The Incorrigible

L. Sprague de Camp

"... and therefore, by the authority vested in my, I confer upon you, honoris causa, the degree of Doctor of Science, and all rights, privileges, and prerogatives pertaining thereto." The president of the university extended the scroll. The politician accepted it, bowed, and smiled. The president bowed and smiled back. Flynn, the politician, stepped to the front of the stage and began his speech on "Science and the People."

In the audience, Mrs. Alonso, who had come to see her son graduate, squirmed, for she was fleshy and June days in New York are apt to be sultry. Then she became aware of something peculiar about one of the wearers of academic caps who occupied the front rows. The normal human ear is pink and hairless, and lies more or less flat against the skull. The ears of the cap-wearer were covered with black fur, and stuck out at an altogether unhuman angle. The ears' owner turned his head slightly, and Mrs. Alonso gasped. The cap was that of a receiver of a degree at Columbia University, but the yellowish muzzle was that of a bear!

Johnny Black lay prone in the warm Caribbean sun, reading a book propped against the roots of a tree in the courtyard. A fly buzzed around his head; Johnny watched it out of the corner of his eye. The opportune moment came; his jaws snapped, and there was no more fly. He swallowed, and reflected that there were some advantages in being a healthy American black bear—strong muscles, lightning reflexes, and a stomach that could digest anything short of scrap-iron. A man, now, would be nauseated by the mere thought of eating a fly.

Still, he wished he could talk like a man, instead of having to write with one claw on one of those trick pads on which a mark appears when you scrape it, or pick away laboriously with his claws at a typewriter, whenever he had something to say. Take those scientists who came down to the St. Croix Biological Station to give him mental tests—they often inferred that because he couldn't talk he couldn't think either. He knew that, thanks to Methuen's famous cerebral injection, he was as smart as most of them, and it annoyed him to have them talk pidgen-English to him. He also resented the familiarity that some developed. During one test he had been irritated enough to scrawl on his pad, "Do you scratch all your test subjects behind the ears?" and shove the pad in the professor's face. Well, there had been fewer of those fellows around lately; there were, it appeared, financial difficulties I the science business.

He pushed his spectacles, which had been displace by the jerk of his head, back into place, and resumed reading. But it was interrupted again, this time by a thin, piping song:

"Ha-ha-ha, shake a leg;

We must finish up this keg.

When the rest have hit the floor,

We will drag in one keg more.

Ha-ha-ha, you and me,

Little brown jug, how I love thee!"

Old Sarratt again, thought Johnny. Gordon Sarratt, tottering wreck of what had once been a great geneticist, was allowed to live at the Station and putter with goat-breeding as a sentimental gesture toward his past scientific accomplishments and reputation.

A storklike man with a little gray goatee strolled into the courtyard: Ira Methuen, Johnny's moss and the Station's new director. After him came chubby young Edgar Banta.

"Hey, Ira!" called the latter."How long have you been back."

"Couple of hours; I just finished unpacking. What's new around here? From the song, I take it the Old Boy is the same."

"Yeah; it's funny, too, because we've been cutting down steadily on his alcohol, but still he's soused. I don't see how he does it. What's new by you?"

"Oh, I saw a lot of people in New York—old Weinstraub for one. He's the same old kidder—told me he'd been lucky to quit the directorship when he did, and razzed me unmercifully about the trouble I'd steeped into by taking the job. But he'll try to help us out with H. R. 1346. Then I saw my boy—he's got a job in the New York City high schools, you know."

"How's that damned bill coming along?"

"H. R. 1346? It looked bad when I stopped in Washington. The affaire Bemis had quite an effect. People are saying that, if a scientist can discover something that would give him control of the planet, the way Bemis' molds would have if Johnny hadn't interfered, the sort of thing ought to be discouraged.

"We thought it was very nice of the government to pass the McQuade Bill giving us all a handout to make up for our losses on income in recent years. But we forgot that there wasn't anything we could do if they changed their minds. And the Bemis business seems to have changed their minds. So they cut off the appropriation, and now they're going to pass this new bill stopping such grants in the future. When the Council of Eastern Universities finds that they have to cut expenses again, we'll be the first to catch it."

