"His what?"
"Hyperaletheism. Higher-truth theory. His school holds that when one goes back a sufficient number of generations, everybody is bound to be descended from everybody by the laws of probability, so that a faked pedigree showing a descent from Charlemagne is virtually as good as a real one, since the person at issue is bound to be descended from him. He fails to distinguish between genealogies carefully prepared for the district archives and those prepared on commission for patrons."
"I begin to see," said Finch.
Mullen continued: "That's one of the things on which a clear rational rule should be established, but it hasn't been done as yet. Inconsistencies like that are the very devil. Once a given line of reasoning has been shown to fit the facts best, it ought to be made authoritative, don't youse think?"
"Well—" Finch was at the edge of mentioning that authority had pronounced against the heliocentric theory of Aristarchos, which turned out to be correct after all. But it would hardly be wise to pick an argument, even on intellectual grounds, with the boss historian of the district when he himself was so new to the job. He compromised: "J/d have to work that out in my own mind a little more clearly before I could answer that, Mullen, Dr. Thank thous very much. Good morning."
... Finch sat on the grass with the tall shadow of Strawberry House making a pleasant spot of cool and Orange Eulalie exhibited a pair of well-turned knees beside him. They were puzzling out the rationalized spelling of De Williams' volume, which bore across the title-page the announcement that it was restricted to members of the historical section—an announcement not in the least surprising in view of the contents. The methodology of genealogy was described in candid detail, including the process of establishing spurious facts which De Williams advised, should not be stated on any precise authority. Rather, the genealogist should say: "It is now generally believed that—" or "Careful study has shown that—", without naming the believer or student.
"I can see how this will be useful," remarked Finch. "My first commission is to find a descent from Daniel Boone for Sullivan, and the article on Boone in the ordinary encyclopedia doesn't even say whether Boone had any children. I suppose I can get that from somewhere else, however."
Eulalie said: "This De Williams is tighter than you may think, though. I mean in his general approach."
"How so?" Finch felt the touch of her shoulder against his own and noted that she had used the pronoun of equality in status for the first time. On the practice court in front of them, Terry sweatily banged away at a ball.
"Isn't that obvious? We were taught in school that whatever contributes to an orderly and happy condition of society is right. Now if you fake a good genealogy for Sullivan, you'll make him happy without making anyone unhappy. So it must be right."
"Well, there's the little matter of abstract truth," said Finch. "In the long run, mankind is happier, whether orderly or not, for knowing all the facts. Therefore, no compromise with scientific accuracy should be—"
"That's just a private idea of yours," said Eulalie. "I can think of lots of things that people wouldn't be any happier for knowing."
"Such as?" said Finch.
"Well—" said Eulalie. "I know—Didn't you ever hear about in the old days how they used to make distilled drinks, and everyone got disgustingly drunk and irrational, and there were a lot of killings. Wouldn't everyone have been happier if they hadn't ever found out how to make them in the first place?"
"But isn't that an individual matter? Why not let people drink what they please?" Finch almost let it slip that the experiment of telling them what they could not drink had been tried in his America with somewhat unfortunate results.
"Don't talk nonsense, Arthur. You're almost as bad as Bill—in a nicer way."
She fluttered eyelids at him, and he reflected that the place was rather public for courting, a fact of which he was almost instantly reminded by the sound of a heavy step on the grass, and the voice of Orange William Banker.
"What are youse doing here, Eulalie? What are youse doing, Finch? What are youse doing, Terry?"
The athlete looked around in sullen surprise, but be-? fore he could voice a protest Eulalie cut in with: "Sitting on the grass and reading with Arthur, since you ask."
The banker's face began to tint toward the familiar crimson. "Well, youse have done enough of it. Come with me." He swung to Finch: "As for youse, I'm warning youse, once and for all, to keep away from my wife."
He was gone before Finch could reply. Terry looked after the retreating form and shook his head. "That man shore don't like you, Arthur. No sir. I wouldn't want him to be that down on me."
Finch got up slowly and with unpleasant feelings surging through him. "What can he do? I have half a mind to hang around Eulalie as much as I please just to show him—"
"Better not, Arthur. Can be mighty rough when a patron's got a down on you. I dunno, but—look."
He pointed. The pair of Proctors were coming across the grass, their expressions more of boredom than the grimness to be expected from the law.
"You're under arrest again, Finch Arthur," said one.
"Huh? What's the matter this time? Have I been advertising something again?"
"Charge of indolence. Accusation by Orange William Banker. Coming easy or want to resist?—No, wait a minute, court's in session right now, and you don't have to resist 'less you think they got a good case against you."
Finch followed them gloomily to the Board Room, where he watched Sullivan dispose of the case of a mechanic who wanted to change patrons and a woman accused of having illegal children before his own name was called. Orange described his idleness during normal working hours with some asperity.
"Well, what have youse got to say?" Sullivan directed at him when the tirade was finished.
"Only that genealogy isn't like building a house," replied Finch. "To work at it at all one has to dig things out of books, and I might just as well be reading them outdoors as in—"
"That'll do, Finch Mr.," said the Politician, with a snap of his duck-billed jaw. "I see your point perfectly, and I'm sure the remainder of this court will agree with me in agreeing with it. Won't you, boys? In fact, they'd agree even if you were guilty, which you are not. Case dismissed." He banged his gavel. "On the other hand, this court itself will bring a charge against Orange William Banker for maliciously interfering with a working man while lawfully engaged in his duties. I've had just about enough of this, Bill, and I'm going to write to Fairbanks, Alaska, to ask whether they haven't'a second-rate poet they want to trade for a third-rate banker."
"Alaska!" puffed Orange. "Why you aan practically spit on the North Pole from there!"
"The better for you, Bill. Your presence there ought to warm up the climate. I should have traded you before, because you're such a rotten banker—"
"I'm not a rotten banker! You're insulting the profession!"
"Look at your personal bank account and then look at mine; and I started as a garbage-collector—"
"But you can't judge my efficiency as a banker by my personal gain. No sensible person would devote his energy merely to acquiring money when he can't do anything with it above his status."
"Maybe so. But I don't like the way you cut your hair, either; I don't like having you around. So you can start packing for Fairbanks right away. Stenographer."
"Appeal to the district," said Orange. "You'll hear more of this, even if you are a Politician."
They did hear more of it, as predicted. A couple of days later, as Finch was poring over the historic families of Kentucky, a postman handed him an official-looking letter without a stamp. Inside was a typed flimsy, which began with several dozen whereases, but at last got down to four decrees by the District Court for the Political District of Louisville. The Court ruled: