THE MAN WHO KNEW EVERYTHING

He was sure of only one thing—he had a headache.

Dr. H. Wolstadt sat in a small, very secret laboratory in Arlington, Virginia, and twisted the dials on an oscilloscope. A pale green line wriggled up and down on the screen, and Dr. Wolstadt watched it with anticipation.

"If this works," he muttered softly, more to himself than to his assistant, "we will have a communication beam that will be better than radio."

The green line wriggled and changed form. Slowly, as the physicist manipulated the controls, the green line stopped moving.

"There!" shouted Wolstadt, "that is the wave form we want!" He reached over toward a switch. "Check your meters, Magruder!"

The assistant carefully adjusted the recording instruments of the huge machine that filled half the laboratory. "All right, Dr. Wolstadt, we're ready."

"Good!" Wolstadt pressed the switch.

The assistant watched the meters and automatic graphs.

"I'm afraid it didn't work, sir," he said at last. "The instruments aren't reacting as you expected."

Wolstadt shrugged resignedly. "Nevertheless, I think we are on the right track. Come, my boy, we will try again."

He shut off the machine.

The machine hadn't done what the scientists had expected of it, but it had another effect which was entirely unknown to them. During the few seconds of operation, an invisible ray had been beamed out of the machine. At the speed of light, the ray went through the wall of the lab and into Dr. Wolstadt's study. Like an X-ray, it went through the books and references on the physicist's desk. In a straight line, it shot out of the laboratory, silent and invisible. A mile or so farther on, it struck the Pentagon Building and went through. Among other things, it went through a complete copy of the Encyclopedia Brittannica , Roget's Thesaurus , the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary , a twenty volume set of The History and Analysis of Military Tactics , and a copy of Amazing Stories that some general had left on his desk.

Like a flashlight going through plateglass, the beam went through files, papers, memorandums, abstracts, reports, desks, chairs, brick, stone, and concrete. Through the Pentagon and across the Potomac it went, through building after building, unnoticed and invisible.

Then, on the far side of Washington, D.C., several miles from the laboratory of Dr. Wolstadt, it struck the head of a human being.

Philip Merriwether was a nobody. He made thirty-five dollars a week at a very dull job and lived in a cheap rooming house that had been built around 1880 and not remodeled since. He was still wearing a suit he had bought in 1947, and on his thin, five-foot-four frame, it looked even older. His education had stopped at the sixth grade, and he had almost flunked out of that. He had a mousy face, stringy hair, and a dull look in his eyes.

In other words, he was just about as nobody as a human being can get without being an absolute bum.

It wasn't that Phil Merriwether was really stupid; he was simply afflicted with an incredibly bad memory. He could forget more in five minutes than he could learn in five years. Oh, he could remember commonplace things easily enough—his name, where he lived, things like that. He could read and write tolerably well, although his spelling was intolerable. He could add and subtract with fair ease, but, having forgotten most of the multiplication table, he found "higher mathematics," such as long division, almost impossible to do without hours of laborious thinking.

In a way, his poor memory was economically useful. Phil loved to read mystery stories, and, having collected a total of fifty-seven paperback editions of the better detective novels, he found that there was no necessity of buying more, because he could re-read the old ones. By the time he got around to them again, he had forgotten the plot and the identity of the murderer. Naturally, he never tried to solve any of them; he could never remember the clues.

In routine work, Phil Merriwether was fairly efficient. If he did something every day, he could remember it overnight, and could do it again the next day. But his superiors soon found out that it was almost disastrous to give him a vacation, because he had a tendency to forget what he was supposed to do when he came back to work. That is, if he remembered to show up for work.

In spite of all that, Phil was a nice sort of fellow. He was likable, in a dull sort of way, and got along with most of his fellow workers. He couldn't tell funny stories, of course, nor play a decent game of cards, but he was an excellent conversationalist because, no matter what was said to him, he could never think of an argument against it. He was a good listener because he hadn't anything to say.

But his favorite pastime was walking. He liked to stroll around the nation's capital, taking in the sights, and just plain enjoying himself. He always walked the same route every night; if he didn't, he was likely to get lost. Once, several years earlier, he had taken a wrong turn and ended up in unfamiliar territory. He had asked a passer-by how to reach his address, but had forgotten the instructions, and so had ended up hopelessly lost. He had finally been forced to take a taxi home, a luxury he could ill afford. After that, he stuck to his routine.

