No kidding, thought Hoken. He could hardly believe it. You played hooky to do bad things—to goof off, to get into trouble, to chase the girls—not to read and certainly not to go to a museum. Human #1 was a strange man indeed.
“His behavioral problems became so acute that he was once remanded for psychiatric evaluation and observation at a youth facility. The psychiatrist described him as tense, withdrawn, detached, and evasive. He often related fantasies of omnipotence and power which the psychiatrist felt were an attempt to compensate for his frustrations and shortcomings. Throughout his life arrogant is the one term used by all who know him to best describe his personality, strange indeed for someone who has nothing to be arrogant about.
“Because of these problems, intelligence testing was performed. On Earth, there is a test to measure intelligence called Wechsler, which is similar to our Arshadish Mental Performance Examination.”
Gunnerr paused. Hoken could actually appreciate the near-disbelief, with a hint of sarcasm, in his voice. “Everyone was stunned. The test is calibrated so that one hundred is the average. He scored a 118, which is almost two standard deviations from normal, and indicates intellectual function in the upper end of the bright normal range. Everyone—the psychiatrist, his teachers, the people at the orphanage—everyone, actually, except his mother—thought he had somehow cheated, but a repeat test under continuous monitoring showed an almost identical score.”
Hoken thought, Nobody could make this stuff up. Truth is always stranger than fiction.
“He is innately intelligent,” said Gunnerr, “and because of his reading, possesses an extensive vocabulary and a significant knowledge base. Yet in spite of this real, sometimes almost flashy, intelligence—which comes off as being little more than a pedantic façade—his thinking, his thought processes, are invariably described as shallow, rigid, and lacking insight. It appears that he can adequately assess and assimilate the facts, yet invariably draws the wrong conclusion. Again, a man of paradox.
“At first it was thought that his problem was just being lazy and indifferent, but further observations and studies showed that his relatively high intellectual ability was burdened with a not-that-subtle reading/spelling disability. He is dyslexic as they call it on Earth. Examples from various forms and applications in his early adult years include, but are not limited to: ‘sociaty’ for society, ‘opions’ for opinions, ‘esspicially’ for especially, ‘nuclus’ for nucleus, ‘disere’ for desire, ‘allys’ for alleys, ‘acept’ for except, ‘negleck’ for neglect, and ‘insurean’ for insurance.”
Looking at the Orian equivalent of the butchered words made Hoken wince.
“Just think, Major,” said Gunnerr, “on Oria, the magnetically-directed virus-vector gene substitution technique would have cured him as soon as the problem was detected. And if that didn’t work, with even a rudimentary computer program to correct his spelling and grammar problems, to allow his obvious innate strengths and talents to show through, he very well may have turned out much differently.”
Hoken was always a little more pragmatic. Maybe—and maybe not—he thought.
“He left high school prior to graduation and enlisted in the Marines just before he turned seventeen. He never rose above the rank of private first class and displayed continuous, pervasive,” said Gunnerr as if to emphasize its inevitability, “and an ultimately crippling resentment of authority. Again, Major, a paradox—he hates authority, yet joined an organization that demands authority.
“He was court-martialed not once but twice!” said Gunnerr so forcefully that Hoken could almost see the exclamation point. “In the first incident, he was in possession of an unauthorized weapon and accidentally shot himself. He’s not exactly a ‘missile scientist,’ as they say on Earth. In the second incident, he purposefully spilled an alcoholic beverage on a non-commissioned officer, and then abusively challenged him to a fight. At the time of the trial, he lied and tried to explain away the incident with falsehood.”
Hoken just shook his head, looked through the canopy in the general direction of Earth, while being sure to all the time practice that pursed-lip, smirk/frown look.
“While in the service, he of course received routine training with all standard weapons, and, fortunately or unfortunately,” he added, “is very good with them. On the rifle range, using a weapon similar to yours, he showed considerable proficiency, scoring in the sharpshooter range. Major, we would have chosen this man even without this, but being a marksman is a nice extra.
“He was discharged from the service several months short of his commitment on the false pretense that his mother was ill and he had to help her and care for her. He was originally given an honorable discharge, but because of subsequent events this was later changed to undesirable—something very uncommon—even on Earth. Major, he is a pathological liar who has added the U.S. Armed Services to his list of mythical persecutors.”
Hoken looked at the discharge documents. Serial number 1653230. He obviously needed to know that number. “1653230. 1653230,” he said in Orian. Just a couple of more tries and he’d have it. “1653230. 1653230,” he repeated in English. Caucasian male, brown hair, height 1.8 meters, weight 68 kilograms, date of enlistment, date of discharge. It was all there, including a copy of his Selective Service System Registration Certificate. His Social Security number was 433-54-3937.
“1563230, 433-54-3937,” Hoken said to himself. He closed his eyes and said out loud, “Serial number 1653230. Social Security number 443-54-3937.”
He opened his left eye to check. “Oops,” he said. “433-54-3937.” He repeated three times.
Gunnerr continued his seemingly never-ending narration of #1’s perpetual failures. “Shortly after his discharge from the service he suffered a significant personal failure that caused him to emotionally unravel; he just couldn’t cope. He attempted suicide by slashing his left wrist.”
Gunnerr paused, and said with a quick, cynical laugh. “Fortunately for him and for us, although unfortunately for everyone else, the attempt was foiled by acquaintances.”
Gunnerr stopped. “Sorry about that, Major. I shouldn’t inject this personal opinion, but the guy’s such a failure he can’t even commit suicide and get it right.”
A little macabre humor in situations like this just can’t be avoided, thought Hoken. And he’s absolutely right; this man is scum. And I’m going to assume his existence.
“After this,” continued Gunnerr immediately getting back to business, “he spent considerable time in a hospital recuperating.
“After two years of what can only be described as just existing, he married a woman from an authoritarian country much poorer than the United States. It was, as they say on Earth, a situation where they used each other. What he gained was a women more handsome and intelligent and with empathetic qualities than he could otherwise ever hope to attain, and with the marriage, she was able to immigrate to the United States. They have two female children, June and Audrey, the latter born just one month ago. As with all of the personal relationships in his life, his marriage is a failure. Major, everything this man touches turns to saud (sxxx in English).”
Hoken just shook his head, and nodded silently in agreement.
“Major, we’re starting to assemble some information on his neighbors, acquaintances, and co-workers. You can see the files and pictures of Michael Paine and Buell Frazier on your console. We’re sure we’ll have images for other people important in his personal life, such as Gladys Johnson, Earline Roberts, Ruth Paine and Lennie Randle, before you reach Earth.
“Now that we know which individuals to monitor, we should be able to pick up a few personal conversations.
“Getting back to his wife,” said Gunnerr. “They quarrel frequently. She has no respect for him. She probably despises him. I really don’t blame her, but that’s what happens when you do things for expediency,