Again He took my hand and shook it, warmly. His hair is just a bit gray at the temples, and there are signs of strain on His finely featured face. Those awkward hands are now strong and purposeful.
He apologized that He must return to His duties, and went with me to the door. "My secretary will fill in further details about your new position. Newspapers shall once again be published. No—don't say a word, Mr. Booth! I know what you are thinking.
"Your salary," he continued as we stood at the open door, "shall, of course, be commensurate to your high authority in this new field. Allow me, now, to thank you most deeply and sincerely for your unwitting aid in my youth. I assure you, Mr. Booth, I have often thought of that day we talked. And I hope to repay you, in some measure, for what you did."
He said more, mostly polite phrases of good-by. And then I was outside after being handed a folder by some man.
An official jetmobile took me to my residence—which turned out to be in the East Wing. Here I am, and I don't understand. I came prepared to suffer heaven only knows what as part of Kilmer Jones's childish pattern for revenge.
Instead, here I am, head of the Official Bulletin, titular ruler and ruler-in-fact of the future journalism of the world!
There is something behind this—I keep feeling there is. But what? What? Or is he truly generous, to a degree never before known among absolute monarchs?
February 13, 1
Kyleton Palace, North America
I am a suspicious and most humble old man. I see now that Kyle's generosity amazed me only because I myself would have been incapable of such an action.