By JOHN VICTOR PETERSON
Illustrated by SCHOENHERR
Quintuplets alone would be bad enough, without
a census taker who could count them in advance!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity October 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In addition to being a genius in applied atomics, Maitland Browne's aspeedster, a practical joker, and a spare-time dabbler in electronics.
As far as speed's concerned, I had a very special reason for wantingto get home early tonight, and swift straight flight would have beenperfectly okay with me. The trouble was that Browne decided that thiswas his night to work on Fitzgerald.
Browne lifted the three passenger jetcopter—his contribution to ourcommuterpool—from the flight stage at Brookhaven National Laboratoriesin a strictly prosaic manner. Then the flight-fiend in him came outwith a vengeance. Suddenly and simultaneously he set the turbo-jets tofull thrust and dived to treetop level; then he started hedgehoppingtoward Long Island Sound. His heavy dark features were sardonic inthe rear-view mirror; his narrowed, speculative eyes flicked to itintermittently to scan Ed Fitzgerald beside me.
Browne's action didn't surprise, startle, or even frighten me at first.I'd seen the mildly irritated look in his eyes when Fitzgerald hadcome meandering up—late as usual!—to the ship back on the stage. Ihad rather expected some startling development; provoking Ed Fitzgeraldto a measurable nervous reaction was one of Browne's burning ambitions.I also had a certain positive hunch that Fitzgerald's tardiness wasdeliberate.
In any event my mind was ninety per cent elsewhere. Tessie—mywife—had visifoned me from Doc Gardiner's office in New Canaan justbefore I'd left my office at the Labs and had told me with high elationthat we were destined to become the proud parents of quintuplets! Iwas, therefore, now going back bewilderedly over our respective familytrees, seeking a precedent in the genes.
I was shocked out of my genealogical pursuits when Browne skimmedbetween the tall stereo towers near Middle Island. I prayerfully lookedat Fitzgerald for assistance in persuading Browne to cease and desist,but Fitzgerald was staring as imperturbably as ever at Browne's broadback, a faintly derisive smile on his face.
I should have expected that. Even a major cataclysm couldn't budgeFitzgerald. I've seen him damp an atomic pile only milliseconds fromcritical mass without batting an eye before, during or after.
I tried to console myself. But while I knew Browne's reaction timewas uncommonly fast and his years of 'copter flight singularlyaccident-free, I still could not relax. Not tonight, with the knowledgethat I was a prospective father of not just the first but the firstfive. I wanted to get home to Tessie in a hurry, certainly, but Iwanted to get there all in one proud piece.
Browne went from bad to worse and began kissing the 'copter's bellyon the waves in Long Island Sound. The skipping stone effect wasdemoralizing. Then, trying to top that, he hedgehopped so low on themainland that the jets blew the last stubbornly clinging leaves fromevery oak tree we near-missed crossing Connecticut to our destinationon the Massachusetts border.
Fitzgerald was the only one who talked on the way. Browne was toointent on his alleged driving. I was, frankly, too scared forintelligible conversation. It wasn't until later, in fact, that Irealized that Ed Fitzgerald's monologue had clearly solved a problem wewere having on adjusting the new cosmotron at the Labs.
"We made good time tonight," Browne said, finall