Part 1

The Scientific Pioneer

By Nelson S. Bond

Horse-Sense Hank could answer all the problems of science. He could even apply logic to love. But turnips...!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

One thing about that heap of mine, it always picks the loneliest places to roll over and play doggo. It started spluttering about the time the road changed from concrete to macadam, and when the macadam trickled into a thin silver of bumpy dirt it wheezed, snorted, and gave up the ghost.

I said, "Damn!" and a few things more expressive. I got out and struggled with the hood and looked at the innards and admired their incomprehensible compactness. I jiggled a few wires here and there and nothing happened. Then I looked for telephone wires. There were none. But I discovered that I wasn't alone. There was a man leaning on the worm fence across the road, watching me with drawling incuriosity.

I said, "Hey, you! Is there a telephone anywhere around these parts?"

He shifted a billiard ball from his left cheek to his right, squinted, and shook his head.

"Nup," he said.

"How about a garage?" I asked. "How far is it to the nearest garage?"

He bobbed his head northward. "Two mile. Mebbe two'n a half," he said.

"Thanks," I told him, "for the poisonous information."

I locked the car and started in the direction he had pointed out. I had taken a dozen steps when he halted me.

"Swim good?" he asked.

I looked at him, then at the dull, gray, February sky, then at the dappled patches of unthawed snow clinging to the roots and hollows.

"I'm a duck," I said, "not a penguin. I stick to hot water in the winter. I hold the All-American free-style record for February bathtub paddling. Why?"

"That's what," he said, "I figgered. You can't go thataway, then. Bridge is out, an' river's half a mile wide. You better go 'tother direction."

I glared at him. "Say it," I said. "How far?"

"Fifteen miles," he guessed. "Sixteen, more like."

"Sixteen miles!" I did the only thing I could think of. I kicked my buggy in the bumper, then collapsed onto the running board.

"Hell's beacons, man, I can't walk that far! Not without my Boy Scout axe. What am I going to do? I've got to get to Westville before dark, my car's on the squeegee, and so far as I'm concerned that thing under the hood is a deep, dark mystery."

He said, "Let's see," interestedly, and gangled over the fence. He lifted the hood and stared into the maw of my crate. His eyes darted from one piece of machinery to another; after a while he began to mumble to himself, and once he nodded.

Then he muttered, "'Pears like it oughta be this 'un here--" and reached in and touched something. It clinked. He tightened it.

"Try 'er now," he said. "Wiggle somethin'. Make 'er go."

"Sure," I said caustically. "All I need is a nice long hill."

* * * * *

But I climbed in and kicked the starter. Then I yelled. Because the old jalopy gave one disgusted snort, then began to purr like a fireside tabby!

"She roars," he said, "purty. Don't she?"

"She do, indeed," I told him exuberantly. "Say, friend, why didn't you tell me you were a mechanic? You've saved me three aspirins and a broken arch."

"Me a mechanic?" he drawled. "Shucks, Mister, I ain't never seen the innards of one of them things before."

"You've never--" I chuckled. "Cut the comedy. Then how did you know what to do to make it start?"

He squirmed, a trifle embarrassedly, I thought, and shuffled his feet.

"Well, now, it just stood to reason," he said. "Seemed like that thingamajig hangin' on the whatchamaycallit should've--"

I grinned. "Okay, pal. You've got secrets, I've got secrets, all God's children got secrets. Anyhow, thanks for the first-aid. Here's a little something for your--"

But he shook his head. "Aw, that's all right," he mumbled. "'Twarn't nothin', Mister. So long." He grinned and ambled off across the field. And that was that.

I reached Westville before dark, found the man I'd been sent out to interview, and told him who I was.

"I'm Jim Blakeson," I said. "There's a rumor that I'm the Public Relations Department for Midland University. It's a phony. Between you and me and the League of Nations, I'm really the third assistant errand boy for Culture, Inc. Now--about this new comet you discovered.

"Midland is all upsy-daisy to find such a promising young amateur astronomer in the state. They're willing to subsidize you to the extent of a newer and larger telescope if you'll agree to act as a lay member of their observatory staff. What say?"

