by John Lutz
He pushed the absurd thought from his mind and splashed some now-warm water over his face, running wet fingers through his hair. His throat was dry and he felt slightly nauseous, but he always felt like that in the mornings until his coffee had worked its chemical magic. After drying his face with a coarse towel and arranging his hair with a comb, Lamb returned to the bedroom.
The first pair of socks he put on had a hole in them. He peeled them off and flung them back in his dresser drawer. "Darn it, Gilda," he yelled to his wife who was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, "these socks have a hole in them!" The feeble, unintentional pun didn't escape him, as he knew it wouldn't escape Gilda, and he felt impotent even in his anger.
"Which color, dear?" Gilda called back, discreetly ignoring the pathetic humor in Lamb's anger.
"The blue ones," Lamb said. "You know I always wear the blue ones on Tuesday."
"I'll buy another pair today when I shop."
Lamb put on a pair of his green socks, finished dressing and then went into the kitchen for breakfast. Gilda, in her gray robe and with her graying hair still in curlers, was already seated. Lamb sat across from her and began to eat absently as he scanned the morning paper. It was their ritual to eat in silence.
Lamb noticed that his two eggs, which he always preferred fried once-over-lightly, were not cooked enough and the whites contained pockets of liquid. It was then that he observed, somewhere deep in a corner of his mind, that it was going to be one of those particularly aggravating days.
He expertly turned a page of the newspaper with one hand, and almost instantly the other hand which held his fork stopped in its upward motion toward Lamb's open mouth and lowered an impaled bite of egg back onto the plate.
"Good Lord, what's this?"
"What's what, dear?" he heard Gilda ask from the other side of the newspaper.
Lamb closed his eyes and then looked again, to make sure his senses hadn't deceived him, but the words were the same, in regular, everyday newspaper print that somehow heightened their terrible, unexpected impact: "MOON CHILDREN, JUNE 22 to JULY 21 — Today is the end."
"The daily horoscope column," Lamb said in a choked voice, handing the paper across the table to Gilda.
"I'm Pisces," Gilda said. "'A good day for organizing money matters in A.M. Be sociable in P.M., and you will meet someone who can help solve that special problem.' "
"Not that!" Lamb said. "My horoscope! Moon Children!"
He watched as Gilda absorbed the fateful words, frowned then laughed. "Probably just a misprint," she said, handing the paper back to Lamb, "or somebody's idea of a joke."
Lamb took a long sip of coffee. "A joke," he said, "or a mistake. Probably, but still it shocks you when you read the column every day and then . . . this."
"You don't really believe in it, do you?"
Lamb toyed with his coffee cup. "I suppose not . . . Or maybe I do, vaguely . . . You'd be surprised how often it's correct."
Gilda merely arched an almost nonexistent eyebrow at him.
"Today is the end . . ." Lamb said softly. "What do you think it means?"
"It could only mean that everyone born in the time period that makes them Moon Children is going to drop dead. And that's not very likely, is it?"
Lamb had to admit to himself that it was not. Then a very unlikely but disturbing thought struck him. "Suppose," he said to Gilda, "just for fun's sake, that this is the only paper with those words in it."
"Then I'd advise you to increase your life insurance," Gilda said. "But that isn't the only paper with those words in it, and you can prove that to yourself easy enough by buying another copy, if you're really going to let such a stupid thing bother you."
"No need for that," Lamb said, glancing at his watch. It was already two minutes past the time he usually left for work. "No doubt it is just a misprint." He stood abruptly to leave and knocked over the salt shaker, spilling white granules over the dark table top.
Gilda laughed, but it was a full ten seconds before Lamb started laughing.
Lamb bought two copies of the morning Globe at the bus stop. He waited until he was on the bus and seated before turning to page nine. Of course the words were there, in both papers. He felt immeasurably better. Odd, he thought, how an unreasonable fear can grip a man, and he leaned back in his seat and relaxed completely as the bus wound its way downtown.
