I said through tears: “I’ll do more than tell them, professor. The world will know about your heroism.
“The world must know. We’ve got to make a book of this—your authentic, authorized, fictional biography— and Hopedale’s West Coast agent’ll see to the film sale—”
“Film?” he said drowsily. “Book . . . ?”-
“Yes. Your years of struggle, the little girl at home who kept faith in you when everybody scoffed, your burning mission to transform the world, and the climax—here,
now!—as you give up your life for your philosophy.”
“What girl?” he asked weakly.
“There must have been someone, professor. We’ll find someone.”
“You would,” he asked feebly, “document my expulsion from Germany by the Nazis?”
“Well, I don’t think so, professor. The export market’s important, especially when it comes to selling film rights, and you don’t want to go offending people by raking up old memories. But don’t worry, professor. The big thing is, the world will never forget you and what you’ve done.”
He opened his eyes and breathed: “You mean your version of what I’ve done. Ach, Norris, Norris! Never did I think there was a power on Earth which could force me to contravene The Principle of Permissive Evolution.” His voice became stronger. “But you, Norris, are that power.” He got to his feet, grunting. “Norris,” he said, “I hereby give you formal warning that any attempt to make a fictional biography or cinema film of my life will result in an immediate injunction being—you say slapped?—upon you, as well as suits for damages from libel, copyright infringement and invasion of privacy. I have had enough.”
“Professor,” I gasped. “You’re well!”
He grimaced. “I’m sick. Profoundly sick to my stomach at my contravention of the Principle of Permissive—”
His voice grew fainter. This was because he was rising slowly into the air. He leveled off at a hundred feet and called: “Send the royalty statements to my old address in Basle. And remember, Norris, I warned you—”
He zoomed eastward then at perhaps one hundred miles per hour. I think he was picking up speed when he vanished from sight.
I stood there for ten minutes or so and sighed and rubbed my eyes and wondered whether anything was worth-while. I decided I’d read the professor’s book tomorrow without fail, unless something came up.
Then I took my briefcase and went up the walk and into Miss Phoebe’s house. (Henry had made a twig fire
on the lawn and was roasting his rabbit; he glared at me .most disobligingly and I skirted him with care.)
This was, after all, the payoff; this was, after all, the reason why I had risked my life and sanity.
“Miss Phoebe,” I said to her taking it out of the briefcase, “I represent the Hopedale Press; this is one of our standard contracts. We’re very much interested in publishing the story of your life, with special emphasis on the events of the past few weeks. Naturally you’d have an experienced collaborator. I believe sales in the hundred-thousands wouldn’t be too much to expect. I would suggest as a title—that’s right, you sign on that line there —How to be Supreme Ruler of Everybody. . . .”