More Tales of the Black Widowers

by Isaac Asimov

  Halsted, who had been looking with somber approval at the generous slab of Black Forest torte that had been placed before him as dessert, withdrew his attention with some difficulty and said, “Not at all. Rubin is the only mystery writer here. I’m a mathematics teacher myself; Drake is a chemist; Avalon is a lawyer; Gonzalo is an artist; and Trumbull is a code expert with the government

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “we do have an interest in this sort of thing. Our guests often have problems they bring up for discussion, some sort of mystery, and we've been rather lucky—”

  The guest leaned back with a small laugh. “Nothing of the sort here, alas. Of the mystery, the murder, the fearful hand clutching from behind the curtain, there is nothing in my life. It is all very straightforward, alas; very dull. I am not even married.” He laughed again.

  The guest had been introduced as Jean Servais and Halsted, who had attacked the torte with vigor, and who felt a friendly glow filling him in consequence, said, “Does it matter to you if I call you John?”

  “I would not strike you, sir, if you did, but I pray you not to. It is not my name. Jean, please.”

  Halsted nodded. “I’ll try. I can manage that zh sound, but getting it properly nasal is another thing. Zhohng,” he said.

  “But that is excellent. Most formidable.”

  “You speak English very well,” said Halsted, returning the politeness.

  “Europeans require linguistic talent,” said Servais. “Besides, I have lived in the United States for nearly ten years now. You are all Americans, I suppose. Mr. Avalon looks British somehow.”

  “Yes, I think he likes to look British,” said Halsted. And with a certain hidden pleasure he said, “And it's Avalon. Accent on the first syllable and nothing nasal at the end.”

  But Servais only laughed. “Ah yes, I will try. When I first knew Manny, I called him 'roo-bang’ with the accent on the last syllable and a strong nasalization. He corrected me very vigorously and at great length. He is full of pepper, that one.”

  The conversation had grown rather heated by this time over a general dispute concerning the relative merits of Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler, with Rubin maintaining a rather lofty silence as though he knew someone who was better than either but would not mention the name out of modesty.

  Rubin seemed almost relieved when, with the coffee well in progress and Henry ready to supply the postprandial brandy, the time came for him to tap the water glass with his spoon and say, “Cool it, cool it, gentlemen. We are coming now to the time when our guest, Jean Servais, is to pay for his dinner. Tom, it's all yours.”

  Tom scowled and said, “If you don't mind, Mr. Servais,'* giving the final s just enough of a hiss to make his point, “I'm not going to try to display my French accent and make the kind of jackass of myself that my friend Manny Rubin does. —Tell me, sir, how do you justify your existence?” . “Why, easily,” said Servais pleasantly. “Did I not exist, you would be without a guest today.”

  “Please leave us out of it. Answer in more general terms.”

  “In general, then, I build dreams. I design things that cannot be built, things I will never see, things that may never be.”

  “All right,” said Trumbull, looking glum, “you're a science fiction writer like Manny's pal what's-his-name—uh—Asimov.”

  “No friend of mine,” said Rubin swiftly. “I just help him out now and then when he's stuck on some elementary scientific point.”

  Gonzalo said, “Is he the one you once said carried the Columbia Encyclopedia around with him because he was listed there?”

  “It's worse now,” said Rubin. “He's bribed someone at the Britannica to put him into the new 15th edition and these days he drags the whole set with him wherever he goes.”

  'The new 15th edition—” began Avalon.

  “For God's sake,” said Trumbull, “will you let our guest speak?”

  “No, Mr. Trumbull,” said Servais, as though there had been no interruption at all, “I am no science fiction writer, though I read it sometimes. I read Ray Bradbury, for instance, and Harlan Ellison.” (He nasalized both names.) “I don't think I have ever read Asimov.”

  “I'll tell him that,” muttered Rubin, “he'll love it.”

  “But,” continued Servais, “I suppose you might call me a ‘science fiction engineer’.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Trumbull.

