Frederick Braun came to the point. "Mr. Crowley," he said, "did it ever occur to you that somewhere amidst our nearly one hundred million American males there is the average man?"
Crowley looked at him.
Braun cleared his throat and with his thumb and forefinger pushed his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that isn't exactly the technical way in which to put it."
Ross Wooley shifted his football shoulders and leaned forward earnestly. "No, Doctor, that's exactly the way to put it." He said to Crowley, very seriously, "We've done this most efficiently. We've gone through absolute piles of statistics. We've...."
"Done what?" Crowley all but wailed. "Take it easy, will you? What are you all talking about?"
Patricia said impatiently, "Mr. Crowley, you are the average American. The man on the street. The Common Man."
He frowned at her. "What'd'ya mean, common? I'm as good as anybody else."
"That's exactly what we mean," Ross said placatingly. "You are exactly as good as anybody else, Mr. Crowley. You're the average man."
"I don't know what the devil you're talking about. Pardon my language, Miss."
"Not at all," Patricia sighed. "Dr. Braun, why don't you take over? We seem to all be speaking at once."