The Unicorn Trade

by Poul Anderson

  The drug took quick hold of his unaccustomed body, but nonetheless he tossed about half awake and half in nightmare. It gibbered through his head, he stumbled among terrors and guilts, the sun had gone black while horrible stars rained down upon him. When the phone beside his bed rang he struck out with his fists and gasped.

  Brring! the bell shouted across a light-year of wind and voices, brring, come to me, you must you must before that happens which has no name, brring, brring, you are damned to come and brring me her brring brring brrRING!

  He struggled to wake. Night strangled him. He could not speak or see, so great was his need of air. The receiver made lips against his ear and kissed him obscenely while the dark giggled. Through whirl and seethe he heard a click, then a whistle that went on forever, and he had a moment to think that the noise was not like any in this world, it was as if he had a fever or as if nothing was at the other end of the line except the huntsman wind. His skull resounded with the querning of the planets. Yet when the voice came it was clear, steady, a little slow and very sad—but how remote, how monstrously far away.

  “Come to me. It’s so dark here.”

  Yamamura lay stiff in his own darkness.

  “I don’t understand,” said the voice. “I thought … afterward I would know everything, or else nothing. But instead I don’t understand. Oh, God, but it’s lonely!”

  For a space only the humming and the chill whistle were heard. Then: “Why did I call you, Trygve Yamamura? For help? What help is there now? You don’t even know that we don’t understand afterward. Were those pigs that I heard grunting in the forest, and did she come behind them in a black cloak? I’m all alone.”

  And presently: “Something must be left. I read somewhere once that you don’t die in a piece. The last and lowest cells work on for hours. I guess that’s true. Because you’re still real, Trygve Yamamura.” Anther pause, as if for the thoughtful shaking of a weary head. “Yes, that must be why I called. What became of me, no, that’s of no account any more. But the others. They won’t stay real for very long. I had to call while they are, so you can help them. Come.”

  “Cardynge,” Yamamura mumbled.

  “No,” said the voice. “Goodbye.”

  The instrument clicked off. Briefly the thin screaming continued along the wires, and then it too died, and nothing remained but the weight in Yamamura’s hand.

  He became conscious of the storm that dashed against the windows, fumbled around and snapped the lamp switch. The bedroom sprang into existence: warm yellow glow on the walls, mattress springy beneath him and covers tangled above, the bureau with the children’s pictures on top. The clock said 1:35. He stared at the receiver before laying it back in its cradle.

  “Whoof,” he said aloud.

  Had he dreamed that call? No, he couldn’t have. As full awareness flowed into him, every nerve cried alarm. His lanky, thick-chested frame left the bed in one movement. Yanking the directory from its shelf below the stand, he searched for an address. Yes, here. He took the phone again and dialed.

  “Berkeley police,” said a tone he recognized.

  “Joe? This is Trig Yamamura. I think I’ve got some trouble to report. Client of mine just rang me up. Damndest thing I ever heard, made no sense whatsoever, but he seems to be in a bad way and the whole thing suggests—” Yamamura stopped.

  “Yes, what?” said the desk officer.

  Yamamura pinched his lips together before he said, “I don’t know. But you’d better send a car around to have a look.”

  “Trig, do you feel right? Don’t you know what’s happening outdoors? We may get a disaster call any minute, if a landslide starts, and we’ve got our hands full as is with emergencies.”

  “You mean this is too vague?” Yamamura noticed the tension that knotted his muscles. One by one he forced them to relax. “Okay, I see your point,” he said. “But you know I don’t blow the whistle for nothing, either. Dispatch a car as soon as possible, if you don’t hear anything else from me. Meanwhile I’ll get over there myself. The place isn’t far from here.”

  “M-m-m … well, fair enough, seeing it’s you. Who is the guy and where does he live?”

  “Aaron Cardynge.” Yamamura spelled the name and gave the address he had checked.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him. Medium-big importer, isn’t he? I guess he wouldn’t rouse you without some reason. Go ahead, then, and we’ll alert the nearest car to stop by when it can.”

  “Thanks.” Yamamura had started to skin out of his pajamas before he hung up.