"Hell's fire!" snorted Banta."Just when I'm getting somewhere with my protoplasm rejuvenation research. If I can keep going for another year, I can lick the problem and add 50 percent to the average human life. But if the money stops—the time and funds I've spent so far are just wasted."

"I know," replied Methuen."You want to lick the problem so you can get a raise and get married; I want to get some income for the Station to bring the old place back to life. I suppose Johnny there is the only one who doesn't want anything. But cheer up, Ed; you can become a draftsman if you have to, and Johnny and I can join a circus."

Methuen erred in saying that Johnny didn't want anything. The bear had been listening; he was a natural-born eavesdropper. It was easy, because people so readily forgot that he understood them. And what Johnny wanted was to know. Now Sarratt's behaviour in the face of the reduction of his alcohol intake called for investigation. Johnny welcome a little mystery; the Station had been rather dull since lack of funds had forced most of the scientists to leave. He put his book away and shuffled off toward the goat-pasture.

He found Sarratt peacefully snoozing on the grass on the edge of the pasture. A few feet away a billy goat cropped methodically. Johnny sat down to watch, far enough away to to alarm the animal. There was little sound but the snapping of grass-stems. The goat's nose came nearer the sleeping man's head. Johnny held his breath. To those stupid brutes anything that looked like grass was edible. Would it—

The little man awoke with a shriek, clutched his desecrated whiskers, and slammed a bony fist into the goat's face. The goat jumped back and galloped off, to resume its feeding at a safe distance. Sarratt muttered in his beard and went back to sleep.

Johnny experienced that warm feeling inside which, in human beings, is accompanied by laughter. Apparently the geneticist hadn't seen him. He trotted over to the shed and investigated it. Johnny suspected that the goat business was a blind; that the old man had a still concealed somewhere. But inside he found nothing suspicious. There were the simple equipment of animal husbandry a few pieces of discarded scientific apparatus, a C02 container, a microscope, a pile of notebooks, a number of jars full of vinegar flies, and a Sarratt Mutator. This was a fairly simple machine for focusing beams of particles such as protons on the desired parts of the experimentee's anatomy. Johnny had a vague notion of how it worked; it hardly seemed usable as a still. He plodded out and watched Sarratt again, and presently dropped off to sleep himself—

Two days later he lay on the edge of the roof of the biophysics building, soaking in sunlight. So far, all the results that his snooping had produced were that Sarratt had let him into the shed while he made a blood-test on a newborn kid.

Below him, the Station's three remaining scientists (if you didn't count Sarratt) were earnestly conversing. Methuen said, "This is the worst news I've had yet. It not only looks as though H. R. 1346 were going through, but there's a move o to forbid all scientific research."

"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:

"If I had a cow that gave such milk,

I'd dress her in the finest silk;

I'd feed her on the finest hay,

And milk her forty times a day!

Ha-ha-ha, you and me,

Little brown jug, how I love thee!"

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.

Say, this animal fermentation would kick up a rumpus if it got out, wouldn't it? He'd been reading in the paper about the troubles in the beer industry, the racketeering, and the explosive proposal to make beer a public utility and have the government take it over. The toughest outfit seemed to be the Achilles Brewing Corp. of Chicago. Say, wasn't that the company his nephew was working for? Sure—he was a salesman for it! By gum, that letter had been a mistake. Those fellows would stop at nothing. And if anything happened to this herd of goats, it would take years to develop another pure line like them. He'd never live that long. Oh well, why worry? Another mug of goat-beer would banish any apprehension of the future.

Johnny waited until Sarratt was snoring and tried to sneak out. Unfortunately the door was still locked, and he couldn't quite see himself stealing Sarratt's keys and trying with paws and teeth to insert each in turn in the padlock and turn it. It was simpler to hook some claws into the neck of the lock and pull it off. The fact that it took a good part of the door with it was simply unfortunate.

