“Ladies and gentlemen,” the show host said to his studio audience from the center of the brightly lit stage, “please welcome Steve Lewis, of Vitalis Librorum.”

The audience clapped fervently as Steve came out onto the stage. He was not wearing a suit, nor Italian leather shoes. He did wear a blazer and dress shirt, but no tie. He accented those with simple blue jeans and tennis shoes. He still had not worn his Breitling, nor any other watch, since it had been returned to him when he left the neuropsychiatric ward. He had changed.

He walked happily up to his host, Max Agawa. They shook hands and took their places, Steve on the couch and Max behind his stage desk. As the applause began to die down, Max began the pre-interview.

“You know, Steve,” Max teased, “you were our third choice. No, that’s not even true. You weren’t even on the list. They foisted you off on us because we couldn’t get Naomi or Lowell.”

“Well if that’s true,” Steve teased back, “why did your studio beg me to change my vacation plans with my parents? Why didn’t you just settle for some other behind-the-scenes talent?”

“Well, we get what we can get!” Max said with a big grin. Steve knew show hosts had no talent other than being boisterous before a crowd while on camera, well, except for maybe Carson. The remark made no sense, but he said it happily enough every one clapped.

Max became somber for a moment, “My condolences, by the way. I understand you and Lowell had become good friends.”

“Thank you. Yes, Lowell helped me straighten out problems I had been ignoring. He got me on a good path.”

Steve would have liked to eulogize Lowell a little longer, but Max kept the conversation moving forward.

“So,” Max pulled out a copy of the newly-released book and placed it his desk where he knew the studio camera could grab a tight close-up, “we’re all dying to know… fact,” he said dramatically, “or fiction?”

Steve smiled.

“I’d love to give your audience a definitive answer, but the truth is … I don’t know.”

“Come on, Steve, are you telling me there is even a possibility that this book was written by a woman in the early nineteen hundreds…”

The crowd let out a cautionary bellow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That a person in the early nineteen hundreds could write a futuristic tale whose accuracy exceeded the scientific knowledge of the time? That smacks of a publicity stunt to me! And it’s working. This book is flying off the shelves.”

Steve chuckled.

“I’m not that clever, Max. I couldn’t have come up with something that brilliant. But you have no way of knowing that. You have to remember that Jules Verne predated Naomi Mase by several decades. H.G. Welles predated her by a couple decades. But that isn’t going to convince your audience,” he looked toward the crowd, “right?”

The applauded enthusiastically.

“Shall I tell you what we do know, Max?”

“Yes,” Max answered exuberantly, “illuminate the facts for us.”

“First off, we have the original manuscript, the one supposedly written my Ms. Mace’s own hand while she attended college in Southern Virginia. That’s pretty strong evidence. We’ve handed the manuscript over to professionals. They’ve determined that the paper and ink are dated to that time period, and the script matches the style of feminine writing of the time.”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Steve wondered if there were a large contingent of feminists in the audience. At that comment, they erupted into applause. Steve didn’t want Max to take the moment into a new segue, which he knew he’d do, so he continued atop the applause.

“But we have no other samples of her writing, so we cannot prove she is the author. There is also the possibility it is an expert forgery. Our loudest critics, mostly other publishers, make this claim. Some accuse me of being behind it.”

Steve could tell Max had been patient enough. Apparently Max didn’t like his guests speaking more than a few sentences before taking back the audience.

“Isn’t it true that shortly after you met Lowell, you took an extended absence. It’s been alleged you wrote the forgery at that time. Care to enlighten us on your whereabouts?”

This was not a new accusation. To date, he’d ignored it. He realized then, he could not allow it to take hold.

“Out of respect for Lowell and his grandmother, yes, I’ll answer the allegation.”

The studio became deathly silent. He knew the cameras focused tightly on his face. He tried to not move and ruin the shot.

“The doctors call it a psychotic break.”

“That sounds awful convenient,” Max accused.

And that was the point at which Steve no longer liked Max.

“I’ll tell you what, Max,” Steve began with a stern expression and a cold language.

“You name the psychiatrist of your choice, an independent third party. I’ll release all my medical records to them, not you, and you can ask them if someone in my mental state could create what my critics are calling a ‘brilliant forgery’ in the course of weeks I was on leave and receiving treatment.

“That, or we can talk about defamation. How does that sound? Ready to lay this ridiculous accusation to bed, Max?”

The audience let out a loud, “ooooh.” Steve’s anger at being accused of a crime, and his veiled threat in retort was not lost on them.

“Fair enough, Steve, you weren’t the one who forged the manuscript.”

It made Steve angry that he kept implying the manuscript was a forgery with no evidence. Max was shaping his audience’s beliefs with no cause to do so. It was vindictive.

“Tell us why Lewis Sterling named Vitalis Librorum as his estate’s executor. It seems … irregular that he’d do that.”

“No it doesn’t,” Steve shot back immediately.

He didn’t give Max even a moment to interject.

“We would be receiving royalties for his family’s book sales from Vitalis Librorum. Lewis had no descendants, no heirs. He was very impressed with our literacy programs, and wanted that to be his family’s legacy. Per his will, his estate was liquidated in its entirety. All durable property was auctioned by a licensed auctioneer that specialized in estate auctions. The real estate was sold; I understand a developer purchased it and plans to raze the buildings. The monies were used to establish an endowment at the college Naomi’s attended in the early nineteen hundreds, and royalties would continue to contribute to it. One of the stipulations on the endowment is a scholarship program for black women in the field of English or literature.

“What’s irregular about that Max; what’s irregular about it?”

“It sounds to me like you personally benefitted as the executor of the estate.”

“Nothing you said is true. The attorneys for Vitalis Librorum executed the estate and a bonded auction house conducted the auction fully in accordance with the laws of Virginia.

“I did successfully bid for several items, including a beautiful four poster bed that had belonged to Naomi and had been handcrafted by her father. I disclosed the history of all the items to the extent I knew them, so I did not conceal their historic extrinsic value. It was a public auction, and I bid as a member of the public.”

“Even if you’re a skeptic,” Max announced as he wrapped up their segment, again making a jab at Naomi’s biography, “Vitalis Librorum’s The Cosmic Explorer …”

“Naomi Mase’s The Cosmic Explorer …” Steve interjected.

Max shot him an angry look.

“… is a fascinating read. We’ll be back after this break to visit with Bai Xiu, an expert in the field of document forgeries.”

Jerk, Steve thought to himself as he smiled and clapped with the audience.

He’d been pressured to do this interview, which he didn’t mind. He knew it would be a hit piece, but that was the way of popular media, including print books. No press is bad press, he reminded himself. Their sales — rather, Naomi’s sales — truly were astronomical.

If he had not experienced all that he had, he supposed he too would be a jealous publisher seeking the fraud. But, as it was, none of these things mattered anymore.

He’d learned how to communicate with the computer.