The ham star-gazer--Hawkins was his name--turned a delicate shade of mauve. It was happiness, I think. For a minute I thought he was going to kiss me. Then delight went out and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blakeson, but I can't accept your offer. I'd love to, but the truth of the matter is--I'm not the man who discovered that comet."

I said, "Wait a minute. Maybe I'm in the wrong galaxy. You're Hawkins, aren't you? You're the guy who plotted the comet's course, no?"

"I'm Hawkins. I plotted its course. But I didn't discover it." His spirits were down around his shoelaces now. "That was done by a neighbor of mine, a few miles down the way. Chap by the name of Hank Cleaver. 'Horse-sense Hank', we call him."

My extra-sensory perception percepted. "Don't look now," I said, "but is this Horse-sense Hank a long cold drink of wisdom about thirty years old? Given to lack of speech and habit of chewing tobacco?"

"That's Hank," said the youngster. "He's the one. He's no astronomer, you understand. But he happened to stop around one night while I was charting. I started to explain something about cometary orbits, and after a while he said he 'lowed as how I ought to take a careful look in the region of Beta Draconis. I did, and--well, there it was. The new comet. He said he just figured as how there ought to be one there!"

"Kid," I said solemnly, "something tells me the discovery of that comet was peanuts. Just peanuts. I'm going to get you that subsidy, anyway. And tomorrow morning I'm going back to have another talk with the guy who earned it for you."

* * * * *

So I did. I found Horse-sense Hank poking around in his south forty and told him what I wanted. He didn't answer for so long that I thought maybe the shock had killed him.

I asked anxiously, "Well, Hank? What's the word?"

"Turnips," he said mournfully, "is hell. It don't matter where you plant 'em or how careful. They never do what you expect. Oh, you mean about the University? Well, I don't guess it would do no harm. I'll go if you want me to."

"I do," I told him with savage satisfaction. "All my life I've wanted to see what would happen when a man with plain, ordinary horse-sense crossed gray matter with a bunch of animated reference books. You're the party of the first part. Look, Hank--suppose you were out hunting with another guy. You see the flash of his gun; ten seconds later you hear the boom. How far away from him are you?"

"A game, mebbe?" asked Hank. He pondered for a minute while I waited, wondering if I'd cleaned the machine the first time or if this were a perpetual jackpot.

Then, "How cold is it?" asked Hank.

I almost yelped with joy. "Say about sixty-eight," I said.

Hank said, "Well, then, I reckon he'd be 'bout two mile off. Trifle more, mebbe."

"Why?" I demanded. "How did you know?"

Hank looked perplexed. He said, "Well, it seems as if. That's all."

"And _that_," I told him, "is all I wanted to know! Come on, my friend. Let's go puzzle pedagogues!"

* * * * *

The only thing stuffier than the office of H. Logan MacDowell, Midland University's president, was H. Logan himself. Hank and I entered the outer office, ran a gantlet of upturned noses, and were finally informed by a pair of glinting pince-nez that "Dr. MacDowell will see you now, if you please." We pleased.

Beauty and the Beast greeted us. H. Logan's daughter might be a chippie off the old blockhead, but they look as much alike as me and my passport picture. She smiled at us as we entered, and life was all sugar and Santa Claus. Our pal the prexy lurched and wobbled in the depths of his swivel-chair, gave it up as a bad job, motioned us to seats and _hrrumphed_!

"Well, Blakeson, might I interrogate as to the reason for this unexpected visitation?"

"If," I deciphered, "you mean why am I here, sure! This is an unveiling. Take off your polysyllables, Doctor. You're in the presence of genius."

"Genius?" MacDowell stared distastefully at Hank's mail-order suit and bulldog shoes. "Genius?"

"When you say that," I advised, "grovel. You see before you, Doc, a man deserving of the finest faculty position dear old M. U. has to offer. Meet Hank Cleaver, the human slide rule!"

