"Doctor Edwards!" he interrupted, suddenly getting back into the argument, "did it ever occur to you that orthodox scientists are not the top of the intellectual pyramid?—that they are, in fact, the robotic servants of those who dare to think originally?"
Dr. Edwards, also a balding man in his middle forties, but rueful of the fact, managed a thin smile, and Henry perceived that a tender spot had been probed. "I'll overlook a rather unbecoming lack of respect for your elders," retorted the scientist, "but go ahead! As an 'original thinker,' Henry, you should be sufficiently philanthropic to at least drop us groveling orthodox scientists a crumb of pure thought from the overwhelming Cornucopia of your banquet table." His eyes narrowed suddenly with disciplinary sternness. "To put it plainly—"
"You needn't paraphrase the innuendo," Henry cut him off. "And I'll just toss you a crumb!"
"Now Henry," chided Uncle Andy, tamping more tobacco into his pipe, "come down off your Pegasus, boy!"
"No, let him go ahead," insisted Edwards. "This will be a good measurement for both of us!"
Three men in the triple seat behind Henry were poking each other. He could hear what they were saying.
"Get this kid!" one of them grunted. He was the slick, heavy-bearded fellow in the powder blue suit, the one with the mean looking scowl caused by a bright scar on one side of his mouth. But he was not being critical. He was genuinely interested.
"Yeah. Smart alec!" a second man muttered.
"There's about eighty people on board," said the third. "Gotta be at least one genius amongst 'em!" That was the big construction stiff from the base where Uncle Andy had worked—in French Morocco.