It was on one of these evening strolls that a very peculiar thing happened to Philip Merriwether. He was walking slowly along the sidewalk, carefully minding his own business, when, without warning, there was a strange, buzzy feeling in his head. It grew stronger; it felt like someone was playing a fire-hose on his brain. His skull felt as though it were suddenly being filled with a vast, overpowering torrent of words —hundreds of words; thousands of words; millions upon millions of words!

Under the pressure of this verbal onslaught, Philip Merriwether's mind reeled. He pressed his palms to his temples and fainted dead away.

When he came to, there were several passers-by crowded around him. One of them was kneeling by his side, taking his pulse.

"Ha—Wha—what happened?" he asked, unoriginally enough.

"You fainted," said the man who was taking his pulse. "Just lie still; it's all right. I'm a physician."

"Fainting," said Phil, "is normally a mild form of shock in which the blood vessels of the abdomen become distended and engorged with blood, thus reducing the blood pressure and temporarily depriving the brain of its normal oxygen supply, which causes momentary loss of consciousness."

The doctor blinked. "What? Oh. Yes. That's quite correct, sir. Do you have these attacks often."

Phil's mouth had remained open after his last word. After a minute, he gulped. "Did I say that?"

"What?" the doctor asked for a second time. "Do you feel all right?"

Phil Merriwether stood up hastily. "My head feels a little funny, but I think I'm all right."

"If you want to go to a hospital—"

"No, no, thank you. I'm all right, really I am. I feel completely resuscitated, thanks to your therapeutic ministrations."

"Think nothing of it, sir. My duty, you know," said the physician.

"The Oath of Hippocrates," said Phil, "makes it obligatory for the physician to alleviate suffering, illness, and infirmity, and induce salubrity in his fellow man in the most efficacious manner at his command."

"Uh, yes, of course," said the doctor, looking baffled. "Well, good luck." With that, he picked up his black bag and walked rapidly off in the opposite direction. The other passers-by had already gone about their business.

Phil, meanwhile, began walking towards his home, his head still feeling a little peculiar. What was the matter with him? What had happened? And where on Earth had he gotten all those big words?

Polysyllabic vocables , said a voice in his mind, although recognized by the erudite as not being necessarily indicative of scholarly attainments, are nevertheless profoundly impressive to the hoi polloi.

Phil nodded slowly to himself. Yeah, big words were impressive, all right. But where had he picked them all up?

"I'd better go home and take an aspirin," he said aloud.

Aspirin , said the voice, is the acetic acidester of salicylic acid, a white, crystalline solid having the empirical formula —

Holding his hands to his ears, Philip Merriwether ran home as fast as his spindly legs could propel him.

B. J. Holly, office manager for Starr & Sons, Inc., flipped a switch on his desk intercom. "Where is Merriwether?" he snapped. "That boy was supposed to have picked up these letters for filing half an hour ago. I can't wait any longer."

"Mr. Merriwether phoned in this morning, sir," said the secretary's voice. "He said he was a little ill, and he'd be late. He—oh! Just a moment, sir; he just came in."

"Send him in here!" ordered B. J. Holly.

Mr. Holly frowned at Phil Merriwether as soon as the door opened. "Under the weather a bit, eh, Merriwether?"

Phil nodded. "Yes, sir. My head feels queer."

Mr. Holly suppressed an impulse to remark that he wasn't at all surprised. In his estimation, anyone with a head like Merriwether's would feel odd all the time. But Mr. Holly, although somewhat tyrrannical, and definitely a stuffed shirt, was not basically cruel, so he said nothing that vicious.

"A bit of a hangover, perhaps?" he asked suspiciously.

Phil was picking up the papers for the file room. "No, sir," he said absently. "A hangover is caused by the toxic effects of various isomeric forms of higher alcohols and other impurities normally present in alcoholic beverages, plus a depletion of vitamins, especially B-one, in the system. I don't drink."

"I—uh—I see." But Mr. Holly did not see. He was totally baffled. He watched in astonishment as Phil Merriwether walked out the door of the office.

Merriwether, himself was slightly bemused. How had he done it? He knew perfectly well what he was saying; a full night of thinking had managed to bring to him the realization that something—he knew not what—had happened to his memory. It seemed to him that there must be something he could do with it, but he didn't quite know what.

The decision was practically forced upon him just before lunchtime. He was putting on his coat to go out for lunch when B. J. Holly stepped out of his office. The office manager was preparing to have lunch with an out-of-town buyer, and as he stepped up to the visiting fireman, he said: "Well, as General Pershing said: 'Lafayette, we are here!'" He chuckled at his own wit, paying no attention to Merriwether.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Phil, "but the general never said that; as a matter of fact, he said later that it was put into his mouth by a newspaperman. He said—"

B. J. glowered at him. An office boy, even if he is thirty-four years of age, is not supposed to contradict his superior.

