CHAPTER 3

Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor mumbled he had a report to make.

Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each other.

"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.

"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."

"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.

"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense. But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you, your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."

"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn in life that you don't get out of books, son."

"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."

"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very well. Let's step into the hall."

Ferris followed them docilely.

"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.

"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.

"How?"

Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.

"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"

"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make him understand."

"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.

"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.

"You can?" Mitchell said.

Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain cells to function properly."

"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.

"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."

The colonel yelled.

Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.

The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides. "I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly once in a human race."

"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."

"You can?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.

"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."

"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the knees.

"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've been saying and I don't like it."

"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"

"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."

"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."

"With my headaches, like before?"

Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is a dismal failure."

"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.

Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw Macklin slowly shaking his head.

"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying, worrying."

"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.

Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing. How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say, what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"

Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.

"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell said.

"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."

"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can."

"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked momentarily glum that it wasn't.

Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel? I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."

"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."

They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.

"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can cure your husband of his present condition."

"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"

"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."

She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."

"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court order overruling your husband's wishes."

She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That was my original thought. But I've redecided."

"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.

"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again, where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy now. Like a child, but happy."

"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order declaring him incompetent."

"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.

"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin to sanity."

"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.

The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"

"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is involved."

"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"

"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."

"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment there is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell interjected.

Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him comfortable...."

Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led him back into the hall.

"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life, and now she can dominate him completely."

"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.

"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous of her husband's genius."

"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."

"I'll go with you," Ferris said.

Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.

Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"

"To celebrate," Ferris said.

The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."

On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in bewilderment.