Quintuplets alone would be bad enough, without
a census taker who could count them in advance!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity October 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In addition to being a genius in applied atomics, Maitland Browne's a
speedster, a practical joker, and a spare-time dabbler in electronics.
As far as speed's concerned, I had a very special reason for wanting
to get home early tonight, and swift straight flight would have been
perfectly okay with me. The trouble was that Browne decided that this
was his night to work on Fitzgerald.
Browne lifted the three passenger jetcopter--his contribution to our
commuterpool--from the flight stage at Brookhaven National Laboratories
in a strictly prosaic manner. Then the flight-fiend in him came out
with a vengeance. Suddenly and simultaneously he set the turbo-jets to
full thrust and dived to treetop level; then he started hedgehopping
toward Long Island Sound. His heavy dark features were sardonic in
the rear-view mirror; his narrowed, speculative eyes flicked to it
intermittently to scan Ed Fitzgerald beside me.
Browne's action didn't surprise, startle, or even frighten me at first.
I'd seen the mildly irritated look in his eyes when Fitzgerald had
come meandering up--late as usual!--to the ship back on the stage. I
had rather expected some startling development; provoking Ed Fitzgerald
to a measurable nervous reaction was one of Browne's burning ambitions.
I also had a certain positive hunch that Fitzgerald's tardiness was
deliberate.
In any event my mind was ninety per cent elsewhere. Tessie--my
wife--had visifoned me from Doc Gardiner's office in New Canaan just
before I'd left my office at the Labs and had told me with high elation
that we were destined to become the proud parents of quintuplets! I
was, therefore, now going back bewilderedly over our respective family
trees, seeking a precedent in the genes.
I was shocked out of my genealogical pursuits when Browne skimmed
between the tall stereo towers near Middle Island. I prayerfully looked
at Fitzgerald for assistance in persuading Browne to cease and desist,
but Fitzgerald was staring as imperturbably as ever at Browne's broad
back, a faintly derisive smile on his face.
I should have expected that. Even a major cataclysm couldn't budge
Fitzgerald. I've seen him damp an atomic pile only milliseconds from
critical mass without batting an eye before, during or after.
I tried to console myself. But while I knew Browne's reaction time
was uncommonly fast and his years of 'copter flight singularly
accident-free, I still could not relax. Not tonight, with the knowledge
that I was a prospective father of not just the first but the _first
five_. I wanted to get home to Tessie in a hurry, certainly, but I
wanted to get there all in one proud piece.
Browne went from bad to worse and began kissing the 'copter's belly
on the waves in Long Island Sound. The skipping stone effect was
demoralizing. Then, trying to top that, he hedgehopped so low on the
mainland that the jets blew the last stubbornly clinging leaves from
every oak tree we near-missed crossing Connecticut to our destination
on the Massachusetts border.
Fitzgerald was the only one who talked on the way. Browne was too
intent on his alleged driving. I was, frankly, too scared for
intelligible conversation. It wasn't until later, in fact, that I
realized that Ed Fitzgerald's monologue had clearly solved a problem we
were having on adjusting the new cosmotron at the Labs.
"We made good time tonight," Browne said, finally easing up as we
neared home.
Fitzgerald grinned.
I found my voice after a moment and said, "It's a good thing radar
doesn't pick up objects that low or C.A.A. would be breathing down your
fat neck! As it is, I think the cops at Litchfield have probably 'cast
a summons to your p. o. tray by now. That was the mayor's 'copter you
almost clipped."
Browne shrugged as if he'd worry about it--maybe!--if it happened. He's
top physicist at the Labs. In addition to his abilities, that means he
has connections.
* * * * *
We dropped imperturbable Fitzgerald on his roofstage at the lower end
of Nutmeg Street; then Browne dropped a relieved me two blocks up and
proceeded the five blocks to his enormous solar house at the hill's
summit.
I energized the passenger shaft, buttoned it to optimum descent and
dropped to first. There was a note from Tessie saying she'd gone
shopping with Fitzgerald's wife, Miriam. So I'd start celebrating alone!
I punched the servomech for Scotch-on-the-rocks. As I sat sipping it I
kept thinking about Maitland Browne. It wasn't just the recollection
of the ride from Brookhaven. It was also the Scotch. Association.
I thought back to the night Tessie and I had gone up to Browne's to
spend the evening, and Browne invited me to sit in a new plush chair. I
sat all right, but promptly found that I was completely unable to rise
despite the fact that I was in full possession of my faculties. He'd
then taken our respective wives for a midnight 'copter ride, leaving me
to escape the chair's invisible embrace if I could. I couldn't.
Luckily he'd forgotten that his liquor cabinet was within arm's reach
of the chair; I'd made devastating inroads on a pinch bottle by the
time they'd returned. He switched off his psionic machine but fast
then, and didn't ever try to trap me in it again!
The visifone buzzed and I leaped to it, thinking of Tessie out shopping
in her delicate condition--