He found Methuen looking gloomily at the ocean. Johnny was sorry; this was the only man for whom he had a real affection. He reared up and squawked his general interrogatory "Wok?" Methuen explained his troubles.

Johnny fetched his pad and began writing. He hadn't intended to tell what he had just seen and heard; his curiosity had been satisfied, and he didn't like interfering in the mysterious relationships of human beings. But maybe his boss could make some pecuniary use of Sarratt's discovery.

Methuen read, whistled, and got up to do some investigating of his own.

Later he hunted up the politician."Mr. Flynn," he said, "last night you were telling me of the trouble the beer issue was causing you, between the gangsterism in the in industry on one hand and the political capital that the Democrats and the few remaining Republicans would make of any public-ownership proposal. I believe your words were that it was worth your political life to take a stand on the question. Now, how would you like to have the whole thing settled without your having to pass any laws at all?" And he explained Sarratt's discovery.

Flynn looked incredulous."But how can they do that?"

"Science. That old mascot of ours, Gordon Sarratt, was once the world's greatest geneticist. He discovered the principle of orthogonal mutation back in 1949, and was the first to develop industrial uses for the products of controlled mutation. Now he's gone a step further. I've tried the stuff, and it's good. A little unusual—but definitely good. Also potent."

"Flynn roared with laughter."A beer-goat in every backyard! I get you. But say, don't the gov'ment have exclusive rights to these goats anyway, under the terms of your contract under the McQuade Bill?"

"You forget that the government broke that contract when it cut off our appropriation last summer, so the clause about practical applications of our discovery is invalid."

"I see. But isn't there some way we could get a monopoly? This thing looks too good to let go broadcast."

"I'm afraid not. Remember the patent stature of 1897, as revised 1930? 'Any person who has invented or discovered any new and useful art, machine, manufacture, or composition of matter, or any new and useful improvements thereof, or who has invented or discovered and asexually reproduced any distinct and new variety of plant, other than a tuber-propagated plant, not known or used by others in this country, before his invention or discover thereof" and so on. Even if we could get the supreme court to hold that a goat was a plant—which I greatly doubt—there's no argument about the reproducing sexually. And the genetical principles that Sarratt used in developing the beer-goat are either old or laws of nature—which are unpatentable."

"Too bad, Doc. As soon as somebody gets his hands on a pair of these goats, the thing's out from under our control. It's good, but not good enough, I'm afraid."

"Well, it would settle your political question. And maybe I could throw in an honorary degree. I know the president of Columbia pretty well."

I would like one of those things. Tell you what... Do you play poker? Fine. We'll start a little game at eight tonight, and if you're ahead at midnight I'll undertake to swing the Party in favor of more subsidies to research, provided I get the degree, and provided this hyeah beer's really good stuff. If I'm ahead, I don't do anything—but I get the degree just the same."

"Hey, that's no fair. I'm pretty rusty, and you were probably born with a deck of cards in your hand."

"All right, damn it, we'll let one or two of the other boys in on your side. If any one of them stands ahead, I support research. Do they play?"

"Ryerson does; Banta doesn't. What is it, Johnny?" Methuen looked at the scrawl on the pad."He wants to play too."

"What, you mean this hyeah bear plays poker?"

"Sure. Only it's better to have somebody else do his shuffling and dealing; he takes all night with those paws."

The game started at eight—all the nannies of Sarratt's herd having been milked, despite the little man's protests, to provide refreshments. By eight-thirty a stiff wind drove gusts of rain against the windows. Flynn said, "Boy, I'm glad I'm indoors tonight. Who wants kyahds?"

"Five" said Ryerson.

Methuen swore under his breath. He was a cautiously mathematical player, and had been winning slowly. It hurt him to see the big ornithologist plunge that way.

"How about you, Johnny?" The bear tapped the table three times and Flynn shoved the cards across. Johnny held his hand between two toes of his left forefoot. One at a time he pinched three of these cards between the toes of his other front paw and lifted them out. He reversed the process with the cards he had drawn.