The bus braked to a stop at Third Street and Lamb got off. As usual he was the only passenger to emerge from the bus at that stop, and pleasant silence engulfed him as the bus's deep diesel roar faded away down the narrow streets. It was still early, and only a few automobiles passed Lamb as he walked down the uneven sidewalk, squinting into the rising sun to read the sign that jutted out from his place of employment: ORION'S RARE GAMES AND GIFTS.
Lamb entered the front door to the tinkle of the warning bell and nodded to his employer and owner of the tiny shop, Walter Orion.
"Good morning, Mr. Orion."
"Two papers, Lamb?" Orion asked, arching an eyebrow exactly as Gilda had done. Walter Orion was a tall, angular man with haughty features that were a true indication of his personality.
Lamb was suddenly aware of the two Globes under his left arm. He began to offer some weak excuse, and then he remembered that Orion was also a Moon Child. They had talked about astrology only last week. Walter Orion, in fact, was a firm believer in the art. "Something in them I thought you might be interested in, Mr. Orion."
'Today is the end'?" the tall man asked with a faint, crooked smile.
"You've read it then."
"Yes," Orion said. "Undoubtedly a typographical error." He turned his attention to what he had before him on the counter. "Come and see this, Lamb. Isn't it beautiful?"
Even Lamb, whose appreciation for artistic beauty was far less sensitive than Orion's, had to admit that it was beautiful. It was a set of chess pieces, every piece made of delicate and intricate fine crystal. The pieces were large but possessed of infinite grace.
"Polish them," Orion said. "And be doubly careful. They're worth a fortune individually but twice that as a set, and as yet they're not insured. A gentleman is coming in tomorrow to inquire about buying them."
Lamb lifted a pawn and held it up to the light. "Such superb workmanship," he said admiringly. "Where were they made?"
"In France," Orion said, "over a century ago."
"Did it give you a shock this morning?" Lamb asked.
Orion didn't answer.
"Our horoscopes, I mean," Lamb said.
"If you must know, it did, momentarily," Orion said.
Lamb could see that Orion was oddly annoyed by the fact that he and Lamb were born under the same sign.
"Of course," Orion went on, "I realized right away that it was an error or a prank of some sort. Anyway, those mass circulation readings are so general that such a prediction would be impossible."
"Still," Lamb said, "it gave me a start."
The telephone rang, and Lamb placed the pawn back on the chessboard. But as he turned to move toward the phone he felt his little finger just barely tick the top of the pawn, and he gasped as he heard the crystal bounce on the hardwood floor.
He whirled and stooped immediately to pick up the pawn, but Orion was already there and slapped his hand away.
Orion stood and examined the pawn lovingly and said under his breath, "Undamaged." Then he looked up and turned his wrath on Lamb. "A stupid blunder, Lamb!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "An inexcusable stupid blunder!"
Lamb knew with a flush of shame that Orion was right, but still he didn't deserve to be berated this way, like an errant twelve-year-old. He shrugged hopelessly. "An accident, Mr. Orion. I — I'm sorry."
"You would know what sorry really is if the pawn had broken," Orion said with self-contained fury.
Both men stood looking at one another silently for a long moment, Orion in unconcealed disgust, Lamb in agonized shame. Amidst the shelves and showcases of bizarre game pieces and bric-a-brac a c
lock ticked loudly. At last Orion, now somewhat more composed, simply said, "Polish them, Lamb," and turned and walked into the back room.
Things kept going wrong about the tiny shop all morning. An almost sure sale of a miniature roulette wheel had fallen through; Orion himself dropped a pair of antique dice and had to search for more than fifteen minutes for the die that had bounced beneath a showcase. Lamb felt rather smug about this, until a customer he'd unavoidably kept waiting remarked on the poor quality of the service and stalked out. It was as if Lamb and Orion were caught up in a strong current of misfortune and unkind fate, and both men sensed this.
Lamb's lunchtime arrived at last, and it was with a great deal of relief that he left the small shop and began walking the five blocks to the restaurant where he normally ate. The way was lined with tiny shops, somewhat like Orion's only more modern. They sold everything, from gift cards to sporting goods, and their narrow show windows were crammed with displays.
