The Non-Statistical Man by Raymond F. Jones Page A

children had been aware of some kind of strange, extracurricular activity on the part of their parents for some time. Now the sense of intensity grew somewhat frightening to them; but Charles Bascomb was not ready to admit them to an understanding of what was being attempted. He didn’t know how he could make them understand fully enough to keep from resenting it. And then at other times, he wondered if they might already understand too well.
    His own development progressed at a rate that was pleasing to Bascomb in spite of his impatience. After the first violent shock of becoming aware of intuitive powers, he restrained himself on the streets and on the train and wherever he had casual meeting with hordes of his fellow men. He steeled himself to, walk by men who were dying and to sit near those who were headed for inevitable disaster—disaster and death that might be turned aside by even a small degree of insight.
    The revolution in his own life he began to see in appalling proportions. He’d known that changes would be necessary; but the early estimates were revised upward in a continually widening spiral. He began to know periods of genuine fear as he saw the gap widening between the future and the past—but he would not have turned back, even if it were possible.
    He had not changed his initial estimate of Magruder’s person and methods, or the necessity of restricting his activities, but preservation of the discovery was the all important concern right now; and anything that would lead to this end was fair enough.
    He called at Magruder’s hotel two weeks after the discovery of his own rising intuitive powers.
    Magruder, by that time, had been brought under indictment for practising medicine without license—as a result of Hap Johnson’s articles and a complaint based on Joe Archer’s analysis of the colored pills. Skillfully, Hap had built up a powerful attack against all quacks and charlatans in the health and mental development field; and without leaving his paper open in any way for libel, he had directed public attention and sentiment towards Magruder and his course of lectures.
    The Professor opened the door after Bascomb’s first knock. “I was waiting for you.”
    And suddenly the enormity of his incredible oversight hit Bascomb between the eyes. How could he combat or deceive in any way a man who had the intuitive ability that Magruder must have? It was an impossibility!
    How could he have overlooked this simple fact? And yet he had overlooked it completely.
    “Are you feeling ill?” Magruder asked solicitously. “Can I get you anything?”
    Bascomb shook his head. “I’m all right; just need to sit down. Over here by the window will be all right.”
    Magruder nodded and escorted him to the chair, then took one for himself. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve been aware of you at the lectures, but you always get away so quickly I don’t have a chance to even say hello.” “I’ve been reading about your trouble,” said Bascomb a little thickly.
    “That! It’s nothing; it occurs all the time. All I have to do is make a delaying action until I finish the lectures. Then I’ll pay my fine and be on my way.”
    “Do you think you’ll get by with a fine?”
    Magruder frowned, his wrinkled face contorting like an old apple. “These newspaper articles have a rather unusual skill, coupled with an extraordinary amount of venom. I confess they do worry me, somewhat; you didn’t know what you were starting.”
    Bascomb remained quite still. Was there anything Magruder didn’t know?
    He had admitted worry over the outcome of the indictment, however—as if that were still hidden from him. Bascomb wondered how it could be, what limits there were to intuition, anyway.
    Bascomb said carefully, “I’ve changed my mind since our last meeting.”
    “I know,” Magruder answered almost impatiently. Bascomb swallowed hard. The only possible direction was straight ahead, regardless of what Magruder