I'm staying at the Carlton Towers Hotel in London, when the phone rings in my room. The guy is downstairs, calling me from the lobby. "You don't know me, but I'm a science fiction writer. The name is Harrison. Harry Harrsion. I have one question for you. Are you the guy who sold LUCIFER'S HAMMER to Fawcett for $250,000?" As I haven't told anyone of this sale and have never heard of Harrison (this was more that 20 years ago), I cautiously answer that I'm "the guy."

"Great job," says Harrison. "I'm in the bar and I'd like to buy you a drink."

In the bar I explain to Mr. Harrison ("please call me Harry or Hesh") that I don't represent any science fiction writers and that I made the Fawcett sale on behalf of Playboy Press, a publisher I represented for subsidiary rights.

I tell Harry that he would best be served by an agent with a strong list in science fiction. "No," he says, "I don't want any of those guys. I've had them for more than 25 years. I've decided I want you."

By the time we left the bar, much later I might add, Harry had talked me into representing him.

While I no longer represent publishers for subisidary rights and I never took on another science fiction writer, my friend Harry has kept me fairly busy with his own work. I'm still in awe of his output, his energy, his humor and his boundless enthusiasm. I can't think of anybody I would rather go to lunch with at Second Avenue Delicatessen and have him "spritz" me with Borscht Belt jokes, insights to world wide publishing and the state of his craft than this very funny, very dear friend and client.

"Le Chaim" Harry.

-- Nat Sobel