THE ROGER BACON FORMULA
by Fletcher Pratt
I MET the old man as the result of three beers and an argument. I never even knew his name. He may be one of the greatest scientists alive; he may even not have been human; and in either of these cases, I would hold through him the key to an almost infinite enrichment of the human spirit. On the other hand, he may merely have been one of those people of whom the law takes a justifiably dim view, and in that case, it wouldn’t even do for me to be inquiring after him. I work in a bank, and it would be as much as my job is worth.
So all I have is a rather incredible story. All right, I admit I wouldn’t believe it myself if somebody else told it. But just listen, will you? You can check if you want to.
It starts in one of those restaurant-bars in Greenwich Village, where they have booths opposite the bar, a radio that goes all the time, and as little light as possible. The gang used to meet there because it was less depressing than getting together in anyone’s furnished room and just about as cheap as long as you stuck to beer. It was a good gang, even if most of them were a bunch of lousy Reds—or thought they were in those days. I noticed that with most of them, the closer they got to fifty bucks a week, the farther they got from the party line. That was the dividing line, fifty per; once they hit it, they were all through as Commies.
. . .