  He was back into his clothes, with a sweater above, very nearly as fast, and pulled on his raincoat while he kicked the garage door open. The wind screeched at him. When he backed the Volkswagen out, it trembled with that violence. Rain roared on its metal and flooded down the windshield; his headlights and the rear lamps were quickly gulped down by night. Through everything he could hear how water cascaded along the narrow, twisting hill streets and sheeted under his wheels. The brake drums must be soaked, he thought, and groped his way in second gear.

  But the storm was something real to fight, that cleansed him of vague horrors. As he drove, with every animal skill at his command, he found himself thinking in a nearly detached fashion.

  Why should Cardynge call me? I only met him once. And not about anything dangerous. Was it?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cardynge,” Yamamura said. “This agency doesn’t handle divorce work.”

  The man across the desk shifted in his chair and took out a cigaret case. He was large-boned, portly, well-dressed, with gray hair brushed back above a rugged face. “I’m not here about that.” He spoke not quite steadily and had some difficulty keeping his eyes on the detective’s.

  “Oh? I beg your pardon. But you told me—”

  “Background. I … I’d tell a doctor as much as I could, too. So he’d have a better chance of helping me. Smoke?”

  “No, thanks. I’m strictly a pipe man.” More to put Cardynge at his ease than because he wanted one, Yamamura took a briar off the rack and charged it. “I don’t know if we can help. Just what is the problem?”

  “To find my son, I said. But you should know why he left and why it’s urgent to locate him.” Cardynge lit his cigarette and consumed it in quick, nervous puffs. “I don’t like exposing my troubles. Believe me. Always made my own way before.”

  Yamamura leaned back, crossed his long legs, and regarded the other through a blue cloud. “I’ve heard worse than anything you’re likely to have on your mind,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Cardynge’s troubled gaze sought the flat half-Oriental countenance before him. “I guess the matter isn’t too dreadful at that,” he said. “Maybe not even as sordid as it looks from the inside. And it’s nearing an end now. But I’ve got to find Bayard, my boy, soon.

  “He’s my son by my first marriage. My wife died two years ago. I married Lisette a year later. Indecent haste? I don’t know. I’d been so happy before. Hadn’t realized how happy, till Maria was gone and I was rattling around alone in the house. Bayard was at the University most of the time, you see. This would be his junior year. He had an apartment of his own. We’d wanted him to, the extra cost was nothing to us and he should have that taste of freedom, don’t you think? Afterward … he’d have come back to stay with me if I asked. He offered to. But, oh, call it kindness to him, or a desire to carry on what Maria and I had begun, or false pride—I said no, that wasn’t necessary, I could get along fine. And I did, physically. Had a housekeeper by day but cooked my own dinner, for something to do. I’m not a bad amateur cook.”

  Cardynge brought himself up short, stubbed out his cigaret, and lit another. “Not relevant,” he said roughly, “except maybe to show why I made my mistake. A person gets lonesome eating by himself.

  “Bayard’s a good boy. He did what he could for me. Mainly that amounted to visiting me pretty often. More and more, he’d bring friends from school along. I enjoyed having young people around. Maria and I had
always hoped for several children.

  “Lisette got included in one of those parties. She was older than the rest, twenty-five, taking a few graduate courses. Lovely creature, witty, well read, captivating manners. I … I asked Bayard to be sure and invite her for next time. Then I started taking her out myself. Whirlwind courtship, I suppose. I’m still not sure which of us was the whirlwind, though.”

  Cardynge scowled. His left hand clenched. “Bayard tried to warn me,” he said. “Not that he knew her any too well. But he did know she was one of the—it isn’t fashionable to call them beat any more, is it? The kind who spend most of their time hanging around in the coffee shops bragging about what they’re going to do someday, and meanwhile cadging their living any way they can. Though that doesn’t describe Lisette either. She turned out to have a good deal more force of character than that bunch. Anyhow, when he saw I was serious, Bayard begged me not to go any further with her. We had quite a fight about it. I married her a couple of days later.”