* * * * *

MacDowell frowned. "I deplore, Blakeson, your unacademic speech habits. Furthermore, you are undoubtedly aware that there are at present no unoccupied seats on the Midland faculty. If your friend would care to deposit his credentials with my secretary, however, and write an application for admittance to our staff--"

Horse-sense Hank's eyes accused mine. "Write, Jim? Shucks, you didn't tell me I had to write nothin'. You know I can't write."

Indignation overcame Prexy MacDowell's inertia. He came to his feet quivering like a radium finder in a bucket full of pitchblende.

"What! Blakeson, do you mean to tell me you have the effrontery to suggest for addition to our faculty a man who can neither read nor write? Young man, this time you have gone too far! I fail to recognize the humor in this situation. I'll have you--"

"Look, Prexy," I said, "sit down and take the load off your brains. You didn't hire me, and you can't fire me. I report to the Advisory Council. Now, listen to me. This man is the greatest find since Pharoah's daughter went snipe hunting in the bulrushes. He knows stuff and things."

"Stuff?" wheezed the college president. "Things?"

"Ask him. Anything at all. He's got more answers than a quiz program."

MacDowell stiffened like a strychnine victim. "I refuse," he proclaimed stentoriously, "to lend myself to such a display. The dignity of my office--"

Helen MacDowell had been staring at Hank with frank curiosity.

Now she said, "Papa, why don't you follow Jim's suggestion? Ask Mr. Cleaver a question."

That got him. "Very well," he said. "I will ask a single question. But if he fails to answer it--"

He had a dirty look in his eyes. I said, "Serve it straight, Doc. No tricky place names or technical phrases."

"I shall merely ask our rustic friend," said MacDowell stiffly, "to explain to us the fundamental laws of motion as established by Sir Isaac Newton." And he glared at Hank and me malevolently.

Merely! I looked at Hank, and the blank expression on his pan gave me the queasies. He said wonderingly.

"Sir Isaac Newton, Jim? Who's he?"

"Skip that part, Hank," I advised. "What the Doc wants to know is: what natural laws apply to things moving? You know--what do they have to do or can't do?"

"Oh!" Hank's brow furrowed. He knotted his ham-like paws and unknotted them again. Finally a light shone in his eyes and he said.

"Well, far's I can see, fust thing is that they can't get goin' by themselves, or if once they do, they can't stop less'n somethin' stops 'em."

I glanced at MacDowell, who had gulped audibly. I said,

"Keep going, guy. You're hot as a firecracker."

"Well, seems like everything in motion makes an equal motion like itself, an' it don't matter whether what it acts on is still or movin'. An' if there's anything else actin' along with it, both movements is goin' to have a say in the showdown."

* * * * *

Me, I'm a publicity man, not a physicist. It was all a deep fog in my mind, but MacDowell's eyes were bulging.

"Go on!" he ordered grimly.

"Lastwise," drawled Hank, "'Pears like whenever there's a movement one way, there ought to be an equal kick-back 'tother way." He hesitated for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Reckon that's all I can think of offhand."

MacDowell repeated numbly, "That's all he can think of--offhand!" and staggered to his chair. He tottered for seconds, then dropped into it. "The product of a genius' thoughts for years. And he solves it in five minutes!"

Then he snapped out of it, and was he sore!

"You, Blakeson!" he yelled.

"Yeah?"

"This is one of your tricks! What do you mean by this outrageous imposter? You can't deceive _me_! This man has studied physics. He knows--"

"Physics?" interrupted Hank eagerly. "Say, you're darn tootin' I've studied physics. An' take it from me, all these here now drugstore things ain't no good. You get you a batch of fresh wild-cherry saplings, bile 'em in water for a half hour, an' add--"

"Quiet," I pleaded, "is requested for the sake of those who are asleep. Dr. MacDowell, I give you my word of honor Hank is just what he appears to be. A man of the soil, gifted with great talents. Or rather, _one_ great talent--that of common sense."

"A--a moment!" MacDowell silenced me with an uplifted palm. "Mr. Cleaver, are you acquainted with the principles of Mendel?"

"Nup!" acknowledged Hank cheerfully.

"Perhaps, then, you'd be kind enough to derive an answer for this question? A man has a black dog and a white one. He mates them. The female whelps four puppies. Of the four, how many will you expect to be black, how many white?"

