The Celebrity by Laura Z. Hobson Page A

know; he could report, hand out information, say authoritatively what Gregory had done and would do. When he hung up and began on his next calls, he felt that this was already the happiest day in his life.
    By ten-thirty, the magic phrase “fifty-two thousand dollars,” and the, doubly magic one, of “a hundred and four, thousand,” had been formed by his lips, larynx, palate, and glottis over a dozen times. And each time, a resounding confidence, rang through him, allied to the elation he had felt before, but extending to another dimension, as if the delegated right to shape these golden vowels and consonants carried strength and authority and power with it.
    Thornton Johns was so sensible a man that he was more than a little aware of this absurdity, yet he could not halt the swift upsurge within him. Sums like these were not the vocal property of nobodies, except in fragile and unvoiced daydreams. He was not daydreaming: He had been given, as it were, due power of attorney over these treasures and so it was not unseemly that he should hear himself speaking like a man of substance. Particularly, he reflected, when other people spoke to him as if he were.
    And if he spoke like one, and were treated like one, then why not act like one? Would a major executive in any business firm consult everybody in sight before taking the initial steps toward what might be a large triumph? Why had he been so sure that he could not call Hathaway without first getting Gregory’s permission? Could Gregory conceivably regret a movie sale? The added money? The vaster fame? The Good World on every marquee, on everybody’s lips?
    He pushed the buzzer and Diana appeared. “My next call—”
    “The Chicago one?”
    “No, that will have to wait.” He gave orders and then sat back deep in his chair. He was relaxed, easy in every fiber. How odd that was, when he was using every nerve and all his brains and energy! This was the sort of life he was meant for and he would not give over too easily. If he spent, say, a hundred dollars on any other hobby, who could complain or charge him with extravagance? He smiled at the telephone, and his fingers began on their arpeggio, but lazily. Through the open door to the anteroom where Diana sat, he could hear her making her explanations to Hathaway’s secretary, and ending, “Will you put him on, please? This is urgent.” He drew the instrument to him expectantly and when she signaled him, he said blandly, “Hello, Mr. Hathaway. If Roy Tribble didn’t sleep all morning, I’d have got him to reintroduce us. It’s been a long time.”
    “Let him sleep. We’re reintroduced.”
    But it sounded uncertain and Thorn said, “During the war, it was. I consulted you about the option clauses in a book contract.”
    “A book? My secretary said, ‘Roy Tribble’s insurance broker.’”
    Thorn laughed. “I am. The author of the book was my brother, Gregory Johns.”
    “Yes, I do remember now. You were acting as his agent—”
    “And still am. This is about his new book— and a possible movie deal.”
    “I see.”
    “And I got to wondering if you might advise me, on a sort of provisional basis.”
    “Provisional? We don’t accept contingent arrangements.”
    Thorn said, “His new novel has just been taken by B.S.B. for April.”
    “B.S.B.?” There was a pause and Thorn said nothing. “They still pay over a hundred thousand, don’t they?”
    “A hundred and four. Look, Mr. Hathaway, why don’t we meet and talk my idea over anyway?”
    “Well, we might. Any time you and your brother can make it, give me a ring.”
    “It would just be me,” Thorn said casually. “Like last time.”
    “Not your brother?”
    “Not to start with. He’s pretty busy just now. O.K.?”
    They made a date for drinks at five that afternoon. Thorn turned away from the phone and thought exultingly, It’s going to work, see if it doesn’t. Again he summoned Diana.
    “I’m wiring Digby, instead of calling him,”