The Carnelian Cube

Four:

The high, hot sun of July glared in through the tall windows of an apartment whose door described it as the Board Room. Behind a long table sat six men, of whom only one was more than ordinary in aspect—a huge man, with a nose like the bill of a duck and bushy grey sideburns.

"Charge of advertising with request for reclassification, brought by Orange William Banker against Finch Arthur Poet," a clerk ,read rapidly. "Resisted arrest." A Proctor nudged Finch to stand up. The man-mountain at the center of the table turned to where Orange sat:

"Speak your piece, Bill."

With energy and malice Orange described Finch's behavior at patron-call as irrational and indicating an intention to commit advertising; "—and this alleged poet, after accepting my advance for a eulogistic sonnet to my first-class wife, recited one to my second, to the scandal ..."

Bang! went the big man's gavel. "Irrelevant and immaterial," he said. "The question of whether you got what you paid for is a purely civil matter. We have to do with a question of advertising. I am inclined to think that if the recitation of a sonnet to Orange Eulalie Mrs., is advertising in itself, it advertises nothing but the accused's affection for the lady, and if I felt that way about her, I'd write her a sonnet myself, or my name's not Sullivan. What we want is evidence of public, not private advertising. Has anybody got any?"

"I have," piped a small voice.

"And who might youse be?"

"Orford Max Cigarmaker. I was present at the orgy so kindly given by our patron. I don't know how it affected others, but me, I couldn't sleep all last night, with dreaming about Finch's sea with its rocks and caves and things, and it made me want to go there. The worst of it is that it's all lies. I saw Finch with my own eyes yesterday morning playing tennis with the Athlete, and he couldn't have spent the day looking at the sea."

Sullivan fixed Finch with a gaze. "And what have youse to say to that, my fine singer?"

Finch grinned. "That I didn't know it was important for poets to describe something they'd seen with their own eyes. The sea is as imaginary as the authorship, since I took the liberty of burrowing a sonnet from Shelley, so he's the one you—thou really want for advertising."

Sullivan looked grim. "Who is he? If he finds out, he might make trouble for our whole House—"

"I think not. He's been dead for a long time, and as panegyric sonnets are never permanent, I don't think anything has really been lost. You've got the wrong man on this charge."

"Oh, no we haven't!" yelled Orange, bouncing to his feet, "No matter where the poem came from, youse presented it in such a way as to make a sensation—"

As he ranted on, one member of the court had tiptoed over to the window and opened it. An instant later, he mopped his brow, fidgetted restlessly in his seat, and then was out of it with a whoop, prancing behind the table in what half resembled an Indian war-dance, half a plain citizen with a bellyache.

"Seizure! He's got a seizure!" shouted someone. A woman screamed; there was a general rush toward the exits. It was a rush Finch did not join; to him the man seemed in need of succor, and as the rest recoiled, he pressed forward to lay a hand on the board member's shoulder.

"I say, old man,—" he began.

"Yeeeow!" The man turned on Finch, baring his incisors and hooking his fingers, claw-like. A rush sent Finch backward across a chair; by time he had recovered his feet, the victim of the seizure was running amok in the most thorough style, swinging a fireaxe he had pulled down from the wall.

The Board Room was now almost empty, except where two or three members were tumbling over each other at the door. But as Finch got up, he perceived that the madman had cornered Sullivan Michael Politiciar, who was standing with his back pressed against the paneling of the inner wall, gasping like a fish and making shooing motions with his hands. Before him the attacker took a stance and swung back to strike.

Finch, coming up behind the assailant, was just in time to catch the axe on the backswing. He jerked; the axe-wielder released his weapon to keep from being pulled over backwards. Finch threw the weapon slithering across the floor and turned to grapple with the man. He was horrified to feel the strength in the madly-driven muscles.

"Hey!" he gasped, "somebody help grab him!"

Nobody did. As the pair whirled round, Finch caught a glimpse of three or four people beginning to come back through the doors, watching with unhelpful interest. Someone called advice: "Grab his ankle!" "Watch out, he's trying to gouge youse!"

Just as Finch, gasping for breath, thought he could hold on no longer, his opponent was violently torn from his grasp, and three or four men in the blue pajamas of Proctors bore the madman, screeching from the room.

"Whew!" said Sullivan, mopping his forehead. "Now there's one for you. I thought Mamie Sullivan's boy was a goner that time."

He took his place at the table again, and the others flooded back into the room. Finch noticed that instead of the compliments on his struggle with the madman that might have been expected, there were whispers and sidelong glances, and it made him annoyed with the whole ridiculous proceeding.

