Death Is the Answer

Mary grinned at Tom and said, “So again we have the five-dollar contest between practise and theory. With practise winning again.”

“Theory is right,” Stan moaned. “I don’t get it. My records say that out of the last seven times, you’ve won six. Six times you’ve handed out more dough on right answers than I have. What do you do? Whisper the answers? Or do you split with Tom?”

“Leave me out of this,” Tom said. “I make it a point to give you and Nick the same number of questions, equally difficult. And they add up to about the same amount of payoff. You guys both know what’s in the bowl. Nick just has a better eye for... for—”

“The extroverted intelligentsia,” Mary supplied.

“Yeah. You bother me, Mary. You’re beginning to sound like Doctor Haverly here. Anyway, since you so kindly supplied the words to fit my thought, I will rephrase. Nick has an eye for smarter people. How are you guys lined up for tonight?”

“I’m right balcony and Stan’s front and center,” Nick said, “You didn’t tell me, Stan boy. Is it a bet?”

“You’re twenty-five ahead. I must bet to protect my investment.”

“Run along, children,” Tom said, getting to his feet with a grunt. “Time to get ready.”

Mary and Stan, as usual, had single rooms down the hall from the double occupied by Tom and Nick. They left the room together, and Stan saw a look on Nick’s face that told him that Nick didn’t like the idea of their going anywhere together.

Stan told himself that Nick had no cause for alarm. It was true that he couldn’t look into Mary’s eyes without a small feeling of shock, but something always made him blundering and stupid when he was with her. He knew it was the gulf between them caused by the job. To Mary, the job was a part of her career. To Stan the job was a training ground, a source of data, an amusing and relatively unimportant phase. He could understand her attitude, but he doubted whether she could understand him. So he made no effort to see if she could understand. With an odd feeling of loss, he watched her gravitate toward Nick.

Suddenly she caught his arm. He looked at her in surprise.

“Hold up there, Professor. You just walked by your room.”

Stan blushed and turned back, looking over his shoulder to admire the way she walked down the hall. He stood for a time in his room, staring out of his window at a blank brick wall, his forehead knotted, trying to figure out why he was so easily beaten by Nick each week...

The Ajax Theater was loaded. Eager citizens who couldn’t find seats were herded behind the aged velvet ropes held by the pimply ushers.

The curtain went up and Tom walked out, shining in white tie and tails. He grinned at the audience, patted the top of the mike and said, “I’m Professor Quotient and friend. Neither of us kill ourselves working.” As usual he got a good laugh. “You’ve all heard this program over the radio. But on the radio, you can’t see Mary. Come out here, Mary.” She came out in her sequined tights and bra, holding the bowl of questions. Tom killed the stomping and whistling by holding up both hands. “This is called a warm up. I’m supposed to make you happy, so when we go on the air Mary and I get what’s called ‘thunderous applause’.”

As usual, they ate it up. Tom glanced out into the wings and then at his watch. “We have time for a little instruction — not that all you bright people need it. I know you’re all here loaded with facts and figures. I’ll pull a question out of the bowl and my assistants in the audience will pick out somebody to answer it. When they hand you that mike, don’t be afraid of it. Talk up. Make Aunt Minnie in Tuxedo Junction understand every word. I’ll announce the value of the question before I ask it. Okay, folks, here comes my announcer. We’re about ready for the air. Get ready now. Make with the hands when I tell you. Okay. Now! Hit it!”

The announcer said, “And now, from the stage of the Ajax Theater in Hoagersburg we present the one — the only — Professor Quotient — one half hour of fun and games brought to you by the manufacturers of Amoeba Mouthwash, the blue bottle that knocks off those germs...”

Stan Haverly, in the aisle, front and center, examined the faces of the customers. That kid on the aisle, smirking, greased hair. Stay away from him. Wise. And don’t pick anybody near that drunk. He might get cute and try to say something into the mike. Cute young girl there that might do. Pick ’em bright tonight. Get back one of those fives from Nick. Take the cute gal for the first one. He strolled nearer to her, and she gave him a half-frightened, sideways look. He bent over her and said, “Want to try one?”

She compressed her lips and nodded.