"Dealer's keeping what he has," said Flynn. Methuen called for one. On the first round of betting the two scientists dropped. Johnny and Flynn pushed the pot up a way before the former called. Flynn had queens over tens to Johnny's aces over threes.

Ryerson bellowed."Ho, ho! We thought you had a real pat hand! We'll know better next time. Another round?"

Flynn grinned and pushed the pot toward Johnny. All four (including Johnny, who held his glass in both paws) downed another pint of goat-beer. Flynn looked suspiciously at the others to make sure they drank as much as he did; they returned his scrutiny for the same reason.

At nine, rain descended in sheets. Methuen was ahead with Flynn close behind. Methuen realized that he'd been making mistakes in his calculations, probably as result of the enormous amount of goat-beer they'd drunk. It was powerful stuff. He'd have to concentrate more closely. He thought sadly that he'd been mistaken in undertaking to out-drink a Southern politician. And that smooth devil probably knew it too.

At ten, Methuen was losing heavily; his mathematics stood up less well than Flynn's all-around gambling experience. Ryerson had acquired a thick Norwegian accent.

At eleven Ryerson had dropped out, and was crooning a Norwegian drinking song to himself. Methuen, not much better off, tried to continue his play. Flynn was more Southern and jovial than ever. Johnny continued imperturbably to down his beer and signal for cards.

At one minute to twelve Methuen roused himself to look at his watch."Last hand," he said, after what seemed to be difficulty in untangling his tongue from his teeth.

Flynn showed on a small bet. Johnny raised a little; Flynn made a bigger raise. Johnny dropped.

"Johnny, Ah'll never speak to you ag'in," moaned Flynn."Just look what I had!" He threw down a full house.

"Of course, he wasn't going to argue," mumbled Methuen."He was ahead and din't want to risk his advantage."

"You mean to say they hyeah bear's actually beat me? Why, damn it all-oh, oh, looks like he is after all. What a disgrace to the house of Flynn! Don't you go tell nobody, Doc. Id never live it down. Ain't nobody going to know. Ain't—what that?"

From somewhere came a snarling command."Keep your hands up and your trap shut. Where's everybody else around here?" There were unintelligible words in Sarratt's shrill voice and the scuffling of many rubber-soled shoes. A door burst open, and the players were looking into the muzzles of rifles and submachine guns, held by handkerchief-masked men in raincoats and oilskins."Outside, your three!" snapped one of them.

Three? thought Methuen. He looked around. Johnny had apparently evaporated. Of course, he might have slipped out the dining-room door. The three obeyed, their protests silenced by the poke of gun muzzles.

Outside, they found Sarratt and Banta in pajamas, and Mrs. Ryerson in a fancy nightgown. Methuen counted nine raiders. Two more appeared. One said to the heavy-set man who seemed to be the leader, "There's nothing over there but cages with a bear and some monkeys and things in them." The other drove before him, like a vast black cloud, the invaluable Honoria—who evidently had simple ideas about sleeping costumes. The visitors laughed loudly, and the cook muttered threats.

The raider who had poked around the cages with a flashlight had discovered Johnny in a cage which, at the first alarm, the bear had remembered to be empty. He sat up and assumed the idiotic open-mouthed pose of a bear begging for peanuts. The raider departed without thinking to see whether the cage door was locked.

Now, Johnny couldn't see much because of the position of the cage, but he could hear.

"Where's them goats?"

"What goats?"

"Don't try to stall—them goats that give beer.

"What do you want with them?"

"None of your damn business. Will you say where, or do I have to use a lighted cigar on you?"

"They're—"

Johnny slipped out of his cage and raced for the pasture. Warm rain blew into his face. Sarratt would have put his pets under cover on a night like this. Johnny made his way into the shed, and felt and smelled his way around in the pitch darkness. A row of stalls ran along one wall. In the first stall he pushed the bleating animal aside, took two turns of the steel chain around his foreleg and pulled. The woodwork to which the chain was fastened came apart with a rending sound. In a few minutes all but four of the goats had been freed., He'd have to leave those for the thugs to find, so they' think they had them all.

