American Science Fiction #41 — page 30: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

- “We can make the city okay, sir.” “Fill up before you get there,” the General told him. “We’re going right on through to Washington tonight.” “But, sir, I haven’t notified the motor pool at Governor’s Island,” the Sergeant protested. “Damn the motor pool!” the Gene- ral exploded. “Ill take care of them. Now get going; we’ve got a long drive ahead.” The big car gathered speed through the thickening night snow. The General slept most of the way, after he and the Sergeant stopped for dinner at a Howard Johnson restaur- ant on Route One, just north of New Brunswick. After a shower, a change into uniform and breakfast, he was in sound operating-shape when he reached his office at the~Pentagon the next morning. , He arranged for a round-the-clock guard of Angus’ MacReedy’s house, ordered investigation of the model- maker’s record, had a copy of the complete file on the possible enemy weapon forwarded to Long Island by special messenger. Then he summon- ed a special meeting of top-echelon Ordnance brass and produced the models of the XT-1/1, the self-reload- ing rocket launcher and the improved A-gun, | If such a Broadway-Hollywood term as sensational could be used in any connection with a Pentagon confer- ence, the General’s meeting with his colleagues might have qualified for it. Experts were quick to understand the practicability of the models, quick to recast their plans accordingly. Within the week, he was summoned before the Combined Chiefs and com- mended by that body for his clear- sightedness in cutting Gordian knots of the most baffling order. There was talk of a third star and appointment as Chief of Ordnance once the some- what-doddering incumbent was retir- ed, come June. He was a sort of brown-haired white-haired boy. He was interviewed by representatives of three national newsweeklies. Though he wore his new honours gracefully, actually the General was thoroughly uncomfortable. He was THE FINAL FIGURE far more concerned with the safety of» the country than with his own ad- vancement; and his ego was much too solicly based to permit him enjoyment of honours that were not rightfully his. The worst of it was that he couldn’t explain. If he told his superiors that. his “inspirations” came from the in- tuitive head of a toy-soldier maker on Long Island who even denied his in- tuition in the name of logic—not only would his own career be permanently damaged, but the value of MacReedy’s models would be suspected. So much so that they might be disregarded en-, tirely—thus retying the Gordian knots that were stymying the armament pro- gramme.. MacReedy’s file. was taid on his desk one morning by a plump WAC secretary. It was exactly as the model- maker ,had stated: he was American- born, only child of a Scottish engineer and a German-American woman from Wisconsin. He held an engineering © degree from a small polytechnical in- stitute in upstate New. York. His war-record was exemplary. At the time of his wound in Central France, MacReedy had been a captain in the Combat Engineers, wearer of a silver star won at Anzio. There was a complete medical-report on the wound and treatment, whose technical jargon was too much for the General. All he could gather was that it was a head-wound and brain injury, which had rendered the model-maker unfit for Army duty. - Ali He took the report to his opposite numt -r in the Medical Corps, a man whose abilities in brain-surgery were mentioned in hushed voices at Johns Hopkins. Over a-highball he told the whole story for the first time, hoping it wouldn’t be received with hoots, ' It wasn’t. The white-haired surgeon looked long. and meditatively at. his drink. Then he said, “Kermit, I can’t begin to account for it; I have mud- died around in the human brain enough to know that what we like to call our scientific knowledge is at best empirical. You say this man had his ability before he was wounded?” “He built a Sherman tank two years Comichooks:com