I rode a bus fifty miles to see him at an Air Force Day celebration when
I was a dewy-eared kid. It's funny how kids still worship heroes who did
everything before they were even born. Uncle Max had told me about
standing outside the hospital with a bunch of boys his own age the
evening Babe Ruth died of cancer. Lindbergh seemed like an old man to me
when I finally saw him, but still active. Nobody had forgotten him. When
his speech was over I cheered him with the rest just as if I knew what
he had been talking about.
But I probably knew more about what he meant then as a boy than I did
feeling the reality of the newspaper in my hands. Grown-up, I could only
smile at myself for wanting to go to the stars myself.
Madison rapped on my office door and breezed in efficiently.
I've always thought Madison was a rather irritating man. Likable but
irritating. He's too good looking in an unassuming masculine way to
dress so neatly--it makes him look like a mannequin. That polite way of
his of using small words slowly and distinctly proves that he loves his
fellow man--even if his fellow always does have less brains or authority
than Madison himself. That belief would be forgivable in him if it
wasn't so often true.
Madison folded himself into the canary yellow client's chair at my
direction, and took a leather-bound pocket secretary from inside his
almost-too-snug jacket.
"Dr. Thorn," he said expansively, "we need you to help us locate an
atavism."