“But what are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do but measure the deuce out of it—and hope that it means nothing.”
“But if it is a nova?”
Lasson smiled. “Then the universe will watch our death throes,” he said.
“But—”
“Dolts!” said Las son tartly. “What can mankind possibly do to clap a safety valve on a bursting sun?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. Not a blessed thing. Hell’s eternal fire, Harry, we don’t even know what causes a nova.”
“Maybe we will,” said Harry gloomily.
“Then we may die enlightened,” said Lasson blandly, “Cheerful prospect!”
“Now look, Harry. We don’t know that it is a nova. And I, for one, am not going to toss everything I’ve worked for out of the nearest window into the deep blue sea because the chances of a nova happening right now lie somewhere near a couple of billion to one against. I’d hate to junk everything, only to find out next week that I’d thrown it away all for nothing. Then I’d have to live out the rest of my life realizing I’d been stupid.”
“But what else could it be?” asked Harry Welton.
“A couple of planetoids might have bumped into Sol. We’d detect nothing by observation if that happened, you know. We couldn’t see ’em.”
“That’s possible.”
“And a lot more likely than nova. Shucks, son, you’d swell up in anger if someone stuck a pin in you.”
Harry laughed. “Maybe we should get after the guy who is shoving pins in Sol.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“So what do we do next? Put an ad in the Chronicle— ‘Notice: Will practical joker please cease stirring up Old Sol? He’s restless.’ ”
“That kind never reads the personal ads,” chuckled the professor. “Howthesoever, Harry, I’m going to get some new gear for the lab. I know about what we need and I’m going to hop back to Chicago for a bit and see Jeff Benson/’
Fifteen years before Professor Lasson had had a student named Benson who had graduated with honors. For that reason, and because Jeff’s stuff was superior, much of the special equipment in Lasson’s laboratory bore the small Benson nameplate. Had Professor Lasson been young and filled with needless enthusiasm he would have flown at once.
But Lasson knew that a few hours or a few days would make little difference. If the sun were going nova, it would take off slowly at first and it might be months, years, or even centuries before its inner activity reached the blow-up point. And nothing could stop it.
Furthermore, Sol was not a constant star. It was variable in degrees. There was a slow flow toward becoming brighter and hotter and a few slight changes that might only be isolated cases in the grand scheme of things.
So, instead of leaving for Chicago that afternoon, Professor Lasson began to prepare for his trip. If all went well he could clean up a lot of niggling little details and catch a Chicago-bound plane in about three weeks.
Jeff Benson entered the luxuriously appointed apartment of Lucille Roman with a feeling that he shouldn’t have come. He also had a feeling that he should have been wearing clothing more appropriate for the formal occasion.
The best he could do at the moment, since he was not in the habit of going out in high or even medium society, was a dark-gray pinstripe suit, a conservative necktie, and a white shirt. His shoes were polished like twin mirrors, and he himself was quite uncomfortable about it all. He felt foolish.
This was not his kind of life, and he knew it far better than anybody else. He was, and he admitted this, the intellectual equal of any man he was likely to meet anywhere. But his intellect and interests were on another plane entirely.
Lucille Romans friends would probably quote the market to him in the terms of the trade and be completely misunderstood. He, on the other hand, could reply regarding the quantum state of the seven-times ionized iron atom and be equally misunderstood.
The trouble with that idea was that there would be more of their kind than of his present, which would label him a human freak among the financiers.
It is possible that Jeff would have been uncomfortable, even had he been the kind who was always at ease in any company. The most self-assured fish in the world is miserable when far removed from its own kind of water.
He was happily disappointed. Lucille met him at the door and handed him over to Horne. Horne greeted him cheerfully,
“Long time no see,” he said. “How’ve you been?”
“About the same. A bit here and a job there. It all adds up to keeping me comfortable.” Jeff sipped his cocktail and nodded in appreciation. “And you?”
“I’ve been a bit busy, too,” he said. “Frankly, I’m about to make an idiot out of myself.”
“How come?”
“Well, I’m about to take back all the things I once said about Lucille.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve see her practically every night since we met her at the Saddle Club.”
“That’s about a week.”
“Somewhat less. But it doesn’t take a century to tell when you’ve made a mistake.”
“That’s true.”
“Anyway,” said Horne, toppling cigar ash on a convenient tray, “whatever Lucille Roman may be around the conference table, she’s a gracious and thoroughly lovely woman when she leaves the office.”
“Well, good for you.” Jeff nodded slowly. “Doesn’t carry a grudge, then.”
“Not at all. So that accounts for my time,” said Horne with a chuckle. “Unless, of course, you want a blow-by-blow fill-in of my evenings.”
“That’s asking a lot.” Jeff grinned.
“Okay. I’d have been around to see you but, Jeff, you’re nowhere as interesting to be with as Lucille. But what about you?”
“As I said—”
“I know now. What about that job you scurried off on?”
Jeff shrugged. He didn’t remember mentioning it specifically but he must have intimated something of the sort. On any count it was strictly old hat now, and he did not go into detail.
“It didn’t materialize.”
“How come?”
