non-T/O outfit; he came directly under Divisioncommand and didn't have to bother reporting to any regimental or brigadecommanders. He walked for an hour with half a dozen lightly woundedScots, rode for another hour on a big cat-truck loaded with casualtiesof six regiments and four races, and finally reached Division Rear,where both the Division and Corps commanders took time to compliment himon the part his last hunter patrol had played in the now completebreakthrough. His replacement, an equine-faced Spaniard with an imposingdisplay of fruit-salad, was there, too; he solemnly took off thebracelet a refugee Caucasian goldsmith had made for his predecessor'spredecessor and gave it to the new commander of what had formerly beenBenson's Butchers. As he had expected, there was also another medalwaiting for him.
A medical check at Task Force Center got him a warning; his last patrolhad brought him dangerously close to the edge of combat fatigue.Remembering the incidents of the tank and the unaccountably fast watch,and the mysterious box and envelope which he had found in his coatpocket, he agreed, saying nothing about the questions that were puzzlinghim. The Psychological Department was never too busy to refuse anothercase; they hunted patients gleefully, each psych-shark seeking in everyone proof of his own particular theories. It was with relief that hewatched them fill out the red tag which gave him a priority on jettransports for home.
Ankara to Alexandria, Alexandria to Dakar, Dakar to Belem, Belem to theshattered skyline of New York, the "hurry-and-wait" procedures at FortCarlisle, and, after the usual separation promotion, Major Fred Benson,late of Benson's Butchers, was back at teaching high school juniors thedifference between H_{2}O and H_{2}SO_{4}.
* * * * *
There were two high schools in the city: McKinley High, on the eastside, and Dwight Eisenhower High, on the west. A few blocks fromMcKinley was the Tulip Tavern, where the Eisenhower teachers came in thelate afternoons; the McKinley faculty crossed town to do theirafter-school drinking on the west side. When Benson entered the TulipTavern, on a warm September afternoon, he found Bill Myers, the schoolpsychologist, at one of the tables, smoking his pipe, checking over astack of aptitude test forms, and drinking beer. He got a highball atthe bar and carried it over to Bill's table.
"Oh, hi, Fred." The psychologist separated the finished from theunfinished work with a sheet of yellow paper and crammed the wholebusiness into his brief case. "I was hoping somebody'd show up...."
Benson lit a cigarette, sipped his highball. They talked atrandom--school-talk; the progress of the war, now in its twelfth year;personal reminiscences, of the Turkish Theater where Benson had served,and the Madras Beachhead, where Myers had been.
"Bring home any souvenirs?" Myers asked.
"Not much. Couple of pistols, couple of knives, some pictures. I don'tremember what all; haven't gotten around to unpacking them, yet.... Ihave a sixth of rye and some beer, at my rooms. Let's go around and seewhat I did bring home."
They finished their drinks and went out.
"What the devil's that?" Myers said, pointing to the cardboard box withthe envelope taped to it, when Benson lifted it out of the gray-greenlocker.
"Bill, I don't know," Benson said. "I found it in the pocket of my coat,on my way back from my last hunter patrol.... I've never told anybodyabout this, before."
"That's the damnedest story I've ever heard, and in my racket you hearsome honeys," Myers said, when he had finished. "You couldn't havepicked that thing up in some other way, deliberately forgotten thecircumstances, and fabricated this story about the tank and the grenadeand the discrepancy in your watch subconsciously as an explanation?"
"My subconscious is a better liar than that," Benson replied. "Itwould have cobbled up some kind of a story that would stand up. Thisbusiness...."
"Top Secret! For the Guide Only!" Myers frowned. "That isn't one of ourmarks, and if it were Soviet, it'd be tri-lingual, Russian, Hindi andChinese."
"Well, let's see what's in it. I want this thing cleared up. I've beenhaving some of the nastiest dreams, lately...."
"Well, be careful; it may be booby-trapped," Myers said urgently.
"Don't worry; I will."