  “I do not write of Lunar colonies. I design them.”

  “You design them!”

  “Oh yes, and not Lunar colonies only, though that is our major task right now. We work in every field of imaginative design for private industry, Hollywood, even NASA.”

  Gonzalo said, “Do you really think people can live on the Moon?”

  “Why not? It depends on what mankind is willing to do, how large an initial investment it is ready to make. The environment on the Moon can be engineered to the precise equivalent of Earth, over restricted underground areas, except for gravity. We must be content with a Lunar gravity that is one sixth our own. Except for that, we need only allow for original supplies from Earth and for clever engineering—and that is where we come in, my partner and I.”

  “You're a two-man firm?”

  “Essentially. —While my partner remains my partner, of course.”

  “Are you breaking up?”

  “No, no. But we quarrel over small points. It is not surprising. It is a bad time for him. But no, we will not break up. I have made up my mind to give in to him, perhaps. Of course, I am entirely in the right and it is a pity to lose what I would have.”

  Trumbull leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and said, “Will you tell us what the argument is all about? We can then state our own preferences, “whether for you or for your partner.”

  “It would not be a hard choice, Mr. Trumbull, for the sane,” said Servais. “I swear it. —This is the way it is. We are designing a full Lunar colony, in complete detail. It is for a motion picture company and it is for a good fee. They will make use of some of it in a grand science fiction spectacle they are planning. We naturally supply far more than they can use but the idea is that if they have a totally self-consistent picture of what may be—and for a wonder they want it as scientifically accurate as possible—they can choose what they wish of it for use.”

  “I'll bet they bollix it up,” said Drake pessimistically, “no matter how careful you are. They'll give the Moon an atmosphere.”

  “Oh, no,” said Servais, “not after six Lunar landings. That error we need not fear. Yet I have no doubt they will make mistakes. They will find it impossible to handle low-gravity effects properly throughout and the exigencies of the plot will force some infelicities.

  “Still that cannot be helped and our job is merely to supply them with material of the most imaginative possible. This is my point, as you will see in a moment. —We plan a city, a small city, and it will be against the inner lip of a crater. This is unavoidable because the plot of the movie demands it. However, we have our choice as to the identity and location of the crater, and my partner, perhaps because he is an American, goes for the obvious with an American directness. He wishes to use the crater Copernicus.

  “He says that it is a name that is familiar; that if the city is called Camp Copernicus that alone will breathe the Moon, exotic adventure, and so on. Everyone knows, he says, the name of the astronomer who first placed the Sun at the center of the planetary system and it is a name, moreover, that sounds impressive.

  “I, on the other hand, am not impressed with this. As seen from Copernicus, the Earth is high in the sky and stays there. As you all know, the Moon faces one side always to the Earth, so that from any spot on the Moon's surface the Earth is always more or less in the same spot in the sky.”

  Gonzalo said suddenly, “If you want the Lunar city to be on the other side of the Moon so that the Earth isn't in the sky, you're crazy. The audience will absolutely want the Earth there.”

  Servais
held up his hand in agreement. “Absolutely! I agree. But if it is always there, it is almost as though it is not there. One gets too used to it. No, I choose a more subtle approach. I wish the city to be in a crater that is on the boundary of the visible side. From there, of course, you will see the Earth at the horizon.

  “Consider what this introduces. The Moon does not keep the same side to the Earth exactly. It swings back and forth by a very small amount. For fourteen days it swings one way and then for fourteen days it swings back. This is called 'libration'“—he paused here as though to make sure he was pronouncing it correctly in English—”and it comes about because the Moon does not move in a perfect circle about the Earth.

