The Maugham Obsession

By August Derleth
All inventors seek success. Some few achieve it. And now and then a Quintus Maugham is a bit too successful for his own health.
What is a Derleth? The question pops up frequently in fantasy circles. The general consensus seems to be that a Derleth is a sort of human windmill that plucks finished manuscripts from the breeze while waving its arms in circles, printing and publishing same with its own machinery. In truth the Derleth output is prodigious, as it has been for many a year ... enough to keep rolling the presses of his own publishing firm (Arkham) as well as to keep other publishers well supplied. Here is top-flight Derleth.
It's always been a moot point with me, said Harrigan one evening over a glass of sherry at the Cliffdwellers' Club, whether or not there is such a thing as a man's being too successful. I always think of Quintus Maugham.
You have the advantage of me, I said.
By rights he should have been famous, Harrigan went on, warming to his subject, but things don't always work out that way. He was a plodding inventor obsessed by an idea. What inventor isn't, given a modicum of success? Perhaps he was a product of his time, for Maugham's obsession was robots.
The principle's sound enough.
Oh, yes. It could be practical, too. After all, machines have been operated by mechanical men or mechanical brains for years. So Maugham's idea wasn't out of line. The operation didn't work out according to Hoyle, however. Maugham was one of those gaunt earnest men, a tall fellow with deep-set eyes and an habitually grim mouth. He took himself very seriously and you were always just a little embarrassed when he tried to explain something to you—you felt that he so badly wanted your understanding.
He paused and sipped his sherry, looking reflectively out over the silvery lake.
Where'd you meet him? I asked. On assignment?
Oh, he'd invented a little gadget connected with the recoil mechanism for the military so I was sent over to his place for an interview—the usual thing. He lived in a nice old house in Oak Park, left him by his mother and he lived pretty well, if a little on the frugal side. He was considerate and courteous, which is a damned sight more than you can say for most of the people a reporter gets to see.