"Why didn't one of you bear a hand while I was wrestling with this maniac?" he demanded aloud. "He was trying to throttle me."

One of the judges looked at him with disapproval. "We summoned the Proctors," he said coldly. "The court will take cognizance of your irrational expectation that youse should be assisted in your brave but irrational action of risking injury to yourself without being paid for it,"

"The court will do nothing of the sort," boomed Sullivan. "It was my own neck was being risked and I was not being paid for it, neither. Now after our little recess, let us resume the case against Finch Arthur Poet. I find the case against him for advertising not supported by the evidence, and it is dismissed. As for Orford Max Cigar-maker's longing for an imaginary sea, the court rules that it can be satisfied by contemplating an imaginary picture of the ocean for one half hour each day, and directs Orford to report to the clerk of the court daily that he has studied such a picture. Court closed."

"What!" Orange was on his feet again. "I'm a patron here—you can't—"

"Go climb a tree, Bill," said Sullivan, imperturbably. "The man has been saving my life and the good name of Strawberry House, which is more than you have ever done. Now, for the sake of the argument, and because you don't want to be his patron any more, I'll admit he's not so very good a poet, maybe. That last line of his sounded more than a bit off to me. So we'll just give you your request and reclassify him, if he can pass the Board, into something with a little more status. Finch, have youse any ideas along those lines? Which direction do your talents he, if youse have any talents and even if youse haven't?"

Finch thought. "How about something in the line of archaeology or history?" he asked.

Sullivan said: "Who's got a district organization table? Thanks, Waldo. Let's see, now. District Historian— mmm—that's filled, and by a good man, I don't think the district would be caring to trade him away. There are a couple of openings for Historical Researcher and Archivist, but those are no better than the one youse have got now. Wait—here's one for District Genealogist. How would youse like that?"

"I'm not sure," said Finch. "I'd like to hear a little more about it."

"Youse would continue to live in Strawberry House," explained the politician. "Youse would report to the District Historian in professional matters and to me in everything else. Youse would stand a good chance of inheriting the District Historian's job some day, and that would make youse a patron."

"I see," said Finch.

"In the meantime," continued Sullivan, "youse would get some more status right away. What youse got now entitles youse to a two-room apartment and one wife, though I see youse have not taken advantage of all your opportunities yet. As District Genealogist, youse would have a three-room apartment, an automobile, two wives and the right to have two children."

"Sounds like a lot to get into a three-room apartment," said Finch, "but I suppose I don't have to try. All right, I'll apply."

Sullivan's sideburns waggled as he beamed. "All youse have to do now is take an aptitude test for reclassification, and you're all fixed up. There's the case all settled, Orange's application for reclassification and everything."

"You haven't heard the last of this, Mike," said Orange, turning on his heel for the door.

"And you haven't either if you try any funny tricks," Sullivan called after rum.

"When do I take this test?" asked Finch.

"Right now," said Sullivan. "Stay where youse are, my boy. I've sent for the Classification Board. Oh, Frank!" A small, burly, ugly man with thick ears came forward. "This is Coogan Francis Fixer, my special representative with the board. He'll see that youse get a square deal from them scientists, and if youse don't, he'll see that youse do anyway."

"Oughtn't I to make some preparation for the test?" asked Finch.

"Not at all, not at all. It's an aptitude test, and it tells what you're good for regardless of preparation, and if it isn't any good, there's no point in trying to prepare for it whatever. Understand? Ah, here we are. Good morning, Charley. Hello, Milo. Good morning, Julius. I'll be on my way, Arthur, and good luck to youse."

As Sullivan plowed his massive way toward the exit, the ugly little Fixer leaned close to Finch and murmured: "You sit down at this end of the table, so I can slip you the answers."

The oldest member of the Classification Board smiled at Finch from behind the table and said: "I don't believe I have met youse, sir. I am the new head of the Board, Calthorp Milo Professor. Do I understand Finch Mr., that you are a Poet and wish a test for reclassification as a Genealogist?"

"That's right, I believe," said Finch.

"Hmm—cognate but not exactly related professions," said Calthorp, fingering a lean chin. "We shall have to devise a special method." He held a brief whispered consultation with the other members of his board, then turned and faced Finch. "We'll begin with your powers of mathematical extrapolation. What is the term following 31 in the series 1,3,7, 15,31?"

Finch scribbled a few figures on the pad that had been laid before him. This should work out easily; a series of the form x (n plus 1) equals (xn plus 2n) ... Beside him, out of the corner of* his eye, he could see Coogan working energetically over his own pad. Finch was about to call out, "Sixty-three" when Coogan tipped his pad up so that a large "95" was visible, scrawled across the topmost sheet.