  “Now, you see, if we establish Camp Bahyee in the crater of that name, the Earth is not only at the horizon but it moves up and down in a twenty-eight-day cycle. Properly “located, the Lunar colonists will see the Earth rise and set, slowly, of course. This lends itself to imaginative exploitation. The characters can arrange for some important action at Earthset, and the different positions of the Earth can indicate the passage of time and raise the suspense. Some terrific special effects are possible, too. If Venus is near the Earth and Earth is in a fat crescent stage, Venus will then be at its brightest; and when Earth sets, we can show Venus, in the airless sky of the Moon, to be a very tiny crescent itself.”

  “Earthset and evening star, and one clear call for me,” muttered Avalon.

  Gonzalo said, “Is there really a crater called Bahyee?”

  “Absolutely,” said Servais. “It is, in fact, the largest crater that can be seen from the Earth's surface. It is 290 kilometers across—180 miles.”

  “It sounds like a Chinese name,” said Gonzalo.

  “French!” said Servais solemnly. “A French astronomer of that name was mayor of Paris in 1789 at the time of the Revolution.”

  'That wasn't a good time to be mayor,” said Gonzalo.

  “So he discovered,” said Servais. “He was guillotined in 1793.”

  Avalon said, “I am rather on your side, Mr. Servais. Your proposal lends scope. What was your partner's objection?”

  Servais shrugged in a gesture that was more Gallic than anything he had yet said or done. “Foolish ones. He says that it will be too complicated for the movie people. They will confuse things, he says. He also points out that the Earth moves too slowly in the Moon's sky. It would take days for the Earth to lift its entire globe above the horizon, and days for it to lower entirely below the horizon.”

  “Is that right?” asked Gonzalo.

  “It's right, but what of that? It will still be interesting.”

  Halsted said, “They can fudge that. Make the Earth move a little faster. So what?”

  Servais looked discontented. “That's no good. My partner says this is precisely what the movie people will do and this alteration of astronomical fact will be disgraceful. He is very violent about it, finding fault with everything, even with the name of the crater, which he says is ridiculous and laughable so that he will not endure it in our report. We have never had arguments like this. He is like a madman.”

  “Remember,” said Avalon, “you said you would give in.”

  “Well, I will have to,” said Servais, “but I am not pleased. Of course, it is a bad time for him.”

  Rubin said, “You've said that twice now, Jean. I've never met your partner, so I can't judge the personalities involved. Why is it a bad time?”

  Servais shook his head. “A month ago, or a little more, his wife killed herself. She took sleeping pills. My partner was a devoted husband, most uxorious. Naturally, it is terrible for him and, just as naturally, he is not himself.”

  Drake coughed gently. “Should he be working?”

  “I would not dare suggest he not work. The work is keeping him sane.”

  Halsted said, “Why did she kill herself?”

  Servais didn't answer in words but gestured with his eyebrows in a fashion that might be interpreted in almost any way.

  Halsted persisted. “Was she incurably ill?”

  “Who can say?” said Servais, sighing. “For a while, poor Howard—” He paused in embarrassment. “It was not my intention to mention his name.”

  Trumbull said, “You can say anything here. Whatever is mentioned in this room is completely confidential. —Our waiter, too, before you ask, is completely trustworthy.”

  “Well,” said Servais, “his name doesn't matter in any case. It is Howard Kaufman. In a way, work has been very good for him. Except at work, he is almost dead himself. Nothing is any longer important to him.”

  “Yes,” said Trumbull, “but now something is important to him. He wants his crater, not your crater.”

  “True,” said Servais. “I have thought of that. I have told myself it is a good sign. He throws himself into something. It is a beginning. And perhaps all the more reason, then, that I should give in. Yes, I will. —It's settled, I will. There's no reason for you gentlemen to try to decide between us. The decision is made, and in his favor.”

  Avalon was frowning. “I suppose we should go on to question you further on the work you do and I suppose, moreover, that we should not intrude on a private misfortune. Here at the Black Widowers, however, no questions are barred, and there is no Fifth Amendment to plead. I am dissatisfied, sir, with your remarks concerning the unfortunate woman who committed suicide. As a happily married man, I am puzzled at the combination of love and suicide. You said she wasn't ill?”