When a group marched up the path to the shed, flashlight beams darting ahead, Johnny had tossed the bewildered goats bodily over the pasture fence in quick succession. He was now running behind the herd, accelerating by bites and cuffs their flight into the hills. Behind him he heard four shots. He looked back, and presently saw the stabbing needles of light receding toward the main buildings. The remaining goats were safe, then, unless somebody made a break about how many should have been in the shed. He trotted back cautiously, and arrived behind the biophysics building to hear the rasping voice of the leader: "... we ain't gonna hurt you none, just tie you up so you can't do nothing until tomorrow. You stay nice and quiet and you'll be all right. But if we have any trouble getting away, we'll bump you off if it's the last thing we do."

Johnny thought rapidly. The obvious thing was to wait and release his friends when the gangsters had gone. But they'd probably come in a boat. If they knew their business, they'd have landed, not at Frederiksted, but on the beach at a point near the Station. If he could get to that boat before they did—

He skidded down the steep grassy slope onto the beach. The wind had fallen, but there were still a few drops of rain in the air. Small breakers glowed briefly with phosphorescence as they tumbled and died. Johnny plodded along the sand and broken shell, thankful that the surf would drown any noise he made.

A fishy smell excited him. It might be just a dead shark, but again it mightn't. As it grew stronger, he made out a shape only slightly blacker than its surroundings. A sudden yellow gleam made him jump; it hung in the air, then oscillated violently and went out, leaving a tiny red spot. Evidently somebody had lit a cigarette. Coming closer, Johnny made out the smoker's hunched figure perched atop the cabin.

He slipped into the water, thankful for the invisibility conferred by his sable coat. The craft was an ordinary fishing vessel with a low stern. Johnny climbed onto the quarter-deck, and thence onto the cabin roof. What method should he use? If he could grab the back of the man's neck he could probably break the spine with one bite; but the watcher was wearing a sou-wester, which would hinder his getting a good grip. If he made a noise, he'd turn, exposing the throat—but that would give him a chance to bring his gun into action. The best way was evidently the simplest. Johnny reared and raised a paw high oer his head.

Ten minutes later the corpse had been safely stowed in the bushes back of the beach. On the cabin roof sat Johnny, the sou'wester on his head, the oilskin around his shoulders, and the heavy automatic rifle in his paw. He hoped nobody would notice the fragments of brain spattered around. Flashlight beams flickered down the beach; one shot out to the boat. In a moment the eleven men were piling in and shoving off with much splashing and yelling of orders. A couple of them shouted at Johnny, but otherwise paid him no attention.

The engine coughed and started. The boat backed, swung around, lurched through the breakers, and settled down to a steady oomph—pause—oomph—pause as it headed into the short swell.

Johnny was thinking furiously. He hadn't wanted to start anything on or near the shore, for fear the gang would carry out their threat against the scientists. But what was he to do now? They'd put their shoulder-arms away, but most were still wearing pistols in holsters. If he could talk, he could drop down and order them to surrender and head for Frederiksted. But he couldn't talk, and if he showed himself they'd begin shooting on general principles.

Or, he could simply jump down onto the quarter-deck and open fire. If he could get them in a bunch, with the rifle set for full-automatic fire, he might be able to mow them all down. But on a boat this size there were too many things to dodge behind. There was no light outside of a small one in the cabin. He might get a few of them, but—eleven to one?

So far as killing them went, Johnny had precisely as much hesitancy about destroying eleven enemy men as the eleven enemy men would have about destroying a black bear. But the minute he made a hostile move, he'd precipitate a general gun fight, with the odds hopelessly against him. And he hated being shot at under any circumstances. The memory of how one of Bemis' crew had bounced a bullet off his skull still made his head ache.

