"Hey," he called, "this is a democracy, ain't it? If these soreheads have a vote, so do I. Don't I come in?"
"Sure, sure. It ought to help a lot, too. All these figures are weighted, you have noticed, by degree of intimacy and one thing or another. Since you have probably thought more about yourself than anybody else has, even if you've been wrong most of the time, your opinion counts."
Chisholm looked down at himself confidently, and then his confidence began to ooze. His own personality, it appeared, even when viewed from his own standpoint, was more nebulous than he thought. He had never taken himself apart with the critical fury employed by such persons as Maizie, his wives and some others. It looked as if the almost-finished monstrosity standing in the center of the stage was going to be the image handed down to posterity.
"It's not fair," he wailed. "What do all those yapping people really know about me—motives, and all that? I never did anything I didn't think was right, I never—"
"Neither did Nero," said the demon calmly, "nor Torquemada, nor your estimable contemporary, Hitler. Nevertheless, we cannot take an Ego at its own valuation. Not where others are involved."
Chisholm took a shuddering look at the hideous thing that was the summation of all his world thought of him. It was intolerable. That, then, was the verdict the demon had spoken of.
"Your sentence," said the demon, as if he knew the thought, "is to contemplate it from now on. It is all yours—your life's work. At least it's definite, if that is any consolation."
"I can't, I can't," moaned Mr. Chisholm.
"Don't make things worse," warned the demon.
The composite spook had just turned a bright, lemon yellow.