"Look, son," said B. J., "I happened to be there. I was only a private, but I happened to be standing right next to him."

"That's impossible, sir," Phil said quietly. "According to Federal records, you were born on April second, nineteen-oh-four. You were only fourteen years old at the time. You have no military record with the United States Army."

The out-of-town buyer suppressed a snicker. B. J. Holly turned purple and said: "I'll see you after lunch."

After lunch, Philip Merriwether lost the job he had held for five years.

At seven o'clock that night, he sat in a small bar, sipping disconsolately at a glass of Coca-Cola. Not knowing where he was going to get another job, he was trying to drown his thoughts in soda-water and television. The show on the screen was "You Can't Lose," a quiz show produced by the Boltman Automobile Corporation.

The quizmaster was grinning sardonically at the hapless contestant. "You have arrived at the fifty thousand dollar question," he said. "Since you chose geometry as your category, the question will be on that subject. Are you ready?"

The contestant nodded unhappily.

"All right, here's the question: What is the value of pi to eight decimal places?"

Before the contestant could say a word, Phil muttered: "Three point one four one five nine two six five—plus." He didn't notice what the contestant said, but the quizmaster shook his head in mock sorrow. "I'm sorry, sir, but the correct answer is: three point one four one five nine two six five. Better luck next time."

The coarse, unshaven man standing next to Phil looked at him in awe. "Hey, buddy," he said, "that's the ninth time you've answered right. Why don't you get on that program and make yourself some dough?"

Phil blinked at his Coke and thought it over. Then his face brightened. "Yeah," he said, grinning, "why don't I?"

It took him three weeks to get into the studio, and by that time, his severance pay was almost gone. He was nearly broke, and had no prospects of a job. He had to make good.

By pure chance, he was chosen as one of the first contestants. The quizmaster beamed at him pleasantly.

"You understand the rules, don't you?" he asked. "All you have to do...."

He went on, but Phil didn't hear him; he was too scared. When the first question popped up, he said: "I beg your pardon?"

"I'll repeat the question," the quizmaster said. "You have chosen the 'General Category.' That pays twice as much, but it means I can ask you any question I like. The first one was: 'Who were the Essenes?'"

Since the General Category questions paid off twice as much as the Restricted Categories, they were about four times as hard. But that didn't bother Phil Merriwether in the least.

"The Essenes," he said, "were an obscure Jewish sect which flourished during the time of Christ, from before 100 B.C. to about 70 A.D. They are believed to be instrumental in the composition of the so-called Dead Sea Scrolls, which were discovered—"

"That's enough," the quizmaster said. "You've given the right answer!" The orchestra sounded a chord. Applause followed.

"Second question: Listen carefully. Henry the Seventh's title was the same as the title of the last Tudor king of England; the last Tudor king had the same name. What was the name of the last Tudor ruler of England?" The quizmaster smirked happily; the question was a trick one.

"Elizabeth the First was the last Tudor ruler ," said Phil. "The last Tudor king was Henry the Eighth."

Naturally, the answer was right.

"Very good," said the quizzer. "Number three: what does pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis mean?"

Phil closed his eyes and listened to the little voice inside his head. He said: "It is an inflammation of the lungs caused by tiny particles of rock dust; it is commonly known as 'silicosis' or 'miner's consumption.'"

The quizmaster looked almost shocked, but, good showman that he was, he managed to keep a bland expression on his face.

"That's right !" he bellowed.

Phil Merriwether grinned happily. He didn't know how it had come about, but, somehow, something had filled his head full of all kinds of amazing facts. It didn't matter what the question was, all Phil had to do was think about it, and the answer was in his memory. He smiled, waiting for the next question.

"You've come to the $25,000 question," said the MC. "If you want to go on, you will have to be put in a soundproof booth so that you won't be prompted by the audience. If you want to come back next week—"

"I'll take it now," said Phil Merriwether.

So they put him in a soundproof booth. All he could hear was the announcer's voice.

Phil smiled to himself. Twenty-five thousand dollars so far! It was fantastic! He'd never have to work again!

He answered the next question easily. Fifty thousand dollars! Fantastic!

The announcer said: "What is the mathematical formula for the world's most powerful weapon?"

