And Philon talked, talked rapidly and convincingly. When he finished
Rakoff slapped his fat thigh in excitement.
That evening Philon dropped in on Bill MacDonald, who was sitting in
his slippers smoking an old fashioned wood pipe.
"Come in, come in." MacDonald greeted him with a friendly smile. "I
was just doing a little reading."
Philon held out the book. "I'm returning your masterpiece," he said
with a sardonic smile.
MacDonald received it, glancing at the title. "Oh, Smyth's _Atomic
Energy_. Good book--did you find it interesting?"
* * * * *
Philon began to laugh. "Well, I'll tell you, Bill, your little racket
of having spurious first editions printed some place and then peddling
them sure caught up with me."
The good-natured smile on MacDonald's face faded in a look of
incredulity. He took the pipe from his mouth. "Spurious first
editions?"
"Yeah, I sure took a beating today but I couldn't help laughing over
it afterwards. Here I've been thinking of you folks as simon-pure
numbers. But I got to hand it to you. You sure took me in with Smyth's
_Atomic Energy_ as being a genuine first edition." Philon went on to
explain the radiocarbon dating of the book.
MacDonald finally broke in to protest, "But that book really _is_ over
a hundred years old." Then he looked up at his wife. "Of course,
Carol, that's the explanation. The radiocarbon wouldn't decay a full
hundred years any more than we...." Suddenly, he seemed to catch
himself, as his wife raised a hand in apparent agitation.
"But why did you want to sell my book to a dealer?" MacDonald
continued.
Philon went on to explain the system of the poll quota. He told him a
lot of other things too about the election of a President and the
organized political machines that levied upon all registered voters
what amounted to a checkoff of their incomes.