  Cardynge made a jerky sort of shrug. “Never mind the details,” he said. “I soon learned she was a bitch on wheels. At first, after seeing what happened to our joint checking account, I thought she was simply extravagant. But what she said, and did, when I tried to put the brakes on her—! Now I’m mortally certain she didn’t actually spend most of the money, but socked it away somewhere. I also know she had lovers. She taunted me with that, at the end.

  “Before then she drove Bayard out. You can guess how many little ways there are to make a proud, sensitive young man unwelcome in his own father’s house. Finally he exploded and told the truth about her, to both our faces. I still felt honor bound to defend her, at least to the extent of telling him to shut up or leave. ‘Very well, I’ll go,’ he said, and that was the last I saw of him. Four months back. He simply left town.”

  “Have you heard anything from him since?” Yamamura asked.

  “A short letter from Seattle, some while ago,” Cardynge finished his cigarette and extracted a fresh one. “Obviously trying to mend his friendship with me, if not her. He only said he was okay, but the job he’d found was a poor one. He’d heard of better possibilities elsewhere, so he was going to go have a look and he’d write again when he was settled. I haven’t heard yet. I tried to get his current address from his draft board, but they said they weren’t allowed to release any such information. So I came to you.”

  “I see.” Yamamura drew on his pipe. “Don’t worry too much, Mr. Cardynge. He sounds like a good, steady kid, who’ll land on his feet.”

  “Uh-huh. But I must locate him. You see, Lisette and I separated month before last. Not formally. We … we’ve even seen each other on occasion. She can still be lovely in every way, when she cares to. I’ve been sending her money, quite a decent sum. But she says she wants to come back.”

  “Do you want her yourself?”

  “No. It’s a fearful temptation, but I’m too well aware of what the end result would be. So she told me yesterday, if I didn’t take her back, she’d file for divorce. And you know what a woman can do to a man in this state.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m quite prepared to make a reasonable settlement,” Cardynge said. “A man ought to pay for his mistakes. But I’ll be damned if I’ll turn over so much to her that it ruins the business my son was going to inherit.”

  “Um-m-m … are you sure he really wants to?”

  “I am. He was majoring in business administration on that account. But your question’s a very natural one, though, which is also bound to occur to the courts. If Bayard isn’t here at the trial, it won’t seem as if he has much interest that needs protection. Also, he’s the main witness to prove the, the mental cruelty wasn’t mine. At least, not entirely mine—I think.” Cardynge gestured savagely with his cigarette. “All right, I married a girl young enough to be my daughter. We look at life differently. But I tried to please her.”

  Yamamura liked him for the admission.

  “I’ve no proof about the lovers,” Cardynge said, “except what she told me herself in our last fight. And, well, indications. You know. Never mind, I won’t ask anyone to poke into that. Lisette was nearly always charming in company. And I’m not given to weeping on my friends’ shoulders. So, as I say, we need Bayard’s testimony. If there’s to be any kind of justice done. In fact, if we can get him back before the trial, I’m sure she’ll pull in her horns. The whole wretched business can be settled quietly, no headlines, no—You understand?”

  “I believe so.” Yamamura considered him a while before asking gently, “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Cardynge reddened. Yamamura wondered if he was going to get up and walk out. But he slumped and said, “If so, I’ll get over it. Will you take the case?”

  The rest of the discussion was strictly ways and means. Rain pursued Yamamura to the porch of the house. Right and left and behind was only blackness, the neighborhood slept. But here light spilled from the front windows, made his dripping coat shimmer and glistened on the spears that slanted past the rail. The wind howled too loudly for him to hear the doorbell.

  But the man inside ought to—

  Yamamura grew aware that he had stood ringing for well over a minute. Perhaps the bell was out of order. He seized the knocker and slammed it down hard, again and again. Nothing replied but the storm.

  Damnation! He tried the knob. The door opened. He stepped through and closed it behind him. “Hello,” he called. “Are you here, Mr. Cardynge?”

  The whoop outside felt suddenly less violent than it was—distant, unreal, like that voice over the wire. The house brimmed with silence.