Phil grinned. That was simple. "The formula is: i over b times a equals pi to the i times e over mu ," he said.

"Ohhh, I'm sorry, sir," the announcer said sadly. "The basic formula for the manufacture of the atomic bomb is: E equals m times c squared. But you still have your fifty thousand dollars; congratulations and better luck next time."

Phil Merriwether blinked. He could hardly believe it. He knew his answer was right. There must be a mistake. But no amount of argument did him any good. Within fifteen minutes, he was out on the street. The studio had promised that the check would be deposited to his account in the morning. Phil shrugged and went home.

At midnight, Philip Merriwether woke up suddenly to see the glare of a flashlight being shone in his face.

"Are you Philip Merriwether?" growled a voice.

"Yes, I am. What's the meaning of this?"

The lights in the room went on to reveal five men with drawn guns standing outside the door. As they came into the room, the man with the flashlight flicked it off. "Search the room," he said to the others.

As they methodically began their search, Phil said: "What's going on here? Who are you?"

"FBI," snapped the man who was obviously the leader of the group. "Are you sure you're Philip Merriwether? We'll be taking your fingerprints shortly, so it won't do you any good to lie."

"Certainly I'm me!" Phil snapped, irritated. "What makes you think I'm not?"

"Never mind," said the Federal agent.

The truth was that Merriwether no longer looked like the lackluster character he had been a few weeks before. His eyes had a sparkle to them, his body had more springiness. He looked more alive. He was no longer the colorless man he had been.

"Nothing unusual in the room, sir," said one of the men who had been searching.

"Okay," said the leader to Merriwether, "put on your clothes. You're coming with us."

"You can't arrest me!" Phil said. "I haven't done anything. What is the charge?"

"Espionage," said the FBI man without blinking an eyelid.

They put him in a big, powerful Cadillac and drove him through the streets of Washington to an office building near the Capitol. Most of the city was asleep, but this building was ablaze with light. The FBI men parked the car and led Phil into the building. They were greeted by a reception committee the like of which Phil had never seen before.

Two generals, including the Chief of Staff, a couple of admirals, an Air Force general, and a half dozen important-looking civilians, one of whom Phil recognized as the Secretary of Defense himself!

They sat Phil down in a chair without a word, and just looked at him for a few seconds; then the Secretary of Defense said: "What do you know about the Q-beam?"

"The Q-beam," Phil told him, "is a top-secret weapon. It is a ray which is capable of paralyzing without killing, and can operate over a distance of several hundred miles. The basic formula is—"

"Never mind what it is!" snapped the Chief of Staff. "The whole United States heard you give it out over the air this evening!"

"What else do you know about our defenses?" the Secretary asked.

Phil told them. He knew how big the atomic stockpiles were, where the bombs were, and how they were to be used. He knew everything about the ICBM rocket program and where the launching sites were. He knew where every ship in the Navy was and what sort of armament it carried. He told them where the secret airbases were hidden and how many bombers were at each.

As he continued, the officials became more and more nervous. They fidgeted as each new piece of information was disclosed, and the flow of information seemed endless.

At last the Secretary of Defense said: "That's enough!" His face was white. He turned to the others. "Gentlemen, I think we can say without doubt that we have captured the most cunning, clever, and dangerous spy in the world. The question is: What shall we do with him?"

"How did you get this information?" one of the generals asked.

"I don't know," Phil said truthfully. "It just came to me."

"He won't talk," said an admiral.

"Who do you work for?" asked another.

"I used to work for Starr & Son, but they fired me three weeks ago."

"I mean, what country?"

"I don't work for anybody !"

The Secretary of Defense looked up at the FBI man.

"I want everything on this man— everything ! He has to be investigated as no other man has ever been. If possible, we want to know what this man has been doing every second of his life ever since he was born!"

The FBI man nodded. "I'll have to check with the Chief, of course, but I'm sure we can put every man in the Bureau on this job."

The Secretary nodded. "A few kidnap cases and things like that will have to wait, but that's nothing compared to this."

The FBI man left, and the other men began grilling Phil Merriwether again. It went on for hours.

Phil Merriwether sat in the deepest, most secluded cell of the United States Government's greatest security prison. He sat and thought, his brain working more furiously than it had ever worked before. He was tired and haggard from loss of sleep, and worn out from hours of questioning. But that wasn't the worst of it. The entire top brass of the government was in a stew over what they should do with Philip Merriwether. The FBI could get no evidence on him; there was nothing to prove he was a spy. And even if there had been, the case could never be brought to court. Phil knew too much.

