The Non-Statistical Man by Raymond F. Jones Page A

knowing Hap’s purpose in coming to the meeting. Bascomb wondered how much she was aware of his own position. She had nothing, but her intuitive knowledge shown bleakly in her eyes, he thought miserably.
    He hadn’t quite known, at first, just why he felt it necessary to keep from telling her about his visit with Magruder and Hap. Now he saw the full impossibility of it. Suppose Magruder were right—well, partly right, anyway? Suppose intuition did turn out to be a natural, useful human function that was active in some people and could be developed in others? How could he tell Sarah that Magruder was an evil man—that the faculty she cherished so greatly had to be suppressed with all possible force?
    She wouldn’t understand that a sizeable number of in tuitive people could literally destroy the civilization and institutions that modem man was dependent upon.
    Her intuition was too precious a possession for Sarah to ever believe anything evil could be in it, Bascomb thought; she’d turn against him before believing that.-This thing had a potential that could destroy his very home if he failed to handle it right!
    In his attempts to appease her he was more than usually cooperative that night ift doing the routine Magruder prescribed, and in taking the pills. They were brown and orange now.
    Sarah’s face did not relax its expression of foreboding.
    It occurred to Bascomb, as soon as he reached the office the next morning, that applications might now be coming in from the people named by Magruder in their interview. He was right; six of them were in the morning mail.
    He had no actual right to enter the applications department and take a look at the papers before they had even begun to be processed. It was no great offense, of course— it wouldn’t have been to a man other than the kind Dave Tremayne happened to be. Tremayne was head of the processing department. Another man’s casual courtesy was his grudging favor.
    Bascomb was well aware of this as he stood with the papers in his hand, scanning them while Tremayne looked on belligerently.
    “These will have to be rejected,” Bascomb said as mildly as possible. And for a long time afterward he wondered why he actually said it; there would be no great harm to the company in paying off claims of an additional half dozen short-term policy holders. But that thought was utterly foreign to his mind now. He could see no coursp but the one he was following.
    “I thought that was for us to decide,” Dave Tremayne snapped; “since when did the Statistical Department take over those duties?”
    “I—I happen to know a little about these cases,” Bascomb said hesitantly. “Friend of mind is acquainted with the town pretty well. He knows these people and is certain there is something that isn’t on the level. This big fire policy for example. Bhuener’s Hardware. It’s a firetrap; I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a claim on it before the month is out—”
    Tremayne advanced and took the papers from Bas-comb’s hand. “You can let us worry about that,” he said unpleasantly; “any time I need help from the figures department I’ll let you know.”
    He should have known it was worse than useless, Bas-comb told himself. He looked at Tremayne and turned away; then he stopped and faced the department head again. “It wouldn’t look at all good,” he said, “if you got another half dozen claims within a month of granting the policies. Your short-termers are beginning to stick out on the charts.”
    “What do you mean by that?” Tremayne demanded. But his belligerence had subsided now.
    “I’m advising you to turn down those applications,” Bascomb said. He walked away to his own department.
    It wasn’t a logical thing to do, he thought, as he reached his own desk once again. It could cause a lot of trouble either way it fell—whether the prediction turned out right or wrong. And Dave Tremayne was just the kind to milk it for all the trouble it was