“Couldn’t come to terms.” That was true enough, though the terms stated were not Jeff’s.
“Too bad. Well, that’s life.”
Jeff shrugged noncommittally. “I didn’t mind too much,” he told Horne. “It would have taken too much time from my own projects.”
Horne considered this. If what Jeff said was true, there was little point in keeping the young instrument maker under his eye. He wanted to keep Jeff as a friend. The man was obviously a friend of Lucille Roman and Horne’s former intention of insinuating himself into Roman Enterprises, was now submerged by his interest in the woman herself.
He had the inside track now, and he could afford to forgive Jeff his game of upsetting the Horne apple cart at the auction. In fact, had it not been for Jeff Benson, neither of them would be sipping excellent Martinis in Lucille Roman’s apartment now.
At any rate, he was not going to ask leading questions that might be turned against him at a later date. Horne no longer needed Jeff as a wedge into either the business or graces of Lucille Roman.
He nodded over Jeff’s shoulder at Lucille, who was talking animatedly to an elderly bald-headed man. “Let’s rescue the lovely lady from Father Time,”
“Or,” grinned Jeff, “make the guy grow some hair to go with those thick glasses.”
Jeff and Horne were about to walk across the room with this in mind when the maid ushered in a man who peered through the room until he found Charles Horne. Then he came straight across through the crowd to him.
“May I see you alone?” he said in a quiet voice.
“This is a party.” Horne smiled. “Meet Mister Benson-Frank Hamilton, my broker.”
“How do you do?” said Jeff politely.
“Charmed. But Mister Horne—”
Horne shrugged. Nothing bothered him. He exp
ected nothing. Furthermore, he was self-confident enough to think that no matter what was said it could not but be good. If Jeff Benson were a friend of Lucille Roman, he would doubtless carry any tale of Horne s ability as a manipulator to her, thus creating a more desirable impression of himself.
“Mister Benson is a friend of mine. Unless this is vitally secret, go right ahead. He’ll take no advantage of me.”
“Well, I thought you’d better know. Things have been a bit rough.”
“How rough?”
“Quite bad. But I managed to get you out of it with only a hundred thousand loss.”
“Good Lord! What happened?”
“They got you in a cleft stick while you were—unavailable. They seesawed Horne Non-Ferrous Metals around until I had to sell you out before they took your shirt.”
“How does it stand right now?”
“If you can raise a hundred thousand by Monday morning at market opening I can get it back, and another hundred on top of it. That’s all it takes.”
“I can’t sit down and write you a check for that,” said Horne thoughtfully. “It would take time to arrange for that amount. Dammit, I don’t want to let that aluminum go. A hundred grand is a lot of dough, but the holding is worth more than that, by far.”
“That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week—especially the last day or so. A bit of bolstering would have set you up for fair.”
Horne nodded. “Come on,” he said. “I think I know where I can get squared off.”
Leading the other two Horne went across the floor toward Lucille Roman. As they came up Lucille turned with a bright smile. “Meet Doctor Phelps,” she said.
The doctor looked at them through thick lenses. “I’ve heard of Mister Benson but never have had the pleasure of meeting him before.”
“Doctor Phelps is the head of my latest project,” said Lucille. “He came here tonight to tell me that we’re about ready for the final touches.”
“I’ve been testing the essentials for a week now, and it’s successful.”
“Well be using another few thousand square feet of one-inch aluminum plate,” said Lucille to Phelps. “And then—”
“Now that’s interesting, Lucille. I have quite a stock of one-inch plates in the inventory at Horne Non-Ferrous Metals. Could we do business?”
“What kind of business?” asked Lucille.
“Why, I need a quick hundred thousand to cinch a certain deal. Make it at four per cent, and I’ll furnish you with all the plate you need at ten per cent above today’s quotation.”
Lucille laughed. “We have plenty of plate. I’ve already arranged for it.”
Her attitude was one of complete poise. She acted as though what she knew of Horne’s little deal was only what he had mentioned in the past minute. But a tension came into the air, a quiet tension that was almost indefinable until Jeff Benson suddenly realized that, during the past minute, the guests in Lucille’s apartment had been diminishing their small-talk gradually. Now all were silent so that every word between Lucille and Horne was carried to every ear.
“Then how about the hundred? Can we do business on that?”
Lucille laughed again and it was a sharp laugh.
“You chiseler!” she snapped at him—though delivered in her pleasant contralto it was none the less a snap. “I should have cleaned you out. But the hundred grand you’re losing is the amount you would have gypped me out of at the auction.”
“I—you—gypped!” gasped Horne, a dim flicker of comprehension coming slowly over him. “You’ve been playing games?”
“I never play games!”
“But I-”
Lucille laughed again. “Get out, sucker. And next time remember—if you want to play games a man’s way, I can play a woman’s game against you! And beat you every time!”
“Why, blast you!” Horne started forward and Jeff stepped in to intercept him.
Lucille saw the move and turned upon Jeff. “Don’t clip him again, Benson,” she snapped. “Don’t waste energy. That game won’t work twice.”
“What game?” said Jeff with a blink.