To starboard, the lights of Frederiksted shone wetly over the intervening quarter-mile of water. If he tried to swim ashore after they got out of sight of the town, he'd probably get turned around and try to swim the whole length of the Caribbean. He couldn't afford to stay where he was until dawn, and be discovered when they were halfway to Cuba.

The raiders had gone in. Sounds filtered up through the cabin roof implied that they were relaxing in the own peculiar way. A yachting-capped head popped over the edge of the cabin roof, and bawled, over the whine of the breeze, the swish of the waves, and the subdued roar of the motor: "Hey, Angelo, come on down and have a drink?"

Johnny knew he'd have to think quickly. He began to feel plain, cold, tingling terror. Why had he come chasing after these gangsters? Hadn't he done enough by saving the goats?

"Whassa matter? Do we have to come up and get you?"

Johnny's brain worked at a speed that would have burned out is bearings if it had had any bearings. Then he got to his hindlegs, holding the radio mast to stead himself: "O. K. Angie!" yelled the face, and it was gone. Johnny shrugged off the oilskin. Gripping the rifle, he lowered himself over the side of the cabin onto the catwalk, and inched aft, digging his left foreclaws into the canvas lest a sudden roll pitch him into the Caribbean.

At the after end of the cabin, without showing himself, he swung the rifle up so that it pointed at the floor of the quarter-deck. He hooked a claw around the trigger and pulled.

With a thunderous roar the rifle poured its forty shots through the bottom of the fishing boat. In eight seconds the mechanism gave a final click. Johnny tossed the rifle into the black water and hurled himself after it. When he came up, the boat was standing by, fifty yards off. A searchlight swung, and there was a continuous crash of gunfire. A bullet plunked a few feet from his head. He ducked under and paddled away for some seconds. When he judged himself safe, he stuck his head up.

The wind blew scraps of speech: "Didja see it? A big black thing—didn't look human!" "What we gonna do about this hole? It's big enough to put ya foot through." "She's gonna sink in a few minutes. Head for shore, you dope!" "But they'll pinch us—" "Nev' mind 'at. 'S betta 'n being food fa shoks!" "Hey, I can't swim!"

Johnny turned toward Frederiksted and struck out. He certainly hoped that there were no hungry or inquisitive sharks around...

At two o'clock, an automobile swept up to the Biological Station. Out of the front climbed tow large black policemen, out of the rear came square, brick-red Peder Uklall, chief of the Frederiksted police, and Johnny Black. They released the seven bound, gagged, and blindfolded human beings in the Recreation Room. Commissioner Uklall lent Honoria his raincoat to cover her nudity; unfortunately such was her girth that it didn't meet in front. He explained: "Sergeant Oglethwaite here had the desk tonight, and all of a sudden this bear of yours comes running in, soaking wet. The sergeant was a bit surprised, like anybody would be, only he knows the bear is supposed to be tame. Well, this bear sits down at the typewriter and pecks out with his claws about how the Station was held up, and about how he sank the gang's boat outside the harbor, and that they'd be swimming ashore pretty quick. Oglethwaite wonders if he or the bear was crazy, but he figures it wouldn't hurt to go see. So he takes a cop and goes down to the water front, and sure enough, there's one of these hard-looking parties crawling out on the beach like he was all in. They rounded up nine of 'em; they say there was tow or three more, but they must have gotten drowned. One of 'em is Knocks Bettenford, A Chicago gangster in the beer business. You folk's better come down and identify the rest of these guys right now, so we can hold them."

Johnny knew he'd have to think quickly. He began to feel plain, cold, tingling terror. Why had he come chasing after these gangsters? Hadn't he done enough by saving the goats?

"Whassa matter? Do we have to come up and get you?"

Johnny's brain worked at a speed that would have burned out is bearings if it had had any bearings. Then he got to his hindlegs, holding the radio mast to stead himself: "O. K. Angie!" yelled the face, and it was gone. Johnny shrugged off the oilskin. Gripping the rifle, he lowered himself over the side of the cabin onto the catwalk, and inched aft, digging his left foreclaws into the canvas lest a sudden roll pitch him into the Caribbean.

