Free Spellbinder by Collin Wilcox

I’d no sooner done it, than it paled on me. And besides, there’s no trick to evangelizing backward people. All you do is pass out trinkets with the prayer books—and then write it all off against profits from America. But the Chinese, that’s a different matter. The Chinese are smart. And they’re tough, too. They’re worthy adversaries.
    “So that’s the reason for the China Crusade, Howard,” he said, dropping his voice and smiling across the desk in genial conclusion. “It may kill me. And I may fail. Both things are possible. But also, I may succeed. I may pull off something that nobody’s ever done before. And that, Howard, is what it’s all about. That’s what makes me go. That’s why I’m famous—and intend to become still more famous.”
    “If the Chinese go for it,” Flournoy said, “it’ll be because they’ve figured how to turn a profit. As you say, they’re smart. And tough.”
    Holloway smiled. “Just so they do go for it. Which they will.” He lowered his voice to a richer, more confidential note. “Just so Time covers it. That’s the essential point.”
    Flournoy’s thin lips stirred in a pale facsimile of an answering smile. He shrugged, saying quietly, “I can’t argue with you, Austin. And I can’t fault you, either. You want to go to China, I’m with you. We’ll do it. However, since we’re being frank about your health—since you’re being frank, which I appreciate—I’d like to ask a question.”
    “What’s going to happen after I die. Is that the question?”
    Deliberately, Flournoy nodded. “That’s the question, Austin.”
    “Well,” he answered, “the plain truth is that I’m damned if I know. I’ve got seventy percent of the stock, as you know, and you’ve got the rest. When I die, Katherine gets thirty percent. Which gives you and Elton equal shares.”
    “Thank you. I appreciate that. I really do. But that’s not what I’m asking.”
    “I know that’s not what you’re asking. You’re asking who’s going to stand up in front of the cameras. And the answer is, I just plain don’t know. It’ll be either Elton or Teresa—or maybe Bob, for all I know.” He spread his hands wide across the desk. It was a rich, eloquent, truth-laden gesture—of TV quality, no doubt. When his heart behaved, the magic came easily, as gracefully as ever. “It’s up to the faithful, really—the people who send in the dollars. In the end, they’ll decide. Not me.”
    “That’s bullshit, Austin. And you know it. You tell the faithful how to feel. And what to feel.”
    Amiably, he smiled. “Maybe.”
    “For God’s sake, put Elton in front of the camera. Now. Bring him along. The Hour’s always had a family motif. That’s its trademark. If Elton doesn’t succeed you, it’ll be like trying to sell Coca Cola without the logo. It just won’t work.”
    He smiled—a lazily teasing smile. “I consider that very selfless of you, Howard. Because, if Elton takes over, it’s an even bet he’d fire you.”
    “That may be,” Flournoy answered evenly. “I’d lose my salary. But I’d still have thirty percent of a going concern. I’d happily take my chances. I can always get another job.”
    “If Teresa takes over, you might have both.”
    Again Flournoy’s lips twisted mirthlessly. “You’ve never liked Elton much. Have you?”
    Instead of answering, Holloway turned to the intercom, asking: “Is Elton out there, Marge?”
    “Yessir. But—” As she hesitated, Holloway sensed tension in her voice. “But Mr. Mitchell’s here, too, sir. He’d like to see you. It’s—” Once more, she hesitated. Then: “It’s important, he said.”
    “Send them both in.” As he waited for the tall walnut door to swing open, he exchanged a puzzled frown with Flournoy. Unless it was a matter of life or death—his death—Mitchell wouldn’t intrude. Mitchell would wait to be summoned.
    Wearing a khaki safari shirt that bulged over a fast-growing paunch, Elton