Even in the bright sunshine and among the noonday crowd of pedestrians an odd oppression, an anxiety, hung over Lamb. He stopped suddenly before the outdoor equipment store that he'd passed hundreds of times, and he peered into the window with an interest that he found surprising. "Five dollars down!" the sign said, only five dollars down, and hadn't he always meant to buy one someday, for Gilda to have around the house when he worked late? Lamb peered into the dimness on the other side of the window and saw a smiling clerk beckon him into the interior of the store. Impulsively he entered. Impulsively he purchased the small revolver.
When Lamb returned to the shop Orion was showing a customer some merchandise. The customer made a small purchase and departed, and Orion leaned on the counter and turned his attention to Lamb. Lamb noticed that he seemed to be in a slightly better humor.
"Did you enjoy your lunch, Lamb?"
"Veal Parmesan, Mr. Orion. My favorite."
"Good." Orion straightened and came out from behind the counter. "It might interest you to know, Lamb, that I phoned the newspaper on my lunch hour. That business in this morning's horoscope column was a misprint, something about vandalism or practical joking in the typesetting department." He began rearranging the game pieces on a shelf.
"I supposed it was something like that," Lamb answered, surprised that Orion would bother to check.
"These old gambling chips," Orion said, "aren't they splendidly carved?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Orion." Lamb walked behind the counter and began again, very carefully, piece by piece, to polish the crystal chessmen. He had already finished the dark pieces, and as the colored crystal glittered in the bright illumination from the overhead light he was struck anew by their flawless delicacy.
By the time Lamb had finished the pawns the early evening rush hour traffic had started outside. He could have worked much faster, of course, but Orion kept interrupting him with other minor tasks to complete. There was about Orion a nervousness, a coiled uneasiness that became more apparent to Lamb as the day wore on. For Orion, who considered life a game in which he was a master manipulator, this was most unusual.
As Lamb was polishing the crystal king and Orion was standing staring out the window at that area of sunset which was visible between the two buildings across the street, it happened. Lamb was simply standing there, watching Orion unconsciously kneading his clasped fingers behind his back, when the king fell to the floor.
It shattered like a glittering crystal bomb.
Orion whirled, his face incredulous, pained, his eyes blazing in a way that frightened Lamb to the roots of his soul.
"You disgusting fool!" Orion moaned. "Do you realize the worth of the thing you've smashed?" His face became red and the loose flesh beneath his right eye began to tick. "Of course you don't!" He aimed the words at Lamb and spat them out with machine gun rapidity.
Lamb shrugged his shoulders in helpless fright. "Please, Mr. Orion, it was unintentional . . ."
But Orion was moving slowly toward Lamb, his long, taut fingers outstretched and flexing with an insane lust that was soon to be satisfied. Lamb's heart leapt, pounded, and he remembered. The revolver was suddenly out and pointed at Orion.
Walter Orion stopped and his hands fell to his sides.
"Please, Mr. Orion! I don't want to use it!"
"But you will, Lamb," Orion said, the flesh still ticking beneath his eye, his body still trembling in uncontrolled hate, "I don't doubt that you will."
Lamb watched Orion walk toward him in slow motion through an atmosphere heavy with fate ". . . Squeeeeze the trigger," Lamb remembered the sales clerk telling him, ". . .'like a lemon," and the revolver exploded, kicking violently in Lamb's surprised hand.
Orion stood for a moment, still staring at Lamb with infinite disgust, then he crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings had snapped.
Lamb slumped against a showcase, realization of the act he'd committed hitting him in waves of impact. But it had to be that way, Lamb told himself, it had to! and Lamb was also aware of the inevitability of the next thing he must do. His hand steady, he pointed the revolver barrel at his head like a steel finger of guilt. He squeezed the trigger.
Lamb and Orion were on page one and made much more interesting reading than the item on page nine:
"The Globe wishes to apologize for the misprint in yesterday's horoscope column. The error was due to an unfortunate mistake in our printing department, and precautions have been taken to safeguard against such mistakes in the future. The Globe assures the followers of the daily horoscope column that it will not happen again."
