tyranny of church was ended, he asked Mudge to dinner. That he accomplished by an argument with his wife,
audible the length of the aisle.
They walked to the Danner residence. Mrs. Danner changed her clothes hurriedly, basted the roast, made milk
sauce for the string beans, and set three places. They went into the dining−room. Danner carved, the
home−made mint jelly was passed, the bread, the butter, the gravy; and Mrs. Danner dropped out of the
conversation, after guying her husband on his lack of skill at his task of carving.
Mudge opened with the usual comment. “Well, Abednego, how are the blood−stream radicals progressing?”
His host chuckled. “Excellently, thanks. Some day I'll be ready to jolt you hidebound biologists into your
senses.”
Mudge's left eyebrow lifted. “So? Still the same thing, I take it? Still believe that chemistry controls human
destiny?”
“Almost ready to demonstrate it,” Danner replied.
“Along what lines?”
“Muscular strength and the nervous discharge of energy.”
Mudge slapped his thigh. “Ho ho! Nervous discharge of energy. You assume the human body to be a voltaic
pile, eh? That's good. I'll have to tell Cropper. He'll enjoy it.”
Danner, in some embarrassment, gulped a huge mouthful of meat. “Why not?” he said. “Look at the
insects—the ants. Strength a hundred times our own. An ant can carry a large spider—yet an ant is tissue and
fiber, like a man. If a man could be given the same sinews—he could walk off with his own house.”
“Ha ha! There's a good one. And you would make a splendid piano−mover, Abednego.
“Pianos! Pooh! Consider the grasshoppers. Make a man as strong as a grasshopper—and he'll be able to leap
over a church. I tell you, there is something that determines the quality of every muscle and nerve. Find
it—transplant it—and you have the solution.”
His wife interrupted at that point. “I think this nonsense has gone far enough. It is wicked to tamper with
God's creatures. It is wicked to discuss such matters—especially on the Sabbath. Abednego, I wish you would
give up your work in the laboratory.”
Danner's cranium was overlarge and his neck small; but he stiffened it to hold himself in a posture of dignity.
“Never.”
His wife gazed from the defiant pose to the locked door visible through the parlor. She stirred angrily in her
clothes and speared a morsel of food. “You'll be punished for it.”
On Monday Danner hastened home from his classes. During the night he had had a new idea. And a new idea
was a rare thing after fourteen years of groping investigation. “Alkaline radicals,” he murmured as he crossed
his lawn. He considered a group of ultra−microscopic bodies. He had no name for them. They were the
“determinants” of which he had talked. He locked the laboratory door behind himself and bent over the
microscope he had designed. “Huh!” he said. An hour later, while he stirred a solution in a beaker, he said:
“Huh!” again. He repeated it when his wife called him to dinner. The room was a maze of test tubes, bottles,
Gladiator
Chapter I 3