“Two sets of tracks. But we didn’t catch him, did we?”
Biev ignored the other’s statement. “If there was no one here, ever, then a being could have made the tracks to the site and left. Only if there never had been a prisoner here.” Gargarin didn’t have to answer. “But,” said Biev, as if further trying to confirm fact, “we know he was here. In these four theorems of logic, none can apply. Do you see that, Gargarin, none can apply!”
Gargarin nodded, pursed his lips in thought, and said, “What you are looking for, my dear Biev, is a prisoner here with an even number of tracks. Or ... a prisoner gone . . . with an odd number of tracks.”
Biev looked like he could use a double shot of something, or maybe the whole bottle for that matter.
A red sun shone a scant hairline above this dreary, bleak scene. A crow called en route to its night bivouac. A faint wind stirred the black locks of one biochemist Gargarin. “We’d better get back to the vehicle,” he said.
Biev only contemplated the point where the two sets of tracks intersected.
“I said, we’d better get back to the vehicle.”
Biev didn’t look up. Gargarin knew the other to be a man of the sole thought, meaning he didn’t hear him. Then Gargarin saw it too. “What is this?” And he picked it up. It was a small flaxen bag of peasant manufacture, easily fitting into the palm of the man’s hand. He took a sampling from the bag. “Seeds of some sort.”
“Must’ve been the reason he returned,” said Biev. “Ah, returned and left,” he corrected himself, still disconcerted over the wrong number of tracks.
Biev, always the boldest of men, took one of the seeds, sniffed at it. Then he bit it in two. And made a face.
“Allow me,” said Gargarin and also bit one in two. He also made a face. “Oh, I know what these are. Our escapee is a bit of a wit, a clown. Came back to show us he could come back.”
“But why seeds?”
“I don’t know,” said Gargarin. “Some symbolic meaning, maybe.”
“Maybe someone back there can tell us. Or maybe something in Western literature.”
“Western literature?”
“The man here, the escapee who caused to happen the wrong number of tracks, was a strong reader of Western literature. Not only a strong reader—that didn’t satisfy him—he was also a strong proponent of Western literature. And Western ways. But that wasn’t enough for him. We here are tolerant enough to allow a man to believe what he will, but that wasn’t freedom enough for him. He had to go around and expound his feelings. He went around preaching his views . . . and soon he had a lot of others cackling the same bosh. The thing got out of hand, and the man who wasn’t content to leave well enough alone became a political prisoner.” Biev cleared his throat. “He was a farmer, and talkative farmers are of no use to anybody. A good reason among others that he was chosen for this project. Does this, ah, does this anticipate your question?”
Gargarin nodded. “Let’s get back.”
Biev didn’t move. He had one more question. “Wonder how he got away?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Good god, man. You aren’t saying he disappeared from that chain.”
Gargarin shrugged. “Two tracks. No prisoner. The logic of it. . .”
“Nonsense!” Biev yelled. “Sheepdip and nonsense. There must be an explanation. There must always be an explanation.”
“We’ll ask around when we get back. Let us go. It is getting cold.”
Biev and the biochemist started back up the hill.
“Ask about what?” said Biev.
“Those seeds. They have a meaning, a symbolic meaning. They’ll explain the whole question. I’m sure of it.”
Biev was the kind of person that should never play poker; his face the kind that showed what he was thinking. This time he showed doubt. “This I’ve got to see. This I really have got to see. The connection between a man’s impossible escape . . .” he looked at the broken grain in his hand “... and a grain of mustard seed.”
Mr. Malec says the idea for “Project Inhumane” came out of eight years as a chemical-lab technician, and that the story itself was conceived while pushing stones out of a railroad car in weather 8 degrees above zero, working as a laborer for the N. Y. Central.
“Those Who Can, Do”—another “first”—also had its origins on the job: A student once challenged me during my lecture, “What’s this stuff good for anyway?” [Kurosaka teaches mathematics at a small Boston college.] Months later, I indulged in an l-should-have-said daydream. By the time I was through, I had a fantasy on my hands.
About himself, he adds: I keep myself surrounded by remnants of yet-unfulfilled dreams: an electric bass, a surrealistic chess set, hundreds of toys and puzzles, a trombone, a pair of dumbbells, a baritone saxophone, and a box of manuscript envelopes. I also enjoy joggling, performing magic tricks, listening to my hundreds of LP’s, and working crossword puzzles. [Some people’s days have more hours than others’—as you will see a bit further on. j.m.] I have often been advised to learn a trade in order to get my mind off my hobbies.
THOSE WHO CAN, DO
BOB KUROSAKA
The semester began in its traditionally chaotic manner. Class cards were lost; students wandered aimlessly through the lecture hall. An occasional oh punctuated my lecture, followed by the fumbling exit of a blushing student, suddenly realizing the course is Differential Equations, not Introduction to Philosophy.
After announcing the required texts and papers, I asked the usual “Are there any questions?” If there were none, I could catch the 11:20 bus to Weavertown; there would be time for a short round of golf.
A student rose and jammed his hands into his back pockets. “Professor, why do we have to take this course?”
An uneasy murmur rose from the class, a nervous shuffling of feet.
“What is your name, young man?” I asked.
“Barone, sir. Frank Barone.”
“Well, Mr. Barone, the University requires that all those majoring in Mathematics complete a minimum of . . .”
“I know that!” he interrupted, then added quickly, “sir.”
I smiled and nodded.
“I mean,” he continued, “is there any practical use in studying totally abstract concepts? What I need is a guide to being a contributing member of society.”
I concluded that he was a refugee from Philosophy, but his deep voice and confident manner had enchanted the class. The other students were awaiting my answer. I cleared my throat.
“Mr. Barone,” I began, “what do you want from the University?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I thought two years of college would help me decide on a career, but it hasn’t. You see, I don’t have to work for a living.”
He said it as simply as you or I would say, “I’m having trouble with my teeth.”
“And how will you obtain the essentials of life, Mr. Barone?”
“Well, sir, I have a ... a gift.”
“Indeed,” I chuckled. “The Midas Touch, perhaps?”
I immediately regretted my sarcasm. Barone’s face turned red. He had confessed a matter of great personal importance and I had ridiculed him.
“Better than that, professor!” he called. “Watch!”
Barone raised a hand and pointed at me. My lectern rose silently and hovered above my head. I heard a gasp. I turned in time to see Barone gesturing at a shapely coed. She was trying to cover her nakedness with her notebook.