I suppose he was right in changing his name. We couldn't very well have an Imperator named Kilmer the First, or Jones the First. Much too common, not at all in keeping. Gawky fellow--that Kilmer. When Bard brought me a sample of his work--I guess I'll have to call it that--we both had a good laugh over it! Atrocious spelling! Couldn't follow the proofreader's marks. Indeed, I wonder if the fellow could even read! The punctuation! And the grammar! I called the boy to the office that morning--or was it the next day? No matter. I called him in and told him, as kindly as possible, that I thought there were other vocations to which he might be better suited. The irony of it! Kilmer Jones--Kyle I! And he stood there, I remember, with those seventeen-year-old hands that were all knuckles and bone and chapped skin, twisting those hands and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Please, Mr. Booth," he said, his voice cracking. "I ain't got no other job in mind. I wanna be a noospaper man. I ain't got no--" If not for that "ain't got no," I think I might have relented. But no one is going to ruin the English language as he did! Not in my offices! I took him to task severely for his offensive usage, outlined a correct example of what he had attempted to say, gave him a brief lesson in the history of the tongue, and explained why it had been chosen as the official Terran speech. I think my conclusion was, "You'll be much better off in a position which requires you to quote neither Milton nor Shakespeare nor any author save possibly those who write the comic strips." "Got no training," he said softly. (I supposed it was to keep his voice from exhibiting its usual adolescent gymnastics.) I shuddered slightly, I remember. "You mean, 'I _have_ no training.'" "Yeah ..." softly again. "Yeah, Mr. Booth." "_Yes!_" I cried impatiently. "Not 'yeah,' but _yes_!" I searched for his severance pay on my desk, wondering who the devil had hired him in the first place. Gave him three weeks pay, as I recall it, one more than necessary. Unmannerly pup! He just stood there for a minute and then finally left without even a "Thank you," or "Good-by." And this is the man who is Kyle the First, Ruler of Terra at the age of thirty-seven! I wonder what he is like now.... * * * * * January 1, 1 New San Francisco There is no longer any need to wonder. Surprisingly few heads have rolled, but apparently Jonesy chooses to exhibit his power in other ways. Thanksgiving Day, a custom preserved in certain portions of the Directorate of North America, is three weeks away--even though it is January. The Year One. There used to be some childish joke about the Year One. Don't remember it just now.