"I do," I told him with savage satisfaction. "All my life I've wanted to see what would happen when a man with plain, ordinary horse-sense crossed gray matter with a bunch of animated reference books. You're the party of the first part. Look, Hank—suppose you were out hunting with another guy. You see the flash of his gun; ten seconds later you hear the boom. How far away from him are you?"
"A game, mebbe?" asked Hank. He pondered for a minute while I waited, wondering if I'd cleaned the machine the first time or if this were a perpetual jackpot.
Then, "How cold is it?" asked Hank.
I almost yelped with joy. "Say about sixty-eight," I said.
Hank said, "Well, then, I reckon he'd be 'bout two mile off. Trifle more, mebbe."
"Why?" I demanded. "How did you know?"
Hank looked perplexed. He said, "Well, it seems as if. That's all."
"And that," I told him, "is all I wanted to know! Come on, my friend. Let's go puzzle pedagogues!"
The only thing stuffier than the office of H. Logan MacDowell, Midland University's president, was H. Logan himself. Hank and I entered the outer office, ran a gantlet of upturned noses, and were finally informed by a pair of glinting pince-nez that "Dr. MacDowell will see you now, if you please." We pleased.