"That's it, Jim," nodded Hank. "That's the poem he said. Well, I tried to reason with him. Told him he was all wrong. Things couldn't be thataway!"
I asked, "Why not, Hank? Lots of philosophers have reached the conclusion that existence is predestined."
"Mebbe so!" said Hank doggedly. "But it jest ain't logical. Life is chemical, an' existence is jest like a chemical equation, Jim—balanced on a hair-spring. Every little thing which happens: the fall of an empire, the discovery of a new element, somebody's cold in the head, anything an' everything, becomes a factor. We live in the world we live in today because it's the only possible world under the conditions of our past!
"Of course, there could be—" Hank's eyes clouded. "There could be—"
I laughed at him. "For once, pal, you're caught in a middle. Your theory is just as good as Jamieson's, but no better. You can't prove it. So how about a couple rounds of checkers before we turn in?"
Hank temporarily forgot whatever new conjecture had occurred to him. He looked a bit petulant as he aimed a shot of liquid brown at the distant bronze jug.
"Now, looky here, Jim—you don't deny things would be a heap diff'rent if you an' me'd never met, an' I'd stayed home on my turnip farm?"
"No."
"Well, then!"
"But," I pointed out, "perhaps it was ordained that we should meet and that you should come to Midland U."