The Celebrity by Laura Z. Hobson Page B

pave the way to Zanuck. Not too much finesse; those fellows out there were dog-eat-dog about big books and no important publisher need go begging when he had one. In the past few years he had forgotten that.
    Ever since 5 A.M. when Alan had answered The Question, his mind had functioned with a thrilling sharpness. His headache had disappeared, he had gone back to bed for a few hours, slept through his early appointments, and then waked, free from hangover and with a grand strategy laid out in his mind. He had shaved, showered, dressed, and ordered a large breakfast with lots of black coffee. His mirror had told him there was no sign of last night’s debauch; he looked closer to forty-five than fifty-five, and he felt nearer to thirty than either. This selling trip on the spring list had been his own idea and now he would ring up a brilliant total of orders.
    When at last he had phoned about his missed appointments, he had not stooped to over-apology. He had only to explain about B.S.B. to be forgiven, congratulated, and urged to consider nothing but his own convenience about naming a better date.
    Jobbers, buyers, bookstore owners, they really were craven little men. How profound and immediate was the change in them the minute they sniffed big business ahead! When he casually explained that he was canceling everything and devoting the day to certain hot possibilities in Hollywood, they redoubled their amiable assurances—a bit sickening to a man of perception, and yet pleasant, too. The only irritating thing all morning was the wire from Thornton Johns, and he did not propose to let that get him down.
    What did this unknown brother mean, anyway, sending him orders? Nobody was going to dictate what he, Luther Digby, was to do or not do until this evening or any other evening. The firm’s fifteen per cent would not be jeopardized no matter who pulled off the movie sale, but in the long run, it would be better all around if it were he and not the brother. Everybody knew about the greed of authors, once they’d had their first taste of real money. Never again would Gregory Johns listen to reason about extra rights unless the firm brought off a movie sale of The Good World. Then only might gluttony be beaten back by a decent sense of obligation to Digby and Brown.
    Brother or no brother, it thus behooved the President of D. and B. to drive right ahead. It might not be too extreme to switch his plans and hop the next train to Hollywood!
    Outside his window, an airplane roared by.
    He looked out at it appraisingly. It was headed west and he felt a kinship with it and with everything that sprang from undaunted imagination and unswerving will. A successful man, always, had both.
    Within Luther Digby, invisible motors revved up, ailerons shifted, and something soared. Behind him there was a loud knock on the door and he banked steeply and curved around. It was the chambermaid to do up the room. This was her second appearance and her bony old face showed disgust at finding him still there.
    “It’s all right,” he said, putting on his jacket and surveying himself once more in the mirror. “I’m just leaving.” He beckoned authoritatively, and she began to wheel in her cart of fresh linens, soaps, and shoe flannels. “I suppose most of the rooms are empty by now.”
    “Yeah,” she said.
    It sounded like “Yare,” and Luther Digby’s humanitarianism was aroused. This poor illiterate drudge who knew nothing of Big Business! “I suppose you get traveling salesmen mostly, who have to get going by nine.”
    “Yare.”
    “Like clerks in a store,” he said. “Poor devils.”
    “Ain’t you a salesman?”
    “No. I’m a publisher, a book publisher.” He stood taller and sucked in his stomach hard, wishing briefly that she were less ugly, less old.
    “Books? What kinda books?”
    She’s lonely, Luther Digby thought, lonely for companionship, for communication. “All kinds,” he said genially, “if they’re good