"Good heavens," he moaned, "how did I ever get into a fix like this?"

"You're a blabbermouth," he answered himself. "If you hadn't told them all that stuff, you'd never have been in this jam!"

But how did he know all the information about the U.S. Government's most top secret plans? It must have had something to do with that fainting spell. How did that explain it?

"Well," he said to himself, "you've got a lot of information—use it!"

So he sat on the edge of the hard bunk, his mind searching for some clue as to what had happened to him.

He was still sitting like that when the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States walked into the cell some hours later. He had thought about all the data he had on every subject from anthropology to zoology. It had something to do with neurology and radiation physics, he was sure, but what?

And then, quite suddenly, the pieces clicked together.

When the Chief Executive walked into his cell, Phil beamed happily. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. President."

The President frowned. "I must admit, Mr. Merriwether, that it is a pleasure to meet you, too. I admire such abilities as yours, although I also wish you had never been born. It seems you know more about our national defense than I do."

"It's amazing," said the Secretary. "According to the FBI, this fiendishly clever man has been masquerading as an ordinary blockhead for more than thirty years. No one suspected his true genius. The only thing we can't figure out is why he shot off his mouth over television."

Phil said: "Mr. Secretary, I didn't think about it. I didn't realize it was so secret. I'm sorry. But I think I can show you how I got all this information."

The President looked blank. "Show us? You mean you're willing to betray your espionage system?"

"I don't have any spy system," Phil said. "Will you give me a pencil and a piece of paper?"

The Secretary handed him a notebook and a ball-point pen, and Phil began to write. "According to File X-99761, in the War Department's Ultra Top Secret Section, a Dr. Heinrich Wolstadt is working on a secret communication device. I'm putting some formulas on this paper. Ask Dr. Wolstadt what effect this particular wave form would have on the human brain."

The Secretary of Defense and the President looked at each other.

"I guess we might as well," the President said.

It was several hours later that Dr. Wolstadt was rushed into Phil's cell. He was so excited that his German accent became much heavier than usual.

"Is this the chentleman? Ach! It's amazing! How did it happen? You were standing right in the path of the ray, nein ?"

"I think so, Dr. Wolstadt. Didn't you suspect what effect the beam might have had?"

"Never!" said the physicist. "Not until I saw your mathematics. It's unbelievable to think this could happen!"

"For Heaven's sake!" said the President. "What happened?"

Wolstadt turned around to face the Chief Executive.

"It's very simple. The derivation of the Q-beam that I have been working on got out of control for a second. It went through all my files, and all the files in the Pentagon, and Heaven only knows what else. It picked up all that information and put it in Mr. Merriwether's mind!"

"Amazing!" said the President.

"Fantastic!" said the Secretary of Defense.

"Will it work with anybody?" the President asked.

Dr. Wolstadt shook his head. "No. This is a most unusual case. Mr. Merriwether, according to the FBI reports, had a terrible memory before the accident happened. He is actually a very intelligent man, but he always forgot things, and that made him look stupid.

"But, fortunately, it meant that his memory was almost a total blank. Therefore, the ray could implant all this data on his memory.

"It's like recording something on an L-P disc. If it already has music on it, the recorder just ruins the disc. But if it's blank, the recorder puts music on it. You see?"

"Then if it had hit anyone but me—" Phil began.

"—it would probably have driven them insane," said Dr. Wolstadt.

"That still leaves us the problem of what to do with Mr. Merriwether," said the President.

"I think I have an idea," Phil said. "Want to hear it?"

Some months later, two men arrived by air in the city of Moscow. One of them went directly to the American Embassy. In his brief case was a small, very compact machine.

The Ambassador shook his hand warmly. "The President told me to give you the run of the place, Dr. Wolstadt. What are you going to do?"

"I'm sorry," said Wolstadt, "but I cannot tell even you. All I require is a room in the Embassy which faces the Kremlin."

"That can be arranged. But where is your companion? I understood there were to be two of you."

"He is, shall we say, taking a stroll around Moscow."

"But he can't do that!" the Ambassador said. "The President said he was the most valuable man on Earth! He might get arrested."

"That is the chance we have to take. Now if you'll show me to that room, I'll go about my business."

Some distance away, on the opposite side of the Kremlin from the American Embassy, Philip Merriwether, the most valuable spy that ever existed, waited patiently for the ray that would be generated inside the Embassy to strike his head. In a few seconds, he would know even more than he already did.

He smiled happily. This was the life!

THE END