Read Online The Non-Statistical Man by Raymond F. Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Raymond F. Jones
Tags: sci fi short stories
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unceasingly in Bascomb’s mind. But Magruder’s own words had answered this. He was out to change the face of society in a destructive manner.
It wasn’t just that he was selfishly thinking of the insurance business, Bascomb reminded himself; Magruder seemed bent on attacking the whole bright world of statistical science, and all the institutions founded upon it.
And this Bascomb could not countenance; his own private world had no other foundation. In statistics a man could know what to expect of the world. Destroy this, put existence on an individual incident basis, and what was left? A nebulous faith in unconfirmed beliefs about how things ought to turn out—
Then he thought again of Sarah and felt lost.
His world had already been shaken too vigorously.
He didn’t go to Joe Archer; there seemed to be no point in it yet. He continued with the pills and the exercises, and went to another lecture. There, he looked for possible witnesses against Magruder, and knew that the quest was futile, even before it started. These people never turned on their messiahs; even if one failed them, there was always the next season, and the next—
That was the day the first of Hap’s articles appeared in the paper. He indicated he was going to do a series analyzing the weird cults and health panaceas and mental improvement fads that proved sucker traps for the sick, neurotic part of the populace which was in need of genuine help.
It began mildly enough, as Johnson had promised; but Bascomb was more than ordinarily amazed at the man’s genius, because he could see where Hap was going. He began, not by antagonizing those who were following such phoney panaceas, but by sympathizing thoroughly with their search for assistance—which was so difficult to find in a brutal civilization that cared only in token measures for the sick or improvident individual.
He promised to follow up with stories of the frauds who preyed upon such people. It was a terrific build-up for the time when he was ready to let go at Magruder. Reading it, Bascomb felt the matter had already passed from his hands. Magruder was, at the mercy of Hap Johnson—and the newspaper-reading public.
Bascomb felt later that he should have been prepared for the event that occurred the following day. (He was eventually to do a great deal of Monday morning quarterbacking over this period of his life.) But when he went to the office, he was still prepossessed of the thought that power to act in the Magruder matter had passed from him.
He was called almost as soon as he arrived to the office of Famham Sprock, Second Vice-president of New England. Sprock was a small, mealy old man who had been by-passed sometime ago for the top post in the Company. He had been relegated to office administration, even though it was known that all who felt his judgement would suffer for his failure.
Sprock looked at Bascomb through seemingly-dull eyes as the statistician entered the room.
“You sent for me?” Bascomb said, trying to make it as little like a question as possible.
“I’ve had a most unbelievable complaint about you,” said Sprock. “It seems too incredible to even act upon it, to believe that one of our Family would act in such a manner. Yet I am forced to believe that the accusation is well founded.
“I am told that you have assumed to step over the line of your authority in this office, and presume to dictate to your fellow officers in the conduct of their affairs. You have demanded that Mr. Tremayne refuse to act favorably on certain applications, so it is said. Is this true, Mr. Bascomb?”
“Yes.” Bascomb nodded his head. And suddenly he felt himself shaking all over; this weazened old fool could actually destroy him if Sprock took it into his silly head. He could deny Charles Bascomb the world of facts and figures and clean, cold statistical reality. Why hadn’t he minded his own business?
“Why, Mr. Bascomb?” said Sprock.
Bascomb took a deep breath and
It wasn’t just that he was selfishly thinking of the insurance business, Bascomb reminded himself; Magruder seemed bent on attacking the whole bright world of statistical science, and all the institutions founded upon it.
And this Bascomb could not countenance; his own private world had no other foundation. In statistics a man could know what to expect of the world. Destroy this, put existence on an individual incident basis, and what was left? A nebulous faith in unconfirmed beliefs about how things ought to turn out—
Then he thought again of Sarah and felt lost.
His world had already been shaken too vigorously.
He didn’t go to Joe Archer; there seemed to be no point in it yet. He continued with the pills and the exercises, and went to another lecture. There, he looked for possible witnesses against Magruder, and knew that the quest was futile, even before it started. These people never turned on their messiahs; even if one failed them, there was always the next season, and the next—
That was the day the first of Hap’s articles appeared in the paper. He indicated he was going to do a series analyzing the weird cults and health panaceas and mental improvement fads that proved sucker traps for the sick, neurotic part of the populace which was in need of genuine help.
It began mildly enough, as Johnson had promised; but Bascomb was more than ordinarily amazed at the man’s genius, because he could see where Hap was going. He began, not by antagonizing those who were following such phoney panaceas, but by sympathizing thoroughly with their search for assistance—which was so difficult to find in a brutal civilization that cared only in token measures for the sick or improvident individual.
He promised to follow up with stories of the frauds who preyed upon such people. It was a terrific build-up for the time when he was ready to let go at Magruder. Reading it, Bascomb felt the matter had already passed from his hands. Magruder was, at the mercy of Hap Johnson—and the newspaper-reading public.
Bascomb felt later that he should have been prepared for the event that occurred the following day. (He was eventually to do a great deal of Monday morning quarterbacking over this period of his life.) But when he went to the office, he was still prepossessed of the thought that power to act in the Magruder matter had passed from him.
He was called almost as soon as he arrived to the office of Famham Sprock, Second Vice-president of New England. Sprock was a small, mealy old man who had been by-passed sometime ago for the top post in the Company. He had been relegated to office administration, even though it was known that all who felt his judgement would suffer for his failure.
Sprock looked at Bascomb through seemingly-dull eyes as the statistician entered the room.
“You sent for me?” Bascomb said, trying to make it as little like a question as possible.
“I’ve had a most unbelievable complaint about you,” said Sprock. “It seems too incredible to even act upon it, to believe that one of our Family would act in such a manner. Yet I am forced to believe that the accusation is well founded.
“I am told that you have assumed to step over the line of your authority in this office, and presume to dictate to your fellow officers in the conduct of their affairs. You have demanded that Mr. Tremayne refuse to act favorably on certain applications, so it is said. Is this true, Mr. Bascomb?”
“Yes.” Bascomb nodded his head. And suddenly he felt himself shaking all over; this weazened old fool could actually destroy him if Sprock took it into his silly head. He could deny Charles Bascomb the world of facts and figures and clean, cold statistical reality. Why hadn’t he minded his own business?
“Why, Mr. Bascomb?” said Sprock.
Bascomb took a deep breath and
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