"But that fantastic!" exploded Ryerson."They can't do that."
"That's what I thought. But it seems that, under the Twenty-fifth Amendment, they can."
"If they do," growled Ryerson, "the country's intellectual life will sink to the plane of barbarity that it has in some European countries."
"If, I could get money enough to finish my protoplasm work," said Banta, "I'd fix that all right. People would be so grateful for those extra years that there wouldn't be any more hooey about 'science, the destroyer of human values'."
"Sure," said Methuen, "but how are you going to do it? I haven't any money, and neither has Eirik here. And there aren't any millionaires left—kind-hearted or otherwise. I ought to know—I've done enough fishing for endowments in my time."
Their eyes wandered dispiritedly around the Station. Would these fine buildings soon be deserted and falling into decay? Sarratt's song floated over:
Methuen sighed. He's happy any way. I wish I knew how he did it. We've diluted the alcohol inhis drinks down to zero, but it doesn't change his condition in the least. Of course e's one of those whose system absorbs alcohol rapidly and gives it off slowly, so that he can get lit more easily than most people. But that doesn't explain his getting lit on nothing at all."
"What'll become of him when we... ah—" Banta left the sentence unfinished.
Methuen shrugged."I don't know what you can do with them when they go to pieces at that age. By the way, Representative Flynn of Virginia is coming down here for a week. I invited him when I was in Washington. If anybody can head off H. R. 1346, he can, and maybe we can work on him while he's here."
"I hope," grumbled Banta."God, how I hat the thought of going back to teaching!"
Johnny was still thinking of the incorrigible Sarratt. Somehow, he knew he had the clue to the mystery already; it remained to identify it and connect it up. The only book of fiction he'd ever enjoyed was a detective story. It dealt with the solution of a problem by reasoning; on that plane he and the author could really get together. Most fiction bored him; it dealt largely with human emotional crises. Johnny, not being human, had never felt those precise emotions, and found such works incomprehensible.
The song started again, and something clicked in Johnny's brain. It didn't seem possible, but if all the other possibilities were eliminated—
He landed with a thump on the concrete below, and headed for Sarratt's hangout. But hold on now: he'd have to go about this gradually. The first step was to get Sarratt so accustomed to seeing him that he wouldn't be noticed.
It was five minutes later that old Sarratt saw a large black bear curled against the side of his shed asleep. He thought of waking Johnny and ordering him away, but forbore. There wasn't any need of it, really; the goats were so used to Johnny that the sight and smell of him no longer frightened them.
Johnny was doing the same thing next day, when Methuen arrived with a well-dressed man whose prominent stomach contrasted with his youngish face. Johnny shook hands with him gravely. Sarratt bounced suddenly out of the shed, looking suspiciously at the two men. He relaxed when introduced.
"Mighty interesting place you'll find, Mr. Flynn," he said."Course, 'tisn't what it used to be when we had plenty of money. But we do the best we can with what we have. Even I do, although I'm just supposed to be an old soak and no good for anything. Heh, heh!" he cackled at Methuen's embarrassment."I'll show these young squirts who think they know all there is to know about science something yet!" He burped slightly, excused himself, and disappeared into the shed again.
Methuen, relieved to see the last of the old man, called "Come along, Johnny, will you?" and moved off.
Johnny wasn't pleased to have his investigation interrupted that way, any more than any scientist would be. But since it was Methuen, he came. The Station Director was meanwhile pointing out his and that to his guest, and thinking how fortunate they were in having Honoria Velez, who could do wonders in the way of cooking on a limited budget. If he could get Flynn to feeling good enough after dinner, maybe he could go to work on him. In theory he disapproved of practical politicians; but, he was mildly annoyed with himself to discover, he couldn't help responding to this specimen's infectious good humor.
Later, when Flynn had orated on the headache that the beer question was giving the people's representatives in Washington, and Johnny had demonstrated his mental accomplishments with pad and typewriter, Methuen have his guest the works on the subject of government support of scientific research.
Flynn said, "Hm-m-m. You're asking us to take the unpopular side of a question. I'm not sure that I could really help you out, much as I admire you personally, Mr. Methuen. I'm not the president, you know."
"True. But you're chairman of the House Committee on Patents, which will have the say on H. R. 1346. And you're the most influential member of the Populist National Committee. I know that what you say goes with the Administration."
"Shucks, you flatter me. But just why should we take up this hyeah crusade of yours?"
Methuen talked about the value of research to human welfare, mentioning Banta's protoplasm rejuvenation work as an example. Flynn, smiling blandly, replied: "Sure, that's all very true. But what's that got to do with me? Your business is science, but mine's politics. Don't misunderstand me: I have no objection to science. In fact the thing I like about you scientists is that naïve benevolence that don't take the prejudices of ordinary humans into account. Maybe it would be better if more folks was like you.
"But in my business you got to be practical, and that means not stickin' your neck out unless you can see some tangible advantage. Specifically, I meant just what was there in this project for the Populist Party in general and me in particular?"
"There's the prospect of having your life lengthened."
"I'm not old enough to worry about that yet. And Banta hasn't actually worked it out yet, has he? Then somebody else might discover a method of prolonging life, even if he didn't."
"But don't you see—" Methuen stopped, and knew he was licked. What had he to offer? Promises about the glorious future of the human race, which wouldn't win many votes in the forthcoming mid-term elections. He felt old, Flynn could talk about the remoteness of age, but it didn't seem so far off to the gray Director.
Sarratt led a nanny goat into the shed and locked the door. He was a little startled to see Johnny curled up in a corner. Should he— But the bear seemed sound asleep. And, in his chronic state of happy befuddlement, Gordon Sarratt's critical faculties weren't over-sharp. He tethered the goat, put a bucket under it, and milked. Instead of milk, the animal produced a dark-brown liquid. Sarratt continued until he had a pint of the substance. He poured this into a stout stainless-steel flask, connected it to the CO2 container, and opened the valve. There was a dull burbling sound for a moment, then the old man disconnected the flask again. Foam pushed out of the neck before he clapped a cap on it. He cooled it in ice water. Presently he drank, smiling between gulps.
So they thought he was just an old bum, did they? They thought he was all through, eh? Well, they'd think differently if they knew about this! And it hadn't been so difficult to modify a few cells in the goats to give a fermenting action. Just good old orthogonal mutation. And then all you had to do was feed the animals a little malt and hops with their grass. Result: beer. True, it was a bit warm and flat at first, but the CO2 fixed that. And nobody could kick about its lack of strength! He'd like to ask that politician fellow in; he seemed like a good egg. But he didn't dare let anyone in on the secret for fear the sourpusses at the Station would interfere. Maybe he'd made a mistake in writing his nephew that letter. Damn it, he'd have to break this habit of thinking out loud. First thing you knew he'd give away the whole thing.