Horse-sense Hank cast a sidelong glance at Helen, and blushed. But he didn't bat an eyelash.

"This here now black hound, what color was his old man an' woman?"

"They were also black."

"An' 'tother one's mammy an' pappy was white?"

"We will," said Dr. MacDowell weakly "assume that to be so." He knew he had lost again. And so he had. For Hank's answer was bland simplicity.

"Why, then, them there pups would just natcherally hafta be all black."

"H-how do you know?" demanded MacDowell faintly.

"Just seems as if," said Hank. He scratched his head. "'Course," he said cautiously, "them there wouldn't be good show dogs, them pups. They wouldn't breed true wuth a damn. Next time they was mated, their pups would be mixed colors. I'd say 'bout three to one for the blacks."[1]

[Footnote 1: The two fundamental principles usually termed Mendelian are: (1) that of alternative inheritance, viz., that of two corresponding but contrasted pairs of characters of the parents, only one appears in the offspring. This is known as the dominant character; the character not appearing is the recessive character. (2) The law of segregation of characters, according to which both dominant and recessive characters reappear pure in 25% each of the offspring of hybrids.--Ed.]

President MacDowell shuddered violently. He fell back into his chair, covered his eyes with shaking fingers.

"Take him away!" he pleaded. "A lifetime of study, and--Get him out of my sight, Jim Blakeson! _Oooooh!_"

The last I saw of him, he was ripping the diplomas off his office walls, tearing them into shreds of despair.

* * * * *

So that was that. But Horse-sense Hank didn't go back to his turnip patch. Because Helen MacDowell followed us from the office, her eyes glowing. She said, "He's marvelous, Jim. Marvelous! What are you going to do now?"

"I was thinking," I told her gloomily, "of trying a perfect crime with your old man as 'X-marks-the-spot.' Any objections?"

She said thoughtfully, "You might wait till I get next month's allowance. Daddy's not bad when you get used to him, Jim. But I mean about Mr. Cleaver. Is he planning to stay here in town?"

Hank shuffled his feet. "Seems if I oughta go on back to my turnips," he opined. "Durn things'll go to seed if I don't."

Helen turned it on, and what I mean, when she did it really went on. Her smile wasn't even directed my way, but I caught the backwash and made next year's New Year resolutions ten months in advance.

"But how disappointing, Mr. Cleaver! I was hoping we might have dinner somewhere and talk a little while--"

"Great idea!" I said. "I'll call Tony's--"

"--just the two of us," she continued, "alone."

Hank swallowed with difficulty. And stayed. Who wouldn't?

So I put him up at my apartment. At first he demurred.

"I don't wanta be no expense to you, Jim," he protested.

But he wasn't. Because one night I took him to the College Clubbe, a gambling joint on the outskirts of town. He looked awful in a rented dinner jacket; the smartly garbed croupiers laughed when he walked into the casino. But he who laughs last, laughs last. We moved to the roulette table and watched for a few minutes.

Finally red came up three times running. So when the croupier called for bets, I laid a couple chips on the black. Hank frowned. As the white ball rattled around in its groove he reached out suddenly, moved my chips to the other side of the board, to the red.

I said, "Hey, wait a minute, guy! Don't be a--"

Then the ball stopped rolling and the attendant purred, "Twenty-one red, _passé!_" and raked to my little bet an equal number of chips.

I pointed at the neat, even rows of chips and bills stacked before the croupier.

"You see that stuff, my friend? That's money, not hay. You may be a genius at some things, but this is the old gambola. A risk any way you look at it. Lay off my bets!"

And this time I moved my entire bet to the black column. Why not? It was due.

But Hank said plaintively, "Shucks, Jim, it stands to reason--"

And once again he reached out and shifted my bet to the red. Someone in the crowd snickered. I went to move it back but the croupier, faintly haughty, said,

"No further play, sir, if you please!"

Then the ball stopped--on the red 36!

* * * * *

I looked at Hank. He looked back guiltily.

"It seemed like it ought to, Jim," he said.

