Smith hadn't been heard from in a long time. Rumor had it he was busy assisting a publishing house called "Arkham House," working to collect and publish the posthumous works of Lovecraft and Howard.

***

Returning to the present, the shop owner finally noticed a customer and asked, "Sir, what type of magazine or standalone book are you looking for?"

"I'd like to buy the latest issue of *Astounding Stories*," Weeks said with a faint smile.

"Oh, sir, it seems you're a science fiction fan! You're in luck; the stories in this issue are beyond anything you could imagine!" Dickinson, the owner, enjoyed science fiction as much as weird literature—after all, *Weird Tales* sometimes published sci-fi, albeit with a darker, more macabre bent.

"You're talking about 'Morning Inquiry,' aren't you?" Weeks recalled the conversation between the two young men on the street.

"It seems you've heard of it too," Dickinson said excitedly. "The author of this story—Ernie Riser—must have been on something truly potent to write such a thing."

"Wait, did you say... Ernie Riser?" Edward Weeks was immediately taken aback, his eyebrows arching in surprise. Was this the same author as the one who wrote *A Bronx Tale*, or was it a mere coincidence of names?

Dickinson turned to the shelves and brought back a brand-new copy of *Astounding Stories*, handing it to Weeks. The cover art depicted a colossal altar standing in a grassy desert, with an alien visitor resembling a god hovering above it, set against a backdrop of cosmic stars. The overall color tone was dark, but the perspective and proportions were excellent, giving the viewer an immediate sense of the grandeur of the universe. This was the work of artist Gabriel Mayor, and the story it accompanied was naturally Ernie’s "Morning Inquiry." For a debut story in *Astounding Stories* to receive such treatment was a true mark of distinction.

Seeing the exact spelling of the name, Weeks felt a surge of tension. Comparing the two, whether it was "two different authors with the same pseudonym" or "one author writing in two completely different genres," either possibility was hard to fathom.

Weeks tucked the magazine under his arm and returned to the Reggio Café. He sat by the window, letting the sunlight fall on the pages as he began to read. He had read science fiction before and had tried to guess the category of "Morning Inquiry," imagining scenarios limited to "alien invasions," "time travel," or "robot rebellions."

However, after he began to read, he was stunned. *Is this something a human could actually write?* The sheer imagination and the creation of such epic scale made all other science fiction works seem inferior by comparison.

***

He became so immersed in his reading that he lost all track of time. It wasn't until Fanny Ellison walked into the café and saw Weeks, looking as if he were entirely detached from the world, that she approached and greeted him, "Mr. Weeks?"

Weeks blinked, finally tearing his gaze away from the cold, tragic, and magnificent story. He asked her urgently, "Is this 'Ernie Riser' the same person as the author of *A Bronx Tale*?"

"Huh?" Fanny Ellison looked at the pseudonym pointed out in *Astounding Stories* and was equally stunned. Her response was simple: "I have no idea!"

*Clang, clatter.*

Just as the two were caught in their confusion and shock, Ernie pushed the door open and walked in. He was wearing a single-breasted, dark gray suit jacket over a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar. He wore a navy blue tie, straight-leg trousers, and polished black leather shoes. His hair, neatly groomed in the sunlight, was slicked back with pomade. Standing six feet tall, he looked clean, sharp, and handsome. Ernie had donned the formal suit he’d worn for his original job interview; after all, he was meeting the editor-in-chief of *The Atlantic Monthly*, and proper social etiquette was non-negotiable.

Ernie walked into the café and scanned the room. His eyes landed on a middle-aged man and a Black woman sitting by the window. He had never met Edward Weeks or Fanny Ellison, but his intuition as a writer allowed him to sense the unique air they carried—a quiet, rational demeanor, tinged with that persistent, detached sense of observing the world that is so characteristic of those in the magazine industry.