What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to _me_ for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider--?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"_Our_ discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin--"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin--who _was_ the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University--had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of _Ad
astra per aspirin_.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
* * * * *
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.