“That was a fine melodrama you two made at the auction. You think I’ve not been watching you both? What did you want? To chisel into my business from my own specifications?” She whirled on Phelps. “And the one who recommended Jeff Benson to supply the instruments had better watch out, too. He may be in it!”
“Just what are you driving at?” demanded Benson.
Lucille Roman turned on Jeff again. “Do you think I’m stupid?” she snarled. “Do you think for one instant that I don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Oh bah! For one thing, showing me around that firetrap you call a laboratory. Boilers and gas burners and fancy gauges! You think I don’t a laboratory when I see one?” Lucille turned to her guests. “Meet Jeff Benson and Charles Horne. They thought they could bamboozle a woman. Now that they’ve been clipped, back they’re crawling with their tails between their legs, and whining.”
There was a general laugh.
“Get out!” snapped Lucille.
Jeff looked at her. He did not know her very well. He had, of course, been attracted to the woman, because it was impossible for a man to have blood in his veins without having it run a little faster at sight of Lucille Roman.
His own pulse had quickened when he realized that Lucille Roman was human enough to enjoy being wined, dined and—quite probably—kissed by Charles Horne. It gave the financially brilliant and physically desirable woman a less formidable and goddesslike quality. It meant that she was at least as much female as financial wizard and made her less unattainable.
But the idea that she could and would use her physical charms to further her own interests made Jeff a bit sick.
What she had against him he could not guess. Apparently she went on the theory that anybody found with her enemy was also her enemy, by association. It was both unreasonable and illogical, and heaven protect him from a woman like that!
“Drop dead!” he snapped at Lucille, “I’ll bet you never felt an honest emotion in your life!”
Seething with the injustice of it, Jeff turned his back upon her and strode to the door. Horne followed him, and the scornful laughter of Lucille’s guests—who had come prepared by the hostess to witness their downfall—pursued both of them down the hallway after the door was closed.
CHAPTER VIII
“And that,” said Charles Horne bitterly, “is Lucille Roman at her best.”
“It didn’t seem necessary,” complained Jeff. One part of Jeff’s mind kept telling him that to be scorned by a group of people who were gathered there for only that reason, was not too important. No man Jives who has no enemies. But the larger portion of Jeff’s mind resented the scorn deeply.
It is difficult to ignore the scorn of the lowliest of mental and physical inferiors, let alone people who might be one’s equal in one line or another. The fact that Lucille’s vicious tongue-lashing had been entirely uncalled-for, her suspicions without grounds save self-induced circumstantial evidence, and her methods more vindictive than merely combative, rankled the young instrument maker.
Meeting a rival face to face or besting him in open competition was one thing. But it offended Jeff’s code of ethics that she had called in a group of friends to join in catcalls and scorn in what was almost a public condemnation.
“That’s our little Lucille,” repeated Horne. “If I’d guessed that was in her brain, I’d have strangled her soft white throat instead of caressing it. And she played the same game on you?”
“Just about.”
“Hah! I thought she was capable of genuine friendship.”
“Me, too.”
“Now you begin to see what goes with Roman?”
Jeff nodded. It was inexplicable to him. He had not been plotting against her, he had not been competing with her. He had offered her only good. And for that he had received a tongue-lashing and accusatio
ns that were based on only a woman’s gift for self-deception.
“Look, Benson, I’m going to clip that dame.”
Jeff nodded.
“Want in?”
Jeff spread his hands. “I’d like to make her eat every word—backwards,” he said. “But I’m afraid that the kind of weight I carry wouldn’t help to slow her down. We operate in entirely different orbits.”
“You must be able to do something,” mused Horne.
“Darned if I know what. I’d as soon forget it. It seems that my initial venture into the upper brackets was unfortunate. Maybe I’d best continue to move in my own sphere.”
“But that’s not too helpful to your self-esteem in the face of what happened up there,” said Horne.
“Perhaps it will work out,” said Jeff.
“How—for Pete’s sake?”
Jeff smiled wanly. “I’m not much in favor of the still small voice crying in the wilderness,” he said slowly. “Any voice carries farther when it has some weight to back it up. Give me a few more months of success in my own work and I may reach the point where I can command my own following.”
“That seems an awfully long way around,” objected Horne.
“Getting to be a big frog in my own special puddle is the only way I’ll ever get big enough to reply to her.”
“I’d like to help,” offered Horne quietly. “Or would you prefer not? It just occurred to me that you might resent me.”
“Why?”
“Well, Roman obviously hates my shoes. So much so, in fact, that she has you tarred with the same hate, You’d not have gotten her blast if you and I had not been chummy.”
Benson shrugged and laughed easily. “I’m not so small as to drop a friend because someone puts me in his brackets.
Maybe I am in the same brackets. Birds of a feather, you know.”
“Well, if you think of anything let me know—and if I think of anything I’ll get in touch with you. If you want help, I’ll offer that too.”
“I’m okay,” said Jeff. ‘Tor me, the only thing handy would be forty hours in a day and nine days in a week.”
“That I can do nothing about,” Horne smiled. Jeff nodded, shook Horne’s hand and left to go home to his laboratory.
Fire in the Heavens (1958) Page 6