Then Maculay straightened up with a laugh. "That's lousy," he said. "Larimore wouldn't buy it. We'll have him go out and meet some four-armed monsters who think that human meat is superb. That's crummy too, but it's an idea. C'mon, m'lady, let's dance!"
The telephone rang on Doctor Hanson's desk. It was Ava, from the outer office. "Man by the name of Redmond to see you, doctor," she reported.
"Has he an appointment?"
"No, that's why I'm calling. He claims it is a matter of impor—No, Mister Redmond, you cannot go—"
The doctor's door opened abruptly and the man called Redmond strode in. "Where is Maculay?" he demanded sharply.
Doctor Hanson looked up at Redmond calmly. With insulting deliberation, Hanson eyed the man, while Redmond began to fume. Redmond was tall and thin, a bit too tall and a bit too thin in the doctor's estimation. He was thirty to Maculay's thirty-eight, but did not smoothe his impatience and ambition behind a cloak of politeness.
"Sit down, Mister Redmond. I'm interested in you."
"Where is Maculay?" came the repeated demand.
Hanson smiled slowly. "I'm interested in trying to discover just what it is about abstract mathematicians that makes them think that they can stamp their way through life, disregarding not only the rights of others, but their own as well."