  “Actually, I didn't,” said Servais, “and I am uncomfortable at discussing the matter.”

  Rubin struck the empty glass before him with his spoon. “Host's privilege,” he said vigorously. There was silence.

  “Jean,” he said, “you are my guest and my friend. We can't force you to answer questions, but I made it clear that the price of accepting our hospitality was the grilling. If you have been guilty of a criminal act and don't wish to discuss it, leave now and we will say nothing. If you will talk, then, whatever you say, we will still say nothing.”

  “Though if it is indeed a criminal act,” said Avalon, “we would certainly strongly advise confession.”

  Servais laughed rather shakily. He said, “For one minute there, for one frightened minute, I thought I had found myself in a Kafka novel and would be tried and condemned for some crime you would drag out of me against my will. Gentlemen, I have committed no crime of importance. A .speeding ticket, a bit of creative imagination on my tax return—all that is, so I hear it said, as American as apple pie. But if you're thinking I killed that woman and made it look like suicide—please put it out of your heads at once. It was suicide. The police did not question it.”

  Halsted said, “Was she ill?”

  “All right, then, I will answer. She was not ill as far as I know. But after all, I am not a doctor and I did not examine her.”

  Halsted said, “Did she have children?”

  “No. No children. —Ah, Mr. Halsted, I suddenly remember that you spoke earlier that your guests had problems which they brought up for discussion, and I said I had none. I see you have found one anyway.”

  Trumbull said, “If you're so sure it was suicide, I suppose she left a note.”

  “Yes,” said Servais, “she left one.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I couldn't quote it exactly. I did not myself see it. According to Howard, it was merely an apology for causing unhappiness but that she could not go on. It was quite banal and I assure you it satisfied the police.”

  Avalon said, “But if it was a happy marriage, and there was no illness and no complications with children, then— Or were there complications with children? Did she want children badly and did her husband refuse—”

  Gonzalo interposed. “No one kills themselves because they don't have kids.”

  “People kill themselves for the stupidest reasons,” said Rubin. “I remember—”

  Trumbull cried out with stentorian rage, “Damn it, you guys, Jeff has t
he floor.”

  Avalon said, “Was the lack of children a disturbing influence?”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Servais. “Look, Mr. Avalon, I am careful in what I say, and I did not say it was a happy marriage.”

  “You said your partner was devoted to his wife,” said Avalon gravely, “and you used that fine old word 'uxorious' to describe him.”

  “Love,” said Servais, “is insufficient for happiness if it flows but one way. I did not say that she loved him”

  Drake lit another cigarette. “Ah,” he said, “the plot thickens.”

  Avalon said, “Then it is your opinion that that had something to do with the suicide.”

  Servais looked harassed. “It is more than my opinion, sir. I know it had something to do with the suicide.”

  “Would you tell us the details?” asked Avalon, unbending just slightly from his usual stiff posture as though to convert his question into a courtly invitation.

  Servais hesitated, then said, “I remind you that you have promised me all is confidential. Mary—Madame Kaufman and my partner were married for seven years and it seemed a comfortable marriage, but who can tell in affairs of this sort?

  “There was another man. He is older than Howard and to my eyes not as good-looking—but again, who can tell in affairs of this sort? What she found in him is not likely to be there on the surface for all to see.”

  Halsted said, “How did your partner take that?”

  Servais looked up and flushed distinctly. “He never knew. Surely, you are not of the opinion that I told him this? I am not the type, I assure you. It is not for me to interfere between husband and wife. And frankly, if I had told Howard, he would not have believed me. It is more likely he would have attempted to strike me. And then what was I to do? Present proof? Was I to arrange matters so as to have them caught under conditions that could not be mistaken? No, I said nothing.”

  “And he really didn't know?” asked Avalon, clearly embarrassed.

  “He did not. It had not been going on long. The pair were excessively cautious. The husband was blindly devoted. What would you?”