Phil, meanwhile, began walking towards his home, his head still feeling a little peculiar. What was the matter with him? What had happened? And where on Earth had he gotten all those big words? _Polysyllabic vocables_, said a voice in his mind, _although recognized by the erudite as not being necessarily indicative of scholarly attainments, are nevertheless profoundly impressive to the hoi polloi._ Phil nodded slowly to himself. Yeah, big words were impressive, all right. But where had he picked them all up? "I'd better go home and take an aspirin," he said aloud. _Aspirin_, said the voice, _is the acetic acidester of salicylic acid, a white, crystalline solid having the empirical formula_-- Holding his hands to his ears, Philip Merriwether ran home as fast as his spindly legs could propel him. * * * * * B. J. Holly, office manager for Starr & Sons, Inc., flipped a switch on his desk intercom. "Where is Merriwether?" he snapped. "That boy was supposed to have picked up these letters for filing half an hour ago. I can't wait any longer." "Mr. Merriwether phoned in this morning, sir," said the secretary's voice. "He said he was a little ill, and he'd be late. He--oh! Just a moment, sir; he just came in." "Send him in here!" ordered B. J. Holly. Mr. Holly frowned at Phil Merriwether as soon as the door opened. "Under the weather a bit, eh, Merriwether?" Phil nodded. "Yes, sir. My head feels queer." Mr. Holly suppressed an impulse to remark that he wasn't at all surprised. In his estimation, anyone with a head like Merriwether's would feel odd all the time. But Mr. Holly, although somewhat tyrrannical, and definitely a stuffed shirt, was not basically cruel, so he said nothing that vicious. "A bit of a hangover, perhaps?" he asked suspiciously. Phil was picking up the papers for the file room. "No, sir," he said absently. "A hangover is caused by the toxic effects of various isomeric forms of higher alcohols and other impurities normally present in alcoholic beverages, plus a depletion of vitamins, especially B-one, in the system. I don't drink." "I--uh--I see." But Mr. Holly did not see. He was totally baffled. He watched in astonishment as Phil Merriwether walked out the door of the office. Merriwether, himself was slightly bemused. How had he done it? He knew perfectly well what he was saying; a full night of thinking had managed to bring to him the realization that something--he knew not what--had happened to his memory. It seemed to him that there must be something he could do with it, but he didn't quite know what.