Political Application

This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, September 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
John Victor Peterson lives in Jackson Heights, almost a stone’s throw from La Guardia Airfield. But he doesn’t just stand and watch the big planes roar past overhead. He has the kind of brilliant technical know-how which makes what goes on inside of a plane of paramount interest to him. He’s interested, too, in the future superduper gadgetry, as this hilarious yarn attests.

by … John Victor Peterson
If matter transference really works—neanderthalers can pop up anywhere. And that’s very hard on politicians!
Some say scientists should keep their noses out of politics. Benson says it’s to prevent damage to their olfactory senses. Benson’s a physicist.
I’ve known Allan Benson for a long time. In fact I’ve bodyguarded him for years and think I understand him better than he does himself. And when he shook security at White Sands, my boss didn’t hesitate to tell me that knowing Benson as I do I certainly shouldn’t have let him skip off. Or crisp words to that effect.
The pressure was on. Benson was seeking a new fuel—or a way of compressing a known fuel—to carry a torchship to Mars. His loss could mean a delay of decades. We knew he’d been close, but not how close.
My nickname’s Monk. I’ve fought it, certainly, but what can you do when a well-wishing mother names you after a wealthy uncle and your birth certificate says Neander Thalberg? As early as high school some bright pundit noted the name’s similarity to that of a certain prehistoric man. Unfortunately the similarity is not in name alone: I’m muscular, stooped, and, I must admit, not handsome hero model material.
Well, maybe the nickname’s justified, but still, Al Benson didn’t have to give the crowning insult. And yet, if he hadn’t, there probably wouldn’t be a torchship stern-ending on Mars just about now.