Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But--" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food--blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
* * * * *
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You _can_?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"_With_ my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity--say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't _think_
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
* * * * *
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."