"No, I don't," I blazed at him. "But I'm damn well going to. I'm free,
white and a citizen, and I'm going to be treated like one, and not a
side-show freak!"
"Now, now," he soothed. "Doctor Kellner is a very famous and a very
busy man. He might not have realized--"
"Realize your hat! He's so used to living in the clouds he thinks the
world is one big moron. Well, I may be one, but no one is going to
tell me I am!"
"I see your point," and he stood up. "But you try to be a little more
cooperative. I'll see Kellner now," and he started out.
"Cooperative?" I bellowed at his back. "What do you think I've been
doing? What do you--"
* * * * *
He must have read the riot act. When they took me in to Kellner and
his crew it was "please, Mr. Miller" and "thank you, Mr. Miller." The
place didn't seem so cold and bare so long as I had my pants. I didn't
see Whom and his van Dyke, but I hoped it was the tile floor and not
me that gave him the concussion.
The rest of the tests, you can imagine, were almost anticlimactic. I
stopped motors, blew tubes, turned lights off and on, rang bells and
cooked the insulation on yards and yards of wire. My head they kept
connected with taped terminals and every time I blew a fuse or a motor
they would see the dials spin crazily. Then they would stand around
clucking and chattering desperately. They took X-rays by the score, hoping
to find something wrong with the shape of my head, and for all the results
they got, might have been using a Brownie on a cue ball. Then they'd back
off to the corner and sulk. One little bearded rascal, in particular, to
this day is certain that Kellner was risking his life in getting within
ten feet. He never turned his back on me that I recall; he sidled around,
afraid I would set his watch to running backwards. You know, one of the
funniest and yet one of the most pathetic things in the world is the
spectacle of someone who has spent his life in mastering a subject, only
to find that he has built a sled without runners. Long before we were
finished I thought Kellner, for one, was going to eat his tie, stripes and
all. Running around in ever-widening circles they were, like coon dogs
after a scent. They didn't get a smell. The medico who ran the
electro-cardiograph refused to make sense, after the fifth trials, out of
the wiggly marks on his graphs.
"Kellner," he stated flatly, "I don't know just what your game is, but
these readings are not true."
Kellner didn't like that. Nor did he like the man who wanted to shave
my head. I wouldn't let them do that. I look bad enough now. I
compromised by letting them soak my head in what smelled like water,
and then tying or pasting strands of tape all over my scalp. A pretty
mess I was, as bad as a woman getting a permanent wave. Worse. One
whole day I stood for that. This specialist, whatever he did, had
Kellner get me to run through my repertoire of bells and fans and
buzzers while he peered nearsightedly at his elaborate tool shop. When
the fuse would blow or the bell would ring, the specialist would wince
as though he were pinched. Kellner stood over his shoulder saying at
intervals, "What do you get? What do you get?" Kellner finally got it.
The specialist stood up, swore in Platt-deutsch, some at Kellner and
some at me and some at his machine, and left in all directions. The
gist of it was that he was too important and too busy to have jokes
played on him. Kellner just wagged his head and walked out.