When the editor showed up at 4:35 P.M., he seemed a trifle confused. He hung his hat on Fitzgrone's head, and sat down in the waste paper basket. The man of science then stood erect and said it again. "The world, sir, is flat."
"That so?" said the editor. "You know, I always had a secret hunch it was." He was an amiable man, with four children and a glass fountain pen that flashed a light in the top when he used it. At that moment he wasn't quite sure whether Herbert Fitzgrone was alone or at the head of a delegation.
"I expected you to scoff," Herbert Fitzgrone said, a shade of disappointment in his tone. "After all, when Columbus and Magellan said the world was round, everybody scoffed. I came here prepared to be scoffed at."
"I don't like to scoff at anybody," the editor said. "I once scoffed at a man in a pub, and he hit me in the eye."
"Well, if you won't," the scientist said, vexed, "you won't. Anyhow, I want to show you my proof that the earth as a globe is a monstrous impossibility. Look here." He spread out some sheets of paper on the editor's desk.
"My," said the editor. "Impressive, all right. What is it?"
"Trigonometry. Do you understand it?"
"No, but I'm very fond of it. All those big numbers and everything. Very impressive."
"Well, my calculations prove that the earth couldn't be a globe, because two lines of latitude can't possibly be at the same level. Do you realize what that means?"
"My God," said the editor in awe.