The Common Man
It would, of course, take a trio
of Ivory Tower scientists to conceive of
tracking down that statistical entity,
the Common Man, and testing out an idea on him.
And only the Ivory Tower type would predict
that egregiously wrongly!
by Guy McCord
Illustrated by Schelling
Frederick Braun, M.D., Ph.D.,various other Ds, pushed his slightlycrooked horn-rims back on hisnose and looked up at the two-storywooden house. There wasa small lawn before it, moderatelycared for, and one tree. There wasthe usual porch furniture, and thehouse was going to need paintingin another six months or so, butnot quite yet. There was a three-year-oldhover car parked at thecurb of a make that anywhere elsein the world but America wouldhave been thought ostentatious inview of the seeming economicstatus of the householder.
Frederick Braun looked down atthe paper in his hand, then up atthe house again. He said to his twocompanions, "By Caesar, I willadmit it is the most average-lookingdwelling I have ever seen."
Patricia O'Gara said impatiently,"Well, do we or don't we?" Herhair should have been in a ponytail, or bouncing on her shoulders,or at least in the new Etruscan revivalstyle, not drawn back in itsefficient bun.
Ross Wooley was unhappy. Hescratched his fingers back throughhis reddish crew cut. "This isgoing to sound silly."
Patricia said testily, "We've beenthrough all that, Rossie, goodheavens."
"Nothing ventured, nothing ..."Braun let the sentencedribble away as he stuffed the paperinto a coat pocket, which hadobviously been used as a wastereceptacle for many a year, and ledthe way up the cement walk, hisyounger companions immediatelybehind.
He put his finger on the doorbelland cocked his head to one side.There was no sound from thedepths of the house. Dr. Braunmuttered, "Bell out of order."
"It would be," Ross chuckledsourly. "Remember? Average.Here, let me." He rapped brisklyon the wooden door jamb. Theystood for a moment then heknocked again, louder, saying almostas though hopefully, "Maybethere's nobody home."
"All right, all right, take iteasy," a voice growled even as thedoor opened.
He was somewhere in his thirties,easygoing of face, brownish ofhair, bluish of eye and moderatelygood-looking. His posture wasn'tthe best and he had a slight tummybut he was a goodish masculinespecimen by Mid-Western standards.He stared out at them, defensivenow that it was obvious theywere strangers. Were they sellingsomething, or in what other mannerwere they attempting to intrudeon his well being? His eyes wentfrom the older man's thin face, tothe football hero heft of theyounger, then to Patricia O'Gara.His eyes went up and down herfigure and became approving inspite of the straight business suitshe affected.
He said, "What could I do foryou?"
"Mr. Crowley?" Ross said.
"That's right."
"I'm Ross Wooley and my friendsare Patricia O'Gara and Dr. FrederickBraun. We'd like to talk toyou."
"There's nobody sick here."
Patricia said impatiently, "Ofcourse not. Dr. Braun isn't a practicingmedical doctor. We are researchbiochemists."
"We're scientists," Ross toldhim, putting it on what he assumedwas the man's level. "There'ssomething on which you couldhelp us."
Crowley took his eyes from thegirl and scowled at Ross. "Me?Scientists? I'm just a country boy,I don't know an