The Non-Statistical Man by Raymond F. Jones

was about to do.
    The feeling persisted, even when Hap Johnson walked in and took a seat at the rear of the hall. Bascomb admitted to himself he was shaken when he looked out and saw the reporter’s entrance. He hadn’t invited Hap, and had no idea how he had got wind of the meeting. But it didn’t matter, he thought; nothing that the Courier might print could possibly alter the intuitive assurance he felt.
    He stepped out between the curtains on the platform. He was aware of the stares of surprise, curiosity, challenge, and occasional contempt. He smiled confidently and held up a hand to quiet the perfunctory applause.
    “It was probably no small surprise to those of you who know me,” he said, “to read my invitation to this gathering. I am gratified that so many of you took the trouble to accept and be here tonight.
    “What I have to say will sound strange to all of you. Some of you will be thoroughly outraged—even as I was when I first encountered this information. I hope no one will be so outraged or disbelieving that he will consider it beneath his dignity to test the validity of these facts for himself—also as I have done.”
    Gingerly, then, as if edging carefully into cold, deep water, Bascomb spoke of the historical evidence for the existence of intuition as it might be familiar to his audience. He modified Magruder’s exposition considerably, omitting the Professor’s far-fetched theories that went back to the dawn of civilization. He reminded his listeners of instances which they could believe, in which intuition had proven superior to all other forms of knowledge as a basis for action.
    They listened, but he could see they weren’t liking it. Magruder’s group was obviously contemptuous of so prosaic a term as intuition; they wanted strong meat— corporeal vibrations. The business people were disgusted; Bascomb could read in their faces the thoughts he himself had had, not so long ago.
    Somehow he wasn’t getting it over; he was trying to be reasonable and scientific, but his listeners were cold to his exposition.
    “How much would it be worth to know,” he said, “which one out of many possible lines of action was most likely to succeed? How much would it be worth to know which man out of a group could best do a job—or which product out of many thousands was not up to specified quality? You who are executives, personnel managers, quality control experts—what would it be worth to you to have infallible insight in your profession instead of mere assurance that your error will not be greater than a stated amount?
    “Statistics can never give you anything more than this assurance. Intuition, properly applied, can give you positive knowledge.”
    In his backward-looking moments he never quite understood why he dared the argument he brought up next. Certainly, his planned discourse didn’t call for it; but the apathy of the group made him a little desperate, he thought afterward.
    “Think of the significance in our judicial processes,” he said. “We never know in many instances whether a man is actually guilty of a crime or not. We take a ballot and vote him guilty or innocent, and our concept of justice and our lust for vengeance are satisfied.
    “We have seen in recent days how this functions in our own city. We have voted a man guilty of the worst possible crime. There were good, sound, logical reasons for such a vote. He was a poor, unlettered devil who aroused no one’s sympathy, so who could regret if an error were made? Besides, he was the janitor in the apartment house where the victim lived, and she was found stuffed in the furnace to which only he was supposed to have access.
    “But I know that Zad Clementi is innocent of this crime!”
    For sheer emotional reaction, he might as well have set off a charge of dynamite in their midst. There was no physical response, but he felt the hostile flare in their minds like a bright, silent flame.
    There was not a man or woman in the