"What!" Orange was on his feet again. "I'm a patron here—you can't—"
"Go climb a tree, Bill," said Sullivan, imperturbably. "The man has been saving my life and the good name of Strawberry House, which is more than you have ever done. Now, for the sake of the argument, and because you don't want to be his patron any more, I'll admit he's not so very good a poet, maybe. That last line of his sounded more than a bit off to me. So we'll just give you your request and reclassify him, if he can pass the Board, into something with a little more status. Finch, have youse any ideas along those lines? Which direction do your talents he, if youse have any talents and even if youse haven't?"
Finch thought. "How about something in the line of archaeology or history?" he asked.
Sullivan said: "Who's got a district organization table? Thanks, Waldo. Let's see, now. District Historian— mmm—that's filled, and by a good man, I don't think the district would be caring to trade him away. There are a couple of openings for Historical Researcher and Archivist, but those are no better than the one youse have got now. Wait—here's one for District Genealogist. How would youse like that?"
"I'm not sure," said Finch. "I'd like to hear a little more about it."
"Youse would continue to live in Strawberry House," explained the politician. "Youse would report to the District Historian in professional matters and to me in everything else. Youse would stand a good chance of inheriting the District Historian's job some day, and that would make youse a patron."
"I see," said Finch.
"In the meantime," continued Sullivan, "youse would get some more status right away. What youse got now entitles youse to a two-room apartment and one wife, though I see youse have not taken advantage of all your opportunities yet. As District Genealogist, youse would have a three-room apartment, an automobile, two wives and the right to have two children."
"Sounds like a lot to get into a three-room apartment," said Finch, "but I suppose I don't have to try. All right, I'll apply."
Sullivan's sideburns waggled as he beamed. "All youse have to do now is take an aptitude test for reclassification, and you're all fixed up. There's the case all settled, Orange's application for reclassification and everything."
"You haven't heard the last of this, Mike," said Orange, turning on his heel for the door.
"And you haven't either if you try any funny tricks," Sullivan called after rum.
"When do I take this test?" asked Finch.
"Right now," said Sullivan. "Stay where youse are, my boy. I've sent for the Classification Board. Oh, Frank!" A small, burly, ugly man with thick ears came forward. "This is Coogan Francis Fixer, my special representative with the board. He'll see that youse get a square deal from them scientists, and if youse don't, he'll see that youse do anyway."
"Oughtn't I to make some preparation for the test?" asked Finch.
"Not at all, not at all. It's an aptitude test, and it tells what you're good for regardless of preparation, and if it isn't any good, there's no point in trying to prepare for it whatever. Understand? Ah, here we are. Good morning, Charley. Hello, Milo. Good morning, Julius. I'll be on my way, Arthur, and good luck to youse."
As Sullivan plowed his massive way toward the exit, the ugly little Fixer leaned close to Finch and murmured: "You sit down at this end of the table, so I can slip you the answers."
The oldest member of the Classification Board smiled at Finch from behind the table and said: "I don't believe I have met youse, sir. I am the new head of the Board, Calthorp Milo Professor. Do I understand Finch Mr., that you are a Poet and wish a test for reclassification as a Genealogist?"
"That's right, I believe," said Finch.
"Hmm—cognate but not exactly related professions," said Calthorp, fingering a lean chin. "We shall have to devise a special method." He held a brief whispered consultation with the other members of his board, then turned and faced Finch. "We'll begin with your powers of mathematical extrapolation. What is the term following 31 in the series 1,3,7, 15,31?"
Finch scribbled a few figures on the pad that had been laid before him. This should work out easily; a series of the form x (n plus 1) equals (xn plus 2n) ... Beside him, out of the corner of* his eye, he could see Coogan working energetically over his own pad. Finch was about to call out, "Sixty-three" when Coogan tipped his pad up so that a large "95" was visible, scrawled across the topmost sheet.
Finch looked back at his pad. Could he have made a mistake in so simple a calculation? Or was this some new trap, in which the board members and Coogan were concerned? The members were regarding him only with a kindly, expectant interest; Coogan Francis Fixer they did not appear to see at all.
Finch glanced over his own calculation, found no error, tipped his pad so Coogan could see it. With a worried frown the little man began recalculating. But at that moment something stirred in Finch's memory and he asked to have the question repeated.
"Ha!" he cried, "I thought so. There isn't any term following 31 in the series 1, 3,7,15,31!"
Six pairs of frosty eyebrows at the other limit of the table went up simultaneously. "By Jove," said Calthorp Professor, "he's right, even though that wasn't intended as a catch question. He caught us, if anything. Gentlemen, I think we may give him a special mark for intense perspicuity on this question, do not youse?" He turned to the other members of the board and five heads nodded in unison.
"Now, Finch, here's one for sense of deduction. Youse are the captain of a ship sailing from New York to Liverpool. On the third day out, youse discover that youse are in Latitude 40, Longitude 103; that there are 36 gallons of drinking water aboard; that your crew comprises fourteen persons, twelve of whom are beer-drinkers who will require little water. Youse are carrying a cargo of eucalyptus nuts insured for sixteen cents per ton per day. What status do youse have?"
Once more Coogan Francis Fixer began figuring furiously. Finch thought a moment, glanced at his pad, saw that it was covered with figures, and answered: "The status of an idiot, I suppose, if I couldn't figure out that I seemed to be sailing a ship in the wrong direction and across the Rocky Mountains."
"I think that rates an approval mark," said Calthorp Professor and the heads nodded again. "Very well, how about this: suppose that youse are travelling toward Indianapolis and encounter an individual of very high status, say a judge of the Supreme Court, accompanied by all seven of his wives; that each of these wives is possessed of seven containers; that each container harbors seven feline pets; that each feline is nursing seven young of the same species. Considering-human beings, the containers, the pets and the young thereof as separate units, how many units are bound for Indianapolis?"
Out of the corner of his eye Finch saw Coogan's paper covered with a long series of sevens, and out of the corner of his own the Fixer was scowling to warn Finch against rash guesses. The members of the board watched in owl-eyed solemnity.
Finch laughed. "There is only one unit bound for St. Ives—I mean Indianapolis; namely, me, Finch Arthur."
Six looks of astonishment met each other at the far side of the table. "I do not know that I have met a more acute logician," said Calthorp Professor, in an awed voice.