Finch looked back at his pad. Could he have made a mistake in so simple a calculation? Or was this some new trap, in which the board members and Coogan were concerned? The members were regarding him only with a kindly, expectant interest; Coogan Francis Fixer they did not appear to see at all.

Finch glanced over his own calculation, found no error, tipped his pad so Coogan could see it. With a worried frown the little man began recalculating. But at that moment something stirred in Finch's memory and he asked to have the question repeated.

"Ha!" he cried, "I thought so. There isn't any term following 31 in the series 1, 3,7,15,31!"

Six pairs of frosty eyebrows at the other limit of the table went up simultaneously. "By Jove," said Calthorp Professor, "he's right, even though that wasn't intended as a catch question. He caught us, if anything. Gentlemen, I think we may give him a special mark for intense perspicuity on this question, do not youse?" He turned to the other members of the board and five heads nodded in unison.

"Now, Finch, here's one for sense of deduction. Youse are the captain of a ship sailing from New York to Liverpool. On the third day out, youse discover that youse are in Latitude 40, Longitude 103; that there are 36 gallons of drinking water aboard; that your crew comprises fourteen persons, twelve of whom are beer-drinkers who will require little water. Youse are carrying a cargo of eucalyptus nuts insured for sixteen cents per ton per day. What status do youse have?"

Once more Coogan Francis Fixer began figuring furiously. Finch thought a moment, glanced at his pad, saw that it was covered with figures, and answered: "The status of an idiot, I suppose, if I couldn't figure out that I seemed to be sailing a ship in the wrong direction and across the Rocky Mountains."

"I think that rates an approval mark," said Calthorp Professor and the heads nodded again. "Very well, how about this: suppose that youse are travelling toward Indianapolis and encounter an individual of very high status, say a judge of the Supreme Court, accompanied by all seven of his wives; that each of these wives is possessed of seven containers; that each container harbors seven feline pets; that each feline is nursing seven young of the same species. Considering-human beings, the containers, the pets and the young thereof as separate units, how many units are bound for Indianapolis?"

Out of the corner of his eye Finch saw Coogan's paper covered with a long series of sevens, and out of the corner of his own the Fixer was scowling to warn Finch against rash guesses. The members of the board watched in owl-eyed solemnity.

Finch laughed. "There is only one unit bound for St. Ives—I mean Indianapolis; namely, me, Finch Arthur."

Six looks of astonishment met each other at the far side of the table. "I do not know that I have met a more acute logician," said Calthorp Professor, in an awed voice.

"We shall have to recast some of these questions," remarked another member of the board.

"Evidently. Evidently. Well, Finch, this is a test of your historical background, extremely important to a Genealogist. What was the vernacular name of the twentieth Pope John?"

Coogan leaned over and said in a stage whisper: "There wasn't any! There wasn't any!"

Finch merely smiled. "If," he said, "thou asked me the name of Pope John XX, the answer would have been none. But as thou has asked me for the twentieth Pope named John, the answer is Pope John XXI, who was called the twenty-first instead of the twentieth as the result of some mistake. As for his name—let me see. Borgia? Medici? No; I think John XXI was Pedro some-thing-or-other. Will that do?"

"Certainly, certainly," said Calthorp. "Thus far youse have shown a high degree of discrimination. Now there is one more test youse must pass before being reclassified as a Genealogist; the test for delicacy combined with patience."

The Professor dumped a box of jackstraws on the table, little rods with projections at the end of them, and a hook to fish them from the pile. "Youse understand," he said, "that youse must remove each straw without jostling any of the others remaining in the pile. If youse do, those youse have removed are put back in the heap. This is a time test. Are youse ready?" Calthorp took out a stop-watch.

Finch went to work, locating the topmost straw and snaking it from the pile without difficulty. His hands, trained by years of work on delicate archaeological fragments, moved in a smooth rhythm.

Coogan leaned over his shoulder, obviously suffering agonies because there was no way he could help. Coogan's breath whistled in Finch's ear, a disturbing element. Finch tried to imagine him as merely some bloodthirsty Anatolian fly, but the distraction was considerable. That straw—was it moving?

Ktchoo!

Coogan's sneeze sent all the jackstraws flying.

"Oh, that's too bad," said Calthorp Milo Professor. He turned to his colleagues. "It would be manifestly unreasonable to make him repeat this test. I propose we reclassify without including any result to this final experiment."

Five heads nodded as one. Coogan Francis Fixer offered his hand: "See what I done for you?" he said.