"And _that_," I told him, "is all I wanted to know! Come on, my friend.
Let's go puzzle pedagogues!"
* * * * *
The only thing stuffier than the office of H. Logan MacDowell, Midland
University's president, was H. Logan himself. Hank and I entered
the outer office, ran a gantlet of upturned noses, and were finally
informed by a pair of glinting pince-nez that "Dr. MacDowell will see
you now, if you please." We pleased.
Beauty and the Beast greeted us. H. Logan's daughter might be a
chippie off the old blockhead, but they look as much alike as me and
my passport picture. She smiled at us as we entered, and life was all
sugar and Santa Claus. Our pal the prexy lurched and wobbled in the
depths of his swivel-chair, gave it up as a bad job, motioned us to
seats and _hrrumphed_!
"Well, Blakeson, might I interrogate as to the reason for this
unexpected visitation?"
"If," I deciphered, "you mean why am I here, sure! This is an
unveiling. Take off your polysyllables, Doctor. You're in the presence
of genius."
"Genius?" MacDowell stared distastefully at Hank's mail-order suit and
bulldog shoes. "Genius?"
"When you say that," I advised, "grovel. You see before you, Doc, a man
deserving of the finest faculty position dear old M. U. has to offer.
Meet Hank Cleaver, the human slide rule!"
* * * * *
MacDowell frowned. "I deplore, Blakeson, your unacademic speech
habits. Furthermore, you are undoubtedly aware that there are at
present no unoccupied seats on the Midland faculty. If your friend
would care to deposit his credentials with my secretary, however, and
write an application for admittance to our staff--"
Horse-sense Hank's eyes accused mine. "Write, Jim? Shucks, you didn't
tell me I had to write nothin'. You know I can't write."
Indignation overcame Prexy MacDowell's inertia. He came to his feet
quivering like a radium finder in a bucket full of pitchblende.
"What! Blakeson, do you mean to tell me you have the effrontery to
suggest for addition to our faculty a man who can neither read nor
write? Young man, this time you have gone too far! I fail to recognize
the humor in this situation. I'll have you--"
"Look, Prexy," I said, "sit down and take the load off your brains.
You didn't hire me, and you can't fire me. I report to the Advisory
Council. Now, listen to me. This man is the greatest find since
Pharoah's daughter went snipe hunting in the bulrushes. He knows stuff
and things."
"Stuff?" wheezed the college president. "Things?"
"Ask him. Anything at all. He's got more answers than a quiz program."
MacDowell stiffened like a strychnine victim. "I refuse," he proclaimed
stentoriously, "to lend myself to such a display. The dignity of my
office--"
Helen MacDowell had been staring at Hank with frank curiosity.
Now she said, "Papa, why don't you follow Jim's suggestion? Ask Mr.
Cleaver a question."
That got him. "Very well," he said. "I will ask a single question. But
if he fails to answer it--"
He had a dirty look in his eyes. I said, "Serve it straight, Doc. No
tricky place names or technical phrases."
"I shall merely ask our rustic friend," said MacDowell stiffly, "to
explain to us the fundamental laws of motion as established by Sir
Isaac Newton." And he glared at Hank and me malevolently.
Merely! I looked at Hank, and the blank expression on his pan gave me
the queasies. He said wonderingly.
"Sir Isaac Newton, Jim? Who's he?"
"Skip that part, Hank," I advised. "What the Doc wants to know is: what
natural laws apply to things moving? You know--what do they have to do
or can't do?"
"Oh!" Hank's brow furrowed. He knotted his ham-like paws and unknotted
them again. Finally a light shone in his eyes and he said.
"Well, far's I can see, fust thing is that they can't get goin' by
themselves, or if once they do, they can't stop less'n somethin' stops
'em."