Clifford Maculay reacted instantly to the doctor's question; he became half-angry, completely indignant.
Doctor Hanson smiled. "You're not angry at the question," he said quietly; "you're not even surprised that a man of seventy should ask such a question. What you are indignant about is that your mind denies such a need. Cliff, you're trying to run your body with your brain."
"Naturally. So what has my love life—?"
"You've got glands too," remarked Hanson. "And some of them are damned important to mental balance."
Maculay sat forward on the chair, tense and alert. He was not accustomed to being browbeaten; Maculay gave the orders and other people jumped. Now that he was on the receiving end of the deal, he was preparing for the battle of wits. But Hanson had seen many such men in forty-odd years of medicine. Hanson did not see Maculay the Mind; he saw a man of thirty-eight, soft from lack of exercise, underweight from the constant burning away of nervous energy. He saw a fine physical machine being run into an early grave or a sanatorium, because the mind behind those sharp blue eyes was too damned ignorant to understand that it could not trade the worn-out body for a new model with white sidewall tires, automatic defroster, and long-playing record attachment.
"Relax," said Hanson; "I'm not going to argue with you."
"Good. Now let's get down to business."
"Exactly what do you want?"
Maculay pondered for a moment. "Do you understand variable-matrix radiation mechanics?"
"Probably as little as you know synaptic pressure theory."