He used a knife to slice the envelope open without untaping it from thebox, and exposed five sheets of typewritten onion-skin paper. There wasno letterhead, no salutation or address-line. Just a mass of chemicalformulae, and a concise report on tests. It seemed to be a report on animproved syrup for a carbonated soft-drink. There were a few crypticcautionary references to heightened physico-psychological effects.
The box was opened with the same caution, but it proved as innocent ofdangers as the envelope. It contained only a half-liter bottle,wax-sealed, containing a dark reddish-brown syrup.
"There's a lot of this stuff I don't dig," Benson said, tapping thesheets of onion-skin. "I don't even scratch the surface of thisrigamarole about The Guide. I'm going to get to work on this sample inthe lab, at school, though. Maybe we have something, here."
* * * * *
At eight-thirty the next evening, after four and a half hours work, hestopped to check what he had found out.
The school's X-ray, an excellent one, had given him a complete pictureof the molecular structure of the syrup. There were a couple oflong-chain molecules that he could only believe after twore-examinations and a careful check of the machine, but with the help ofthe notes he could deduce how they had been put together. They would bethe Ingredient Alpha and Ingredient Beta referred to in the notes.
The components of the syrup were all simple and easily procurable withthese two exceptions, as were the basic components from which these weremade.
The mechanical guinea-pig demonstrated that the syrup contained nothingharmful to human tissue.
Of course, there were the warnings about heightened psycho-physiologicaleffects....
He stuck a poison-label on the bottle, locked it up, and went home. Thenext day, he and Bill Myers got a bottle of carbonated water and mixedthemselves a couple of drinks of it. It was delicious--sweet, dry, tart,sour, all of these in alternating waves of pleasure.
"We do have something, Bill," he said. "We have something that's goingto give our income-tax experts headaches."
"You have," Myers corrected. "Where do you start fitting me into it?"
"We're a good team, Bill. I'm a chemist, but I don't know a thing aboutpeople. You're a psychologist. A real one; not one of these night-schoolboys. A juvenile psychologist, too. And what age-group spends the mostmoney in this country for soft-drinks?"
Knowing the names of the syrup's ingredients, and what their molecularstructure was like, was only the beginning. Gallon after gallon of theSchool Board's chemicals went down the laboratory sink; Fred Benson andBill Myers almost lived in the fourth floor lab. Once or twice therewere head-shaking warnings from the principal about the dangers ofover-work. The watchmen, at all hours, would hear the occasionaltwanging of Benson's guitar in the laboratory, and know that he had cometo a dead end on something and was trying to think. Football season cameand went; basketball season; the inevitable riot between McKinley andEisenhower rooters; the Spring concerts. The term-end exams were only amonth away when Benson and Myers finally did it, and stood solemnly,each with a beaker in either hand and took alternate sips of theoriginal and the drink mixed from the syrup they had made.
"Not a bit of difference, Fred," Myers said. "We have it!"
Benson picked up the guitar and began plunking on it.
"Hey!" Myers exclaimed. "Have you been finding time to take lessons onthat thing? I never heard you play as well as that!"
* * * * *
They decided to go into business in St. Louis. It was centrally located,and, being behind more concentric circles of radar and counter-rocketdefenses, it was in better shape than any other city in the country andmost likely to stay that way. Getting started wasn't hard; the firstbanker who tasted the new drink-named Evri-Flave, at Myers'suggestion--couldn't dig up the necessary m
oney fast enough. Evri-Flavehit the market with a bang and became an instant success; soon therainbow-tinted vending machines were everywhere, dispensing theslender, slightly flattened bottles and devouring quarters voraciously.In spite of high taxes and the difficulties of doing business in aconsumers' economy upon which a war-time economy had been superimposed,both Myers and Benson were rapidly becoming wealthy. The gregariousMyers installed himself in a luxurious apartment in the city; Bensonbought a large tract of land down the river toward Carondelet andstarted building a home and landscaping the grounds.
The dreams began bothering him again, now that the urgency of gettingEvri-Flave, Inc., started had eased. They were