I gave up. I handed him my chips. I said, "This is where I get off. Take over, Professor. I've got to see a man about a town car!"

And I walked to the bar for a drink. I felt sort of sorry for the owners of the College Clubbe. It was tough luck for them that, after all these years, they should be the ones to play host to the first fool-proof "system" in the history of gambling.

About twenty minutes later the crowd was shoulder deep about the roulette table. I decided it was time to go take a look-see, and fought my way to Hank's side. When I reached there I found that play had been temporarily halted.

The croupier, green-gilled and glistening with sweat, stood before an almost chipless board. The counters were chin-high before Hank. The manager pressed through, spoke briefly to the croupier, then turned to Hank.

"I understand, sir, you wish to make a final wager against the house. Your entire stake on the fall of a single number?"

Hank nodded, embarrassed at being the center of attention.

"I sorta thought," he gulped, "it might be smart."

I groaned. The chips before Hank were a rainbow. At a rough estimate, he was about thirty grand to the pink. To stake all that on one roll--a 38-to-1 shot for a 35-to-1 return--

"No, Hank!" I tugged his coat sleeve. "Cash in! Don't take a crazy chance like that!"

He looked at me aggrievedly. "But it ain't what you might call a chance, Jim. 'Pears to me like it's a sure thing for number nineteen to come up. Way I see it--" He nodded to the manager. "Let 'er ride. The works on number nineteen."

The manager nodded to the croupier, the croupier set the tiny ball spinning. The crowd tensed, and a white blur chittered its unpredictable path about the whirling wheel. The wheel slowed, the ball slowed, my heart slowed. Then all three swooped into action, the last with a lurching thump. The ball hesitated on the rim of the double-zero, bounced to the 32, jogged to the lip of the 19, settled there--

_Then hopped!_ The watchers groaned, and the voice of the croupier was a high, thin bleat.

"Twenty-four--black--_passé!_"

My town car, my penthouse and my financial independence went whuppety-flicker, like the tag end of a film racheting through a projector. I glared into Hank's bewildered face, bawled at him accusingly,

"See, you dope! All because you--"

He looked dazed, incredulous. He stammered,

"But it _had_ to be the nineteen, Jim! It couldn't be anything else, don't you see? It _couldn't_--"

"It couldn't," I wailed, "but it was! You--"

Then he was no longer limp, uncertain, at my side. He was making a leaping dive across the table at the croupier. The man yipped once, lunged backward, and a pellet rolled from his hand. It was a duplicate of that which now spun in the roulette wheel, but not _quite_ a dupe!

* * * * *

Instead of solid ivory, I knew it would turn out to have a steel core, responsive to magnetic influence. The only thing that could break down the analytical perfection of Horse-sense Hank was a gimmick! A gimmick is a polite way of describing a cheap gambling trick.

"The durned crook!" Hank was howling. "He gypped me! I knew the nineteen was due! Just as sure as fate it was due!"

Those were the last intelligible words for quite a while. For at that instant some resourceful employee jerked a switch, plunging the College Clubbe into darkness. People began to scream and struggle and run. I heard the meaty impact of flesh on flesh, then the clatter of ivory tokens on the polished flooring.

I remember thinking sadly, "Good-bye, Mr. Chips!"

Then a more brilliant thought struck me. I remembered that those ivories were cashable at any time. Tomorrow! After the excitement had died down. I scrambled for the abandoned table, scooped up two double handfuls, then two more. It was our money, rightly.

I hightailed it for the exit. It took me a little time to get away. Everyone else had the same idea. But I finally made it. There was no use looking for Hank in that mob, so I grabbed a taxi to town, hoping he'd be able to come home under his own power.

But he was already home when I got there. He was just finishing a financial census at my desk, dreamily counting crisp, crunchy bills into piles before him.

"--and seventy-eight, eight hundred and seventy-nine--" He saw me and grinned. "Hi, Jim! Got part of what I deserved, anyhow. See? 'Bout six thousan' bucks!"

I sniffed. "Chicken feed! I've got the rest of it. The _real_ stuff! Ten buck chips!"