Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“Very little,” I confessed. [I felt I had nothing to lose by honesty—nor much to gain, come down to it.]

“Do you understand what it would cost you to bring a legal action against this business, or against Mr. Dornwood as an individual? And do you understand that it would cost double that once the case was thrown out of court, as I assure you it would be? It’s not a trifling thing to impugn the integrity of such men as these.”

“They impugn themselves, it seems to me. But I’m sure you’re right.”

Lawyer Lingley looked briefly puzzled. “You mean to say you’ll quit your claim?”

“I expect that phrase has some legalistic significance of which I’m not aware. What happened, happened—neither you nor I can change that, Mr. Lingley. And if the courts don’t judge in this matter, Heaven might not be so lax.”

“Heaven isn’t within my jurisdiction. If you’re willing to be reasonable, I’ve prepared a paper for you to sign.”

“A paper saying what?”

“That you have no fiscal claim on this company or Mr. Dornwood, no matter whether some small amount of material you wrote found its way into Dornwood’s published accounts.”

“It was not a ‘small amount,’ Mr. Lingley. We’re talking about an act of thievery bold enough to make a vulture blush.”

“Make up your mind,” Lingley said. “Do you want to settle the matter, or are you going to persist in these libels?”

I looked at the paper. It was, in so far as I could decipher the whereases, a renunciation of all my prior complaints. In exchange, it said, the company would not pursue me for “defamation.”

There was a space prepared for my signature.

“If I sign this,” I said slowly, “I suppose I’ll need a witness?”

“My secretary will witness it.”

“No need—I’ve brought a witness of my own,” and I gestured through the door for Julian to enter.

Hungerford and the lawyer blinked at this unexpected development. If they did not recognize Julian Comstock, Theodore Dornwood certainly did. He sat bolt upright, and an unprintable word escaped his lips.

“What’s this about?” Hungerford demanded. “Who is this man?”

“Julian Comstock,” I said. “Julian, this is Mr. Hungerford, the publisher of the Spark. ”

Julian offered his hand. Hungerford took it, though every other part of him seemed frozen in shock.

“And this is Mr. Hungerford’s lawyer, Mr. Buck Lingley.”

“Hello, Mr. Lingley,” said Julian in an amiable tone.

Lingley’s complexion, which up to that moment had been florid, turned the color of an eggshell, and his tendentious manner went the way of the morning dew. He did not speak. Instead he reached across the desk and picked up the paper I was meant to sign. He folded it in thirds and tore it in two pieces. Then he pursed his lips in a sickly imitation of a smile. “I’m delighted—no—honored—to meet you, Captain Comstock. Unfortunately an urgent appointment calls me away—I cannot linger.” He turned to Hungerford. “I think our business is finished for today, John,” he said, and left the room in such a hurry that I was surprised the breeze didn’t pull the door shut after him.

Mr. Hungerford had yet to close his slackened jaw.

“And I recognize Theodore Dornwood,” Julian said, “our regiment’s civilian scribe. I’ve read some of your work, Mr. Dornwood. Or at least the work that was published under your name.”

“Yes!” Dornwood said in a strangled voice, which was not helpful. “No!”

“Shut up, Theo,” Mr. Hungerford said. “Captain Comstock, do you have a contribution to make to this discussion?”

“Not at all. It was only that my friend Adam seems to be having a hard time making himself understood.”

“I think we’ve overcome that difficulty,” Hungerford said. “As a responsible publisher I mean to correct any mistake that finds its way into print. Naturally I’m astonished to discover that Mr. Dornwood borrowed another man’s work without attribution. That error will be corrected.”

“Corrected in what way?” Julian inquired, before Dornwood could stammer out some version of the same question.

“We’ll print a notice in tomorrow’s Spark. ”

“A notice! Excellent,” said Julian. “Still, there’s the matter of the thousands of pamphlets that have already been distributed under Mr. Dornwood’s name. If some profit or royalty has been paid to Mr. Dornwood by mistake—”

“Sir, there’s no problem in that department. I’ll have our accountants calculate the full amount and pay it to you directly.”

“To Mr. Hazzard, you mean.”

“I mean, of course, to Mr. Hazzard.”

“Well, that shows a Christian spirit,” said Julian. “Doesn’t it, Adam?”

“It’s almost contrite,” I said, not a little astonished myself.

“But it seems to me,” Julian went on, “though I’m no expert on the publishing business, you might be missing an opportunity, Mr. Hungerford, and a lucrative one, at that.”

“Please explain,” Hungerford said warily, while Dornwood cringed in his chair like a spanked child.

“We’ve established that Adam was the true author of The Adventures of Captain Commongold.

Was it well-written, do you think?”

“The public has taken to it in a big way. We’ve gone into a third printing. That makes it well-written, by my definition. You say it was all your work, Mr. Hazzard?”

“All but the punctuation,” I said, glaring at Dornwood.

“Does that suggest anything to you, as a publisher?” Julian asked. “Adam is too modest to mention it, but he’s written more than just these matter-of-fact Adventures.

He has a novel in progress. Your press prints novels as well as newspapers, doesn’t it, Mr. Hungerford?”

“We have a modest line of bound thrillers.”

Julian asked me if my novel could be considered “thrilling.”

“It has pirates in it,” I said.

“There you are, then! Adam is a proven best-seller, and he’s writing a book with pirates and other exciting persons in it—and here he is standing in your office!”

“I’ll have a contract drawn up,” Hungerford murmured.

“Mr. Hungerford is a canny businessman, Adam. He wants to publish your novel. Will the terms be generous, Mr. Hungerford?”

Hungerford quoted a colossal number, which he said was his standard rate for first-time novelists. I was quite taken aback, and probably turned as white in the face as Lawyer Lingley had when he recognized the President’s nephew. I could not speak. My toes and fingers were numb.

“Good,” Julian said. “But is Adam really a first-time novelist?—given the success of his previous work, I mean.”

Hungerford nodded woodenly and announced a number twice as cosmic. I might have fainted, if I had not had the desk to lean on.

“Is the number acceptable, Adam?”

I allowed that it was.

“As for Mr. Dornwood—” Julian began.

“He’ll be fired immediately,” Hungerford said.

“Please don’t do that! I’m sure Adam doesn’t want to punish Mr. Dornwood any further, now that the error had been corrected.”

“I guess that’s right,” I managed to say. “I won’t hold a grudge against any man. You can keep your job, Dornwood, for all of me. Although—”

Dornwood gave me a pleading look. He was no longer the smug Manhattanite. He might have been some condemned slave kneeling before a Pharaoh for clemency. It was an unusual sensation to hold another man’s fate in my hands. I could ask for his apology, I supposed. I supposed I could ask for his head, too, and Hungerford would have it delivered it to me on a china plate. But I’m not a vindictive person.