The tiger launched itself from the underbrush. It shot toward the client like catapulted murder, fangs bared. As the claws neared the man’s back, the suprarenals shot adrenalin into the blood stream in strong concentration.
That was the catalyst. The latent accelerative factor became active.
The client speeded up — tremendously. He stepped away from the tiger, which was apparently frozen in midair, and did what seemed best to him before the effect of the accelerator wore off. When it did, he returned to normal — and by that time he could be in the supply station of Adrenals, Incorporated, getting another intravenous shot — unless he’d decided to bag his tiger the easy way.
It was as simple as that.
“Ten thousand credits,” Gallegher said, happily counting them. “The balance due as soon as I work out the catalytic angle. Which is a cinch. Any fourth-rate chemist could do it. What intrigues me is the forthcoming interview between Harding and Murdoch Mackenzie. When they compare the time element, it’s going to be funny.”
“I want a drink,” Grandpa said. “Where’s a bottle?”
“Even in court, I think I could prove I only took an hour or less to solve the problem. It was Harding’s hour, of course, but time is relative. Entropy — metabolism — what a legal battle that would be! Still, it won’t happen. I know the formula for the accelerator and Harding doesn’t. He’ll pay the other forty thousand — and Mackenzie won’t have any kicks. After all, I’m giving Adrenals, Incorporated the success factor they needed.”
“Well, I’m still going back to Maine,” Grandpa contended. “Least you can do is give me a bottle.”
“Go out and buy one,” Gallegher said, tossing the old gentleman several credits. “Buy several. I often wonder what the vintners buy—”
“Eh?”
“—one-half so precious as the stuff they sell. No, I’m not tight. But I’m going to be.” Gallegher clutched the liquor organ’s mouthpiece in a loving grip and began to play alcoholic arpeggios on the keyboard. Grandpa, with a parting sneer at such newfangled contraptions, took his departure.
Silence fell over the laboratory. Bubbles and Monstro, the two dynamos, sat quiescent. Neither of them had bright blue eyes. Gallegher experimented with cocktails and felt a warm, pleasant glow seep through his soul.
Joe came out of his corner and stood before the mirror, admiring his gears.
“Finished skrenning?” Gallegher asked sardonically.
“Yes.”
“Rational being, forsooth. You and your philosophy. Well, my fine robot, it turned out I didn’t need your help after all. Pose away.”
“How ungrateful you are,” Joe said, “after I’ve given you the benefit of my superlogic.”
“Your…what? You’ve slipped a gear. What superlogic?
“The third stage, of course. What we were talking about a while back. That’s why I was skrenning. I hope you didn’t think all your problems were solved by your feeble brain, in that opaque cranium of yours.”
Gallegher sat up. “What are you talking about? Third-stage logic? You didn’t—”
“I don’t think I can describe it to you. It’s more abstruse than the noumenon of Kant, which can’t be perceived except by thought. You’ve got to be able to skren to understand it, but — well, it’s the third stage. It’s…let’s see…demonstrating the nature of things by making things happen by themselves.”
“Experiment?”
“No. By skrenning, I reduce all things from the material plane to the realm of pure thought, and figure out the logical concepts and solutions.”
“But…wait. Things have been happening! I figured out about Grandpa and Harding and worked out the accelerator—”
“You think you did,” Joe said, “I simply skrenned. Which is a purely superintellectual process. After I’d done that, things couldn’t help happening. But I hope you don’t think they happened by themselves!”
Gallegher asked, “What’s skrenning?”
“You’ll never know.”
“But…you’re contending you’re the First Cause…no, it’s voluntarism…third-stage logic? No—” Gallegher fell back on the couch, staring. “Who do you think you are? Deus ex machinal”
Joe glanced down at the conglomeration of gears in this torso.
“What else?” he asked smugly.