The Other Side of Reason
It was Sheriff Sam Ladester on the line. Semloh hadn't seen him in years, since the glass eye affair.
"Bain Semloh?" repeated the laconic, mid-western voice. "It is, Sheriff Ladester. It's good to talk to you."
"Maybe you won't think so when you hear what all I want," Ladester said. "I need a favor."
"I owe you a few," Semloh said warmly. "Let's see, your re-election's coming up soon, isn't it?"
"I hope. And that's part of why I need your help. I heard you were in the city for the Curious Crime Convention Conference. Thought I'd call you at your hotel to sorta bail me out."
"Trouble in Graham County?" Ladester was the chief law enforcement officer of a small county some distance from the city, the sort of place where an ill-tempered dog would likely be public enemy number one.
"Trouble is right," Ladester drawled. "Has to do with our most famous citizen, Brighton Rank."
"The widely read gossip columnist, eh? I heard he had a home out in the woods. What's happened?"
"He was shot in the back of the head earlier this morning."
Semloh's lazy, almost lizard-like eyes blinked once. He was interested. "Dead?"
"Deader'n a hollered out tree stump."
"That's dead," Semloh said.
"It'd sure help me in a lot of ways if I came up with something before the big city boys take over the case," LadeSter said.
"By 'something,' I take it you mean the murderer," Semloh said.
"That'd be nice."
"I'll be there."
It was quite a house. Bain Semloh had driven for over an hour and a half to reach it. Bleak and impressive, it loomed atop the rise before him, against the climbing-to-noonday sun. There were other large houses half-concealed behind tall trees, owned by wealthy individuals who chose to escape the crime and clamor of the city. Brighton Rank had spent a considerable fortune to have the home built to his own tastes, and Semloh wondered if its darkly ornate ugliness represented its creator's personality.
He maneuvered his rented sub-compact up the long curving driveway lined with poplars and braked before the tall front door. There were three other cars in the circular drive, one of them a dusty tan sedan with a gold sheriff's seal on its side. Without hesitation Semloh climbed from the tiny car, strode up the wide concrete steps and rang the bell.
The door was answered after a pause by a slender man in early forties, weari
ng a neat mustache and a rumpled gray suit.
"My name is Bain Semloh. Sheriff Ladester is expecting me."
"Phillip Rank," the man said by way of introduction. "Come right in, Mr. Semloh." He stepped aside as Semloh entered a large entry foyer.
"You are a relative?" Semloh asked as he followed the slender, slightly stoop-shouldered man down a hall lined with oil paintings.
"I'm Brighton's brother."
Suddenly they turned a corner and were in a large comfortable looking room with overstuffed furniture and a high, dark-beamed ceiling. Sheriff Ladester was pacing behind a long beige sofa, and on the sofa, seated perfectly still as wax figures, were two men and a fading but still attractive blonde woman. The trio on the sofa stared expectantly at Semloh, as did a standing, matronly gray-haired woman with a gigantic bosom and red-rimmed eyes.
"Hello, Bain! Been a long time." Ladester almost ran over to shake Semloh's plump hand. The three figures on the sofa were suddenly struck with animation and rose. "You've met Phillip Rank," Ladester said.
Semloh nodded, and the sheriff turned to the others in the room.
"This is Elda Rank, Brighton's wife. On the left Ward Rank, another brother, and on the right Simon Crane, Brighton Rank's secretary. Behind them is Mrs. Drael, a neighbor from across the street."
Ward Rank looked something like his brother Phillip, lean, gaunt-featured, with a wide, flaring nose and thin lips. No mustache, though. Simon Crane was a short man, almost as short as Semloh's five six, only he weighed a good deal less than Semloh, wore high-heeled boots to add a few inches, and there was a compact muscularity to him beneath his well cut suit. Standing, Elda Rank was much more impressive than she'd been sitting down. She was what connoisseurs of blondes described as statuesque.
"The famous detective," Ward Rank said with a hint of cynicism. "At least that's what the good sheriff here tells us. No doubt he could use some of your super-logical deduction."