“But it is working. You said so yourself, earlier. Or don’t you remember? No; I guess you don’t. The conversation has been a little diffuse. Anyway, if it does work, then is it a mistake?”

Blake’s mouth opened and closed. The perspiration glistened on his face like a fine coating of oil, and now he seemed physically a different person from the one who’d walked in and arrogantly surveyed the room a few minutes ago.

“Well?”

“Of course, of course it is. It’s wrong—”

“Wrong?” Adam threw back his head and laughed. “Wrong! Oh, Max. Really.”

“Listen to me!”

“Quote,” Adam said. “ ‘The only actual wrong in the world is our belief in the concept of wrong.’ Unquote. Whoever said that, Max? Or this. Quote: ‘The words good and evil are technical terms and have no business in the general vocabulary; a law should be passed by which only professional pragmatists are allowed to use them.’ Unquote. You see. I did listen to you. In fact, I memorized everything you ever said, every priceless little epigram.”

“Adam, please. This is a serious matter.”

“No! Max, I almost get the feeling that you’re concerned! But that couldn’t be, because you never get concerned. Quote. ‘I regard the world as a cheap burlesque in which the girls are all knock-kneed and the comics have but one routine; and I am doomed to watch this repetitious show because I can’t be sure that things aren’t worse outside.’ Unquote. I got a million of ’em!”

Blake had begun to pale visibly, and this shocked Adam.

“Go out and conquer the world, Max. If anything is worth doing, it’s that. You said it. I’m doing it. Following your own blueprint, too. And you want me to stop! Because I’m failing, because you’re fond of me and don’t want to see me get my feelings hurt? Is that it?”

“It’s part of it, yes,” Blake mumbled.

Adam stared at him coldly. “As they say in these parts, Professor Blake, that’s a plain crock of shit. Let me straighten you out. You came in here with a problem. You thought that you’d managed to convince me that you were an intellectual giant: a bored, cynical, knife-brilliant guy who’d seen everything and didn’t give a damn for any of it. The Dark Socrates! I’ll admit you played the role to perfection. And you were right: I was convinced. Pres caught on early and told me you were a phony—you remember Preston Haller—but I argued. For one thing, I didn’t believe him; for another, it would have been pretty hard to admit that I’d been fooled so easy.

“So I went on believing. And you knew it, too. In the Blake-ite sect, Adam Cramer was Apostle Number One!