"What's it to ya?" Willy asked, his mouth twitching nervously.
The first policeman glanced at the second and then back at Willy. "Well, it's like this, Willy," he said. "Whoever filled out those answers got every one of them right. The people who run the contest want to meet the guy, see? And they asked us to help find him because we know you people better than anyone else does. See? That's all!"
"Yeh," said the second. "That's all. Now who did it?"
Willy stood with his jaw drooping for a moment. "You mean he got ever' last one of 'em right?" he asked. "Freddy was always braggin' about his brains, but me 'n' Oscar figgered he was makin' most of it up."
"Freddy who? Freddy the Fish you mean?"
"Yeh, Freddy." Willy perked up and turned toward Freddy's bench. "Hey, Freddy! Hey, you know that test you took in the newspaper that you didn't know I sent in? You won the contest or sumpin'! Hey, that's great!"
Jones and Dwindle watched the draftees file into the examination room.
"I still don't see how this is going to solve the problem," Jones frowned.
"I believe it will," Dwindle contradicted him. "Specialists in each of the major fields have been consulted, and each provided fifty questions."
"The hardest questions they could think up, I imagine."
"No, not at all. The purpose is to provide comprehensive coverage of each field. And each question is of the type that, if the examinee knows the answer, it can be reasonably assumed that he knows quite a bit in that particular phase of the field. For instance, if he knows what enzyme is associated with the stomach, he probably knows what enzyme is associated with the liver."
"I know one big problem you're going to run into," Jones sulked. "Just like the IBM cards. You're going to find one guy who clobbers the Electronics part of the test but completely busts out in History and everything else."
"I don't think so," Dwindle said. "The preliminary test will have taken care of that. It was designed so that, in order to answer every question right, a person would have to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of all twenty-four major fields."
As Jones was considering whether it would be better to slit his own throat or Dwindle's, General Marcher entered the room and approached.
"Excellent. Excellent," the general declared. "A very distinguished looking group you've assembled here, Dwindle. Hello, Jones."
"Yes, sir," Dwindle said, "with the possible exception of the seedy chap in the rear."
Jones looked to the rear of the room, and his eyes bugged.
Freddy the Fish, clean-shaven but tattered, was alternately wetting the pencil lead in his mouth and eating peanuts.
"That's the bum who feeds sparrows in the park!" Jones gasped. "How did he get out of jail so quick? I saw a couple of policemen haul him off just a day or so ago."
"This is where they hauled him to," General Marcher said. "It just so happens that he answered every question right on the preliminary examination. He says his name's Freddy Smith, although I doubt that he could prove it."
"He says he never had a father," Dwindle added. "Says his family was too poor."
Jones stared at General Marcher, then stared at Dwindle, then turned and stared at Freddy the Fish, who had just left his seat and was ambling toward the trio.
"Looks like he's throwing in the towel," Jones said happily. "He's bringing his paper with him."
"Maybe he just wants clarification on a question," Dwindle said.
"I'm all done," Freddy said. "Who gets this?"
"Go ahead, Dwindle," Carlton Jones smirked. "Grade the man's paper. He's all done."
Dwindle smiled uncertainly. "You're allowed all the time you need, Mr. Smith."
"Oh, that's O.K. I'm done."
Dwindle produced his red pencil and the answer sheet which had 1,200 small circles punched in it. He sat down, placed the key over the test paper, and began searching for white spaces showing through.
"That's the last one, sir," Dwindle said six hours later as he added the one hundred twelfth graded test to the neat stack at the left of his desk. He stared through the thousand-plus holes in the answer key as if expecting the holes to shift.
"And still no change in the standings?" General Marcher asked again.
"Mr. Smith still has the best grade," Dwindle answered.
"The percentages again?" the general asked.
"Over all, ninety-six per cent for Mr. Smith," Dwindle said for the fourth time. "His lowest percentage in any one category was eighty per cent. The next highest score was by Dr. Schmelling, who had seventy-eight per cent, but he failed in six categories. The third highest score was by Dr. Ranson, seventy-six per cent, failing in seven categories. The fourth highest score was—"
"Enough. Enough," General Marcher interrupted. "I think we've found our man, don't you, Dwindle?"
"I hope we don't have to use pressure, sir," Dwindle replied.