“I mean we’re going to have him on television, on movie screens, in the
papers, so that everybody can feel the effect of his personality, just
like he was there in person. This prayer-meeting stuff he’s been doing
is just a warming up. That’s all. That kind of thing is outmoded: can’t
reach enough people even if you spoke at Madison Square every night
for a year, but it’s good practice, and it’s got him started. Now the
next move is a TV half-hour show once a week and when that gets started
we’re in.”
“Who’s going to pay for all this?”
“We’ve got more money than you can shake a stick at.” He smiled briefly
and refilled our glasses with a flourish. “I haven’t been resting on
my laurels and neither has Clarissa. We’ve got three of the richest men
in L.A. drooling at the mouth for an opportunity to come in with us.
They’re sold; they’ve talked to him; they’ve heard him. That’s been
enough.”
“Will you sell soap on television at the same time?”
“Come off it, Gene. _Cave_ is the product.”
“Then in what way will you, or his sponsors, profit from selling him?”
“In the first place what he says is the truth and it’s meant a lot to
me and also to them, to the tycoons: they’re willing to do anything to
put him across.”
“I should think that the possession of the truth and its attendant
sense of virtue is in itself enough, easily spoiled by popularization,”
I said with chilling pomp.
“Now that’s a mighty selfish attitude to take. Sure it makes me happy
to know at last nothing matters a hell of a lot since I’m apt to die
any time and that’s the end of yours truly; a nice quiet nothing, like
sleeping pills after a busy day: all that’s swell but it means a lot
more to me to see the truth belong to everybody and also, let’s face
it, I’m ambitious. I like my work. I want to see this thing get big,
and with me part of it. Life doesn’t mean a thing and death is the only
reality, like he says, but while we’re living we’ve got to keep busy
and get ahead and the best thing for me, I figured about six months
ago, was to put Cave over on the public, which is just what I’m going
to do. Anything wrong with that?”
Since right and wrong had not yet been reformulated and codified, I
gave him the comfort he hardly needed. “I see what you mean. I suppose
you’re right. Perhaps the motive is the same in every case, mine as
well as yours: yet we’ve all experienced Cave and that should be
enough.”
“No, we should all get behind it and push, bring it to the world.”
“That, of course, is where we’re different: not that I don’t intend
to 'propagate the truth,’ rather I shall do it for something to do,
knowing that nothing matters, not even _this_ knowledge matters.” In my
unction, I had stumbled upon the first of a series of paradoxes which
were to amuse and obsess our philosophers for a generation. Paul gave
me no opportunity to elaborate, however; his was the practical way and
I followed. We spoke of means and ends.
“Cave likes the idea of the half-hour show and as soon as we get all
the wrinkles ironed out, buying good time, not just dead air, we’ll
make the first big announcement, along around January, I think. Until
then we’re trying to keep this out of the papers. Slow but sure; then
fast and hard.”
“What sort of man is Cave?” I wanted very much to hear Paul’s reaction
to him: this was the practical man, the unobsessed.
He was candid; he did not know. “How can you figure a guy like that
out? At times he seems a little feeble-minded, this is between us by
the way, and other times when he’s talking to people, giving with the
message, there’s nothing like him.”
“What about his early life?”
“Nobody knows very much. I’ve had a detective agency prepare a dossier
on him. Does that surprise you? Well, I’m going far out on a limb for
him and so are our rich friends. We had to be sure we weren’t buying an
ax-murderer or a bigamist or something.”
“Would that have made any difference to the message?”
“No, _I_ don’t think so but it sure would have made it impossible for
us to sell him on a big scale.”
“And what did they find?”
“Not much. I’ll let you read it. Take it home with you. Confidential of
course and, as an officer of the company, I must ask you not to use any
of it without clearing first with me.”
I agreed and his secretary was sent for. The dossier was a thin bound
manuscript.
“It’s a carbon but I want it back. You won’t find anything very
striking but you ought to read it for the background. Never been
married, no girl friends that anybody remembers ... no boy friends
either (what a headache _that_ problem is in Hollywood, for a firm
like ours). No police record. No tickets for double parking, even. A
beautiful, beautiful record on which to build.”
“Perhaps a little negative.”
“That’s what we like. As for the guy’s character, his I.Q., your guess
is as good as mine, probably better. When I’m with him alone, we talk
about the campaign and he’s very relaxed, very sensible, businesslike:
doesn’t preach or carry on. He seems to understand all the problems of
our end. He’s cooperative.”
“Can you look him straight in the eye?”
Paul laughed. “Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it? No, I guess I don’t
look at him very much. I’m glad you mentioned that because I’ve a hunch
he’s a hypnotist of some kind though there’s no record of his ever
having studied it. I think I’ll get a psychologist to take a look at
him.”
“Do you think he’ll like that?”
“Oh, he’ll never know unless he’s a mind reader. Somebody to sort of
observe him at work. I’ve already had him checked out physically.”
“You’re very thorough.”
“Have to be. He’s got a duodenal ulcer and there’s a danger of high
blood pressure when he’s older; otherwise he’s in fine shape.”
“What do you want me to do first?”
He became serious. “A pamphlet. You might make a highbrow magazine
article out of it for the _Readers’ Digest_ or something first. We’ll
want a clear, simple statement of the Cavite philosophy.”
“Why don’t you get him to write it?”
“I’ve tried. He says he can’t write anything. In fact he even hates to
have his sermons taken down by a recorder. God knows why. But, in a
way, it’s all to the good because it means we can get all the talent
we like to do the writing for us and that way, sooner or later, we can
appeal to just about everybody.”
“Whom am I supposed to appeal to in this first pamphlet?”
“The ordinary person, but make it as foolproof as you can; leave plenty
of doors open so you can get out fast in case we switch the party line
along the way.”