At the after end of the cabin, without showing himself, he swung the rifle up so that it pointed at the floor of the quarter-deck. He hooked a claw around the trigger and pulled.

With a thunderous roar the rifle poured its forty shots through the bottom of the fishing boat. In eight seconds the mechanism gave a final click. Johnny tossed the rifle into the black water and hurled himself after it. When he came up, the boat was standing by, fifty yards off. A searchlight swung, and there was a continuous crash of gunfire. A bullet plunked a few feet from his head. He ducked under and paddled away for some seconds. When he judged himself safe, he stuck his head up.

The wind blew scraps of speech: "Didja see it? A big black thing—didn't look human!" "What we gonna do about this hole? It's big enough to put ya foot through." "She's gonna sink in a few minutes. Head for shore, you dope!" "But they'll pinch us—" "Nev' mind 'at. 'S betta 'n being food fa shoks!" "Hey, I can't swim!"

Johnny turned toward Frederiksted and struck out. He certainly hoped that there were no hungry or inquisitive sharks around...

At two o'clock, an automobile swept up to the Biological Station. Out of the front climbed tow large black policemen, out of the rear came square, brick-red Peder Uklall, chief of the Frederiksted police, and Johnny Black. They released the seven bound, gagged, and blindfolded human beings in the Recreation Room. Commissioner Uklall lent Honoria his raincoat to cover her nudity; unfortunately such was her girth that it didn't meet in front. He explained: "Sergeant Oglethwaite here had the desk tonight, and all of a sudden this bear of yours comes running in, soaking wet. The sergeant was a bit surprised, like anybody would be, only he knows the bear is supposed to be tame. Well, this bear sits down at the typewriter and pecks out with his claws about how the Station was held up, and about how he sank the gang's boat outside the harbor, and that they'd be swimming ashore pretty quick. Oglethwaite wonders if he or the bear was crazy, but he figures it wouldn't hurt to go see. So he takes a cop and goes down to the water front, and sure enough, there's one of these hard-looking parties crawling out on the beach like he was all in. They rounded up nine of 'em; they say there was tow or three more, but they must have gotten drowned. One of 'em is Knocks Bettenford, A Chicago gangster in the beer business. You folk's better come down and identify the rest of these guys right now, so we can hold them."

At three, an occasional starbeam poked hopefully through he thinning clouds. Methuen and Flynn headed for their rooms."Thank God that's over," said the former, yawning."We've got to get up early to organize a goat hunt, to round up those that Johnny chased into the hills. By the way, Johnny, how did you get on the track of Sarratt's invention or whatever you call it?"

The bear delicately scratched the word "song" on the floor.

"Song? Oh I see: 'If I had a cow that gave such milk.' Of course!"

Flynn said, "Now I'd like to ask something. I can't understand how Johnny could drink me down so he could beat me at poker. I was practically weaned on whiskey, you know, and beer's just like soda pop to me."

Methuen grinned."You forget, old man, that Johnny weighs three times as much as you do. It takes three times as much liquor or beer to produce a given concentration of alcohol in his blood as it does in yours. You should have insisted on his taking three drinks to your one."

"Well, well. I never thought of that. I guess you scientists are pretty smart people at that. By the way, you remember that you promised me a degree, even if you won the game."

"Sure, you'll get it. But it seems to me that Johnny ought to have one too—he discovered Sarratt's secret, won the game, saved the goats, and captured the gang. He certainly should get some credit for the revival of science, when and if it takes place."

The president was talking in enthusiastic but vague terms about Johnny Black's services to science while the subject of his discourse stood before him, robed and capped, ignoring the snicker-punctuated buzz that ran through the audience.

"... the degree of Doctor of Science, and all rights, privileges, and prerogatives pertaining thereto." Johnny took the scroll, bowed, and waddled off the platform on his hindlegs. He had at last found an advantage in not being able to talk; nobody expected him to make a speech on this occasion.

Content

The Incorrigible
L. Sprague de Camp