They swamped him. They swarmed over him and plastered him with honorary
literary degrees, domestic and foreign. They Oscared him and Nobelled
him. They wined, dined and adored him into a godhead of the arts.
The acting, publishing, TV, radio and movie greats paid homage to his
genius by the most hysterical bidding for his talents their check-books
could support. I kept waiting for the Secretary of the Treasury to
present him with the key to Fort Knox.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, I waited patiently--having no choice, since I started the
publicity nightmare myself--for the earthquake to settle down. As his
agent I was holding off all new commitments until he fulfilled the ones
on hand.
Six months passed, and Hillary was still wallowing in glory, too busy
sopping up plaudits to bother turning a hand.
Finally I sent a goon squad after him and dragged him to my office. He
arrived in a four-hundred dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie. Each cuff
was decorated by a diamond link and a Hollywood starlet. I shooed out
the excess and came to the point.
"Recess is over," I said gently. "Now we settle down for a few months of
patty-cake with your secretaries. They're here in my offices now where I
can keep an eye on things. Okay?"
He grinned his old happy smile, and some of the dewey glaze seemed to
peel from his eyes. "You're right, George," he said much to my surprise.
"I can't coast forever--and believe me, I never visualized what this
would be like. It's wonderful. The world is at my feet, George. At my
feet!"
I had pegged him right. But after all, who could resist the accolade he
had received? For all his monomania on this business of mnemonics, he
was a red-blooded boy with active glands and youthful corpuscles.
To my further delight he threw off his imported suit-coat and said, "I'm
ready right now. Where do we start?"
* * * * *
I broached the file and studied my priority list. "First off, Oscar
wants a play. That'll take a week or two, I suppose. Then I have an
assignment for a serial--"
I outlined about three months work for him, or what would have been
three months work last summer.
I moved him into my own penthouse apartment upstairs and herded him to
work the next morning. My squad of strong-arms guarded all entrances,
and Hec Blankenship finally convinced the public that we meant business
in getting a little privacy for our tame genius so he could hatch some
more immortal works.
I had lunch sent in to him in the next office and didn't see him until
five that first evening. I went in without knocking. One secretary was
filing her nails, and the other three were putting on their coats. The
covers were still on the typewriters and Hillary was asleep or in a coma
over in the corner.
I kicked his feet off his desk, and he rocked forward. "Come on
upstairs, I'll buy you a steak," I said.
He smiled weakly, "I need one. It didn't go so good." In the elevator he
added, "In fact, it didn't go at all."
"Take it easy," I assured him. "You're a little rusty, that's all. What
about the total recall? Is it still working?"
He nodded, but he didn't say any more about it.
Next day I stuck my head in before I went to lunch, and I congratulated
myself on not pushing him too hard the first day. Hillary was off in his
corner again, but his mouth was moving and all four girls were doing the
things that secretaries do when they are about two hours behind in their
work.
Eight days later the thing dropped on my desk. I wet a finger with keen
anticipation, but the spit wasn't dry before I was plowing into
Hillary's office trailing loose sheets.
"Are you kidding?" I yelled.
He was out of his chair over by the window staring out. All he did was
hunch up his shoulders. The girls were standing around trying to act
invisible.
"Hillary," I said trying to laugh. "Don't be playing gags on old George.
Where is it? Where's Oscar's play?"
"I--I'm afraid that's it," he said without turning his head.
"This--this fluff? This pablum?"
"Well--I thought I'd try something light to begin with."
"Light? This is no play. This is Pollyanna. It's been done. Where's your
conflict? Your problem? Your suspense? Dammit, where's your characters?"
"I'll get warmed up tomorrow," Hilliary said, but he didn't have much
conviction in his voice.
He tried. He really did. I heard him thrashing around for a whole hour
the next morning. By afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in an
ambulance with two men holding him down.
All I could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." I
finally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. He reported
that Hillary had the whole staff stumped. He was acting more like a dope
addict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the D.T.'s.
I got in touch with Hillary's sanitarium. The head psychiatrist was in
Europe, so I cabled him and flew him back. He took over, and pretty soon
I had the word I dreaded.
"Your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder in
itself. I presume he told you of his experiments to achieve total
recall?"