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disease which isn’t common.” He glanced at Wohl, his tones slightly acid. “When a disease isn’t common, it’s because not many people are susceptible to it. Probably the same data applies to any two thousand bus drivers, or paint salesmen—or cops.”
    “When I catch goitre, I’ll tell you,” promised Wohl, surlily.
    “What causes goitre?” Graham put in.
    Fawcett said, promptly, “A deficiency of iodine.”
    Iodine! Graham and Wohl exchanged startled glances before the former asked, “Has a superfluity of iodine anything to do with imbecility?”
    His goatee wagging, Fawcett laughed openly. “If it did, there would be a great proportion of idiots among seafaring folk who eat foods rich in iodine.”
    A message burned into Graham’s mind, red-hot. Wohl’s face betrayed the fact that he’d got it also. A message from the illogical dead;
    Sailors are notoriously susceptible.
    Susceptible to what? To illusions and to maritime superstitions based upon illusions?—the sea serpent, the sirens, the Flying Dutchman, mermaids, and the bleached, bloated, soul-clutching things whose clammy faces bob and wail in the moonlit wake?
    Must extend the notion, and get data showing how seaboard dwellers compare with country folk.
    Displaying a forced casualness, Graham retrieved Webb’s notes from the desk. “Thanks, doctor. You’ve been a great help.”
    “Don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if I can be of further assistance,” Fawcett advised. “If you do eventually arrive at the root cause of poor Webb’s condition, I’d appreciate the details.” His short laugh was more chilling than apologetic. “Every competent analysis of a delusion is a valuable contribution to knowledge of the whole.”
     
    They returned to New York as fast as they had left, their cogitating silence being broken only once when Wohl remarked, “The entire affair suggests an epidemic of temporary insanity among scientists whose brains have been overworked.”
    Graham grunted, offered no comment.
    “Genius is akin to madness,” persisted Wohl, determined to bolster his theory. “Besides, knowledge can’t go on increasing forever without some of the best minds giving way when they strain to encompass the lot.”
    “No scientist tries to learn the lot. Knowledge already is far too much for any one mind, and that is why every scientist is a specialist in his own field though he may be an ignoramus about things totally outside the scope of his own work.”
    It was Wohl’s turn to grunt. Concentrating on his driving with no better results at the sharpest corners, he voiced not another word until he arrived at Graham’s address. Then he dropped his passenger with a brief, “See you in the morning, Bill,” and hummed away.
    The morning was bright, symbolic of a new day that brought early developments. Graham was standing before his mirror, his electric shaver whirring busily, when the telephone shrilled. The youth in the visor eyed him and said, “Mr. Graham?”
    “Yes, I’m Graham.”
    “This is the Smithsonian,” responded the other. “Mr. Harriman had a message for you late last night but was not able to get in touch with you.”
    “I was in Albany. What’s the message?”
    “Mr. Harriman said to tell you he has been to all the news agencies, and finds they’ve reported the deaths of eighteen scientists within the last five weeks. Seven of them were foreigners, and eleven American. The number is about six times the average, as the news agencies rarely report more than three per month.”
    “Eighteen!” ejaculated Graham. He studied the face picked up by the faraway scanner. “Have you got their names?”
    “Yes.” The youth dictated them while Graham copied them down. He gave their respective nationalities. “Anything more, sir?”
    “Please convey my thanks to Mr. Harriman and ask him to phone me at the office when convenient.”
    “Very well, Mr. Graham.” The youth disconnected, left him pondering