  It was a big, old-fashioned house; the entry hall where he stood was only dully lit from the archway to the living room. Yamamura called once more and desisted. The sound was too quickly lost. Maybe he went out, I’ll wait. He hung coat and hat on the rack and passed on in.

  The room beyond, illuminated by a ceiling light and a floor lamp, was large and low, well furnished but with the comfortable slight shabbiness of a long-established home. At the far end was a couch with a coffee table in front.

  Cardynge lay there.

  Yamamura plunged toward him. “Hey!” he shouted, and got no response. Cardynge was sprawled full length, neck resting across the arm of the couch. Though his eyes were closed, the jaw had dropped open and the face was without color. Yamamura shook him a little. The right leg flopped off the edge; its shoe hit the carpet with a thud that had no resonance.

  Judas priest! Yamamura grabbed a horribly limp wrist. The flesh did not feel cold, but it yielded too much to pressure. He couldn’t find any pulse.

  His watch crystal was wet. On the table stood a nearly empty fifth of bourbon, a glass with some remnants of drink, and a large pill bottle. Yamamura reached out, snatched his fingers back—possible evidence there—and brought Cardynge’s left arm to the mouth. That watch didn’t fog over.

  His first thought was of artificial respiration. Breath and heart could not have stopped very long ago. He noticed the dryness of the tongue, the uncleanliness elsewhere. Long enough, he thought, and rose.

  The storm hurled itself against silence and fell back. In Yamamura’s mind everything was overriden by the marble clock that ticked on the mantel, the last meaningful sound in the world. He had rarely felt so alone.

  What had Cardynge said, in his call?

  Yamamura started across the room to the telephone, but checked himself. Could be fingerprints. The police would soon arrive anyway, and there was no use in summoning a rescue. squad which might be needed another place.

  He returned to the body and stood looking down. Poor Cardynge. He hadn’t appeared a suicidal type; but how much does any human know of any other? The body was more carefully dressed, in suit and clean shirt and tie, than one might have expected from a man baching it. Still, the room was neat too. Little more disturbed its orderliness than a couple of butts and matches in an ashtray on the end table next the couch. N
o day servant could maintain such conditions by herself.

  Wait a bit. A crumpled sheet of paper, on the floor between couch and coffee table. Yamamura stopped, hesitated, and picked it up. Even dead, his client had a claim on him.

  He smoothed it out with care. It had originally been folded to fit an envelope. A letter, in a woman’s handwriting, dated yesterday.

  My dear Aaron—

  —for you were very dear to me once, and in a way you still are. Not least, I suppose, because you have asked me to return to you, after all the heartbreak and bitterness. And yes, I believe you when you swear you will try to make everything different between us this time. Will you, then, believe me when I tell you how long and agonizingly hard I have thought since we spoke of this? How it hurts me so much to refuse you that I can’t talk of it, even over the phone, but have to write this instead?

  But if I came back it would be the same hideous thing over again. Your temper, your inflexibility, your suspicion. Your son returning, as he will, and your inability to see how insanely he hates me for taking his mother’s place, how he will work and work until he succeeds in poisoning your mind about me. And I’m no saint myself. I admit that. My habits, my outlook, my demands—am I cruel to say that you are too old for them?

  No, we would only hurt each other the worse. I don’t want that, for you or for myself. So I can’t come back.

  I’m going away for a while, I don’t know where, or if I did know I wouldn’t tell you, because you might not stop pleading with me and that would be too hard to bear. I don’t want to see you again. Not for a long time, at least, ’til our wounds have scarred. I’ll get an attorney to settle the business part with you. I wish you everything good. Won’t you wish the same for me? Goodbye, Aaron.

  Lisette

  Yamamura stared into emptiness. I wonder what she’ll think when she learns what this letter drove him to do.

  She may even have counted on it.

  He put the sheet back approximately as he had found it, and unconsciously wiped his fingers on his trousers. In his need to keep busy, he squatted to examine the evidence on the table. His nose was keen, he could detect a slight acridness in the smell about the glass. The bottle from the drugstore held sleeping pills prescribed for Cardynge. It was half empty. Barbiturates and alcohol can be a lethal combination.