He came back to the laboratory, trying to ignore the third dynamo with the big blue eyes, and hopelessly studied the workbench again. Joe, posturing before the mirror, said he thought he believed in the basic philosophy of intellectualism. Still, he added, since obviously Gallegher’s intellect was in abeyance, it might pay to hook up the projector and find out what had happened last night.
This made sense. Some time before, realizing that Gallegher sober never remembered the adventures of Gallegher tight, he had installed a visio-audio gadget in the laboratory, cleverly adjusted to turn itself on whenever circumstances warranted it. How the thing worked Gallegher wasn’t quite sure any more, except that it could run off miraculous blood-alcohol tests on its creator and start recording when the percentage was sufficiently high. At the moment the machine was shrouded in a blanket. Gallegher whipped this off, wheeled over a screen, and watched and listened to what had happened last night.
Joe stood in a corner, turned off, probably cogitating. Grandpa, a wizened little man with a brown face like a bad-tempered nutcracker, sat on a stool cuddling a bottle. Gallegher was removing the liquor organ mouthpiece from between his lips, having just taken on enough of a load to start the recorder working.
A slim, middle-aged man with large ears and an eager expression jittered on the edge of his relaxer, watching Gallegher.
“Claptrap,” Grandpa said in a squeaky voice. “When I was a kid we went out and killed grizzlies with our hands. None of these new-fangled ideas—”
“Grandpa,” Gallegher said, “shut up. You’re not that old. And you’re a liar anyway.”
“Reminds me of the time I was out in the woods and a grizzly came at me. I didn’t have a gun. Well, I’ll tell you. I just reached down his mouth—”
“Your bottle’s empty,” Gallegher said cleverly, and there was a pause while Grandpa, startled, investigated. It wasn’t.
“You were highly recommended,” said the eager man. “I do hope you can help me.
My partner and I are about at the end of our rope.”
Gallegher looked at him dazedly. “You have a partner? Who’s he? For that matter, who are you?”
Dead silence fell while the eager man fought with his bafflement. Grandpa lowered his bottle and said: “It wasn’t empty, but it is now. Where’s another?”
The eager man blinked. “Mr. Gallegher,” he said faintly. “I don’t understand. We’ve been discussing—”
Gallegher said, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m no good on technical problems unless I’m…ah…stimulated. Then I’m a genius. But I’m awfully absentminded. I’m sure I can solve your problem, but the fact is I’ve forgotten what it is. I suggest you start from the beginning. Who are you and have you given me any money yet?”
“I’m Jonas Harding,” the eager man said. “I’ve got fifty thousand credits in my pocket, but we haven’t come to any terms yet.”
“Then give me the dough and we’ll come to terms,” Gallegher said with ill-concealed greed. “I need money.”
“You certainly do,” Grandpa put in, searching for a bottle. “ You’re so overdrawn at the bank that they lock the doors when they see you coming. I want a drink.”
“Try the organ,” Gallegher suggested. “Now, Mr. Harding—”
“I want a bottle. I don’t trust that dohinkus of yours.”
Harding, for all his eagerness, could not quite conceal a growing skepticism. “As for the credits,” he said, “I think perhaps we’d better talk a little first. You were very highly recommended but perhaps this is one of your off days.”
“Not at all. Still—”
“Why should I give you the money before we come to terms?” Harding pointed out. “Especially since you’ve forgotten who I am and what I wanted.”
Gallegher sighed and gave up. “All right. Tell me what you are and who you want. I mean—”
“I’ll go backhome,” Grandpa threatened. “Where’s a bottle?”
Harding said desperately, “Look, Mr. Gallegher, there’s a limit. I come in here and that robot of yours insults me. Your grandfather insists I have a drink with him. I’m nearly poisoned—”
“I was weaned on com likker,” Grandpa muttered. “Young whippersnappers can’t take it.”
“Then let’s get down to business,” Gallegher said brightly. “I’m beginning to feel good. I’ll just relax here on the couch and you can tell me everything.” He relaxed and sucked idly at the organ’s mouthpiece, which trickled a gin buck. Grandpa cursed.
“Now,” Gallegher said, “the whole thing, from the beginning.”
Harding gave a little sigh. “Well — I’m half-partner in Adrenals, Incorporated. We run a service. A luxury service, keyed to this day and age. As I told you—”
“I’ve forgotten it all,” Gallegher murmured. “You should have made a carbon copy. What is it you do? I’ve got a mad picture of you building tiny prefabricated houses on top of kidneys, but I know I must be wrong.”
“You are,” Harding said shortly. “Here’s your carbon copy. We’re in the adrenal-rousing business. Today man lives a quiet, safe life—”
“Ha!” Gallegher interjected bitterly, “—what with safety controls and devices, medical advances, and the general structure of social living. Now the adrenal glands serve a vital functional purpose, necessary to the health of the normal man.” Harding had apparently launched into a familiar sales talk. “Ages ago we lived in caves, and when a saber-tooth burst out of the jungle, our adrenals, or suprarenals, went into instant action, flooding our system with adrenalin. There was an immediate explosion of action, either toward fight or flight, and such periodic flooding of the blood stream gave tone to the whole system. Not to mention the psychological advantages. Man is an aggressive animal. He’s losing that instinct, but it can be roused by artificial stimulation of the adrenals.”
“A drink?” Grandpa said hopefully, though he understood practically nothing of Harding’s explanation.
Harding’s face became shrewder. He leaned forward confidentially.
“Glamour,” he said. “That’s the answer. We offer adventure. Safe, thrilling, dramatic, exciting, glamorous adventure to the jaded modern man or woman. Not the vicarious, unsatisfactory excitement of television, the real article. Adrenals, Incorporated, will give you adventure plus, and at the same time improve your health physically and mentally. You must have seen our ads: ‘Are you in a rut? Are you jaded? Take a Hunt — and return refreshed, happy, and healthy, ready to lick the world!”’
“A Hunt?”
“That’s our most popular service,” Harding said, relapsing into more businesslike tones. “It’s not new, really. A long time ago travel bureaus were advertising thrilling tiger hunts in Mexico—”
“Ain’t no tigers in Mexico,” Grandpa said. “I been there. I warn you, if you don’t find me a bottle, I’m going right back to Maine.”
But Gallegher was concentrating on the problem. “I don’t see why you need me, then. I can’t supply tigers for you.”
“The Mexican tiger was really a member of the cat family. Puma, I think. We’ve got special reservations all over the world — expensive to set up and maintain — and there we have our Hunts, with every detail carefully planned in advance. The danger must be minimized — in fact, eliminated.
But there must be an illusion of danger or there’s no thrill for the customer. We’ve tried conditioning animals so they’ll stop short of hurting anyone, but…ah…that isn’t too successful. We lost several customers, I’m sorry to say. This is an enormous investment, and we’ve got to recoup. But we’ve found we can’t use tigers or, in fact, any of the large carnivora. It simply isn’t safe. Yet there must be that illusion of danger! The trouble is, we’re degenerating into a trapshooting club. And there’s no personal danger involved in trapshooting.” Grandpa said, “Want some fun, eh? Come on up to Maine with me and I’ll show you some real hunting. We still got bear back in the mountains.”