So she left.
Benrud hesitated by the phone a bit longer. That was one pledge he wanted to keep. It was a small self-indulgence, to call and say I love you and hang up again. But no, it wouldn’t be in his character to do that.
Horner’s knife lay by the phone. Benrud touched the broad keen blade with a fingernail. Good workmanship there, Swedish of a generation ago. Knives like that were hard to find nowadays.
Jim Horner had always done himself well.
Benrud realized that he had attempted a sigh, but it was lost in the noise of his disintegrating lungs. He left the table by the couch and moved slowly across the living room, past the bookshelves to the liquor cabinet. He and Jim had installed a small modern refrigerator within the Victorian oak, five years ago, so that there was no need to go to the kitchen for ice cubes or cold soda. Benrud remembered Horner’s large hands, holding a drink, and the quick pleasantry flung at Moira as she went by. When had the man changed? Or had he ever, really? Remembering impulses of violence within himself, from time to time, as they occur in all men, Benrud wondered. And he had been a quiet, bookish sort. So perhaps Horner, who pursued mountain goats, had always had his calculating side.
Benrud filled two glasses with ice, splashed in whisky, and set one on an occasional table by the Morris chair for Horner. The other one, he held. We two have the same tastes in liquor, at least, he thought. And then: But there’s no “at least” about it. We have also worked with the same metal, and laughed at the same jokes, and sailed the same boat, and, I rather suspect, continued to love the same woman.
His books reminded him that he had wanted to re-read a few favorite passages, and for a moment the wish was so great (he could put the B Minor Mass on at the same time) that he almost cancelled his project. But no, he thought, I’m too tired to get the best out of anything.
A small jag of pain went through his chest.
The doorbell buzzed. Only a short walk separated this house from Horner’s flat. Benrud opened. His partner stood framed in a warm night, a few cars passing in the street behind, other houses and then a downward swoop to the glittering cities below, to the Bay and the bridges to San Francisco.
“Hi,” said Horner. He came in and closed the door behind him. I wonder if he already thinks of this house as his? thought Benrud. “Did you say something about a drink?”
“Over there.” Benrud nodded toward the table.
The big man crossed the room with the muscular gait that identified him two blocks away. Benrud worried that he might see the knife by the couch, but he didn’t. I worry too much, Benrud told himself, that was always my weakness; I have done more planning than doing. Though my plans have therefore come to grief less often than Jim’s. But then, he would say he got more fun out of life, even out of the collapses.
Horner sat down, the chair creaked comfortably under him, and lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said. One-handed, he got out a cigarette and flipped a paper match into flame.
Benrud took the couch. He drank his own whisky fast, no longer needing courage, but wishing for consolation. Homer rested eyes upon him with the steadiness of a big game hunter.
“What’d you call me over for?” he asked.
“Oh … miscellaneous.” Benrud pointed to the knife on the phone table. “I borrowed this when I was over at your place the other day.”
“Well … Horner was startled. “Why, that’s my pet. You didn’t ask me?”
“Sorry. I haven’t been feeling well. It slipped my mind.”
“You’re not a well man, Harry,” said Horner. He paused, then, slowly: “Why don’t you tell me what the doctor told you?”
“I’ve explained—”
“Guff. It’s okay to keep Moira from worrying, but I’m your partner. Remember? We founded the Metallurgical Research Laboratory together. I’ve got a vested interest in your health, Harry.”
Benrud thought back across two decades of acquaintanceship. They had been good years, his and Jim’s; Moira’s never-quite-explainable choice of him had not come between them; the lab, started right after the war, had prospered; and more important, the work had been one long happy hunting trip through Crystal Land, the comradeship of steaks fried over a Bunsen burner at three in the morning when a hoped-for reaction had just completed itself … Whatever came afterward, he had had that much.
“You could get along without me,” he said.
“Oh, sure, by now, with things running smoothly and a bright young staff. Go ahead and take that vacation, as long a one as you need.” Horner tapped the ash from his cigarette and gazed out of narrowed eyes. “But I still wish you’d tell me what’s really the matter with you.”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Benrud, “that’s what I called you over for tonight.”
Horner waited.
“Beryllium poisoning,” said Benrud.
“What?” Horner barked it out, straightening with a jerk that almost upset the ash tray.
“Lethal dose,” said Benrud. “Lungs shot full of granulomata, and the ulceration spreading, faster than any previous case on record, I’m told.”
“Oh, no,” whispered Horner.
“Evidently I breathed one hell of a lot of beryllium dust, several months back,” said Benrud.
He finished his drink, got up and went to the liquor cabinet and made himself another. For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the clink, splash, and gurgle; and from outside, where the Bay gleamed, the somehow lonesome noise of passing automobiles.
“But—for God’s sake, man—!”
“Naturally, the doctor wants me to go to the hospital,” said Benrud. “I can’t see that. Can you, Jim? There isn’t any cure. It’ll just be to lie there, coughing, and spending thousands of dollars.”
“Judas priest, Harry!” Horner surged to his feet and stood spraddled-legged, as if to fight. “If that’s what’s worrying you, Judas priest, I’ve got money!”
“So have I,” admitted Benrud in a careful voice. “And the lab itself is such a good business, it can afford to pay for me. But can my family emotionally afford the months, maybe the year or two, it will take me to die? Can I?”
“Harry,” mumbled Horner, “are you sure? Doctors do make mistakes. I can’t see how—”
“I analyzed some of my own sputum, too,” said Benrud.
He went back to his seat. Sleeplessness was now only a taste in his mouth; his mind was a high awareness. He had never before noticed the variations of hue on his own hand, or the feel of his shoes along the carpet. But his back ached and was grateful for the couch.
“Sit down, Jim,” he said.
The big man lowered himself. They were quiet. Horner seemed to grow aware of the cigarette smoldering between his fingers; he swore under his breath and took a hard puff. His free hand raised the whisky glass for a swallow. Benrud heard the gulp across the room.
He smiled. “I’ve never been a sentimentalist, or religious,” he said. “Our life is a result of some chemical accidents a billion years ago, and it’s all we’ve got, and we’re not obliged to keep it if another accident has made it useless.”
Horner wet his lips. “The Golden Gate Bridge?” he asked harshly.
Benrud shrugged. “I’ll find a suitable method.”
“But—I mean—”
“Let’s talk business now,” said Benrud. “We can blubber later. Moira inherits my share, of course, but she has no scientific sense whatsoever. You’ll look after her interests, and the children’s, won’t you?”
“Yes,” whispered Horner. “God, yes, I will.”
“You know,” said Benrud, “I’m actually inclined to believe that. And you’re still in love with her. Why else haven’t you married, all these years? You might make the kids a reasonably good stepfather.”
“Now, wait—” began Horner. “Wait, this is no time for—” He sat back. “Okay,” he sighed. “Talk as you like, Harry.”
Benrud scowled at his glass. “The trouble is,” he continued, �
�I’ve misjudged character before. I could so easily misjudge it again. You might make a great husband and a fiend of a stepfather. I’ve never liked to take chances.”
He glanced quickly up at Horner. The heavy face had reddened, and one fist had closed tight. But the man held back speech.
“As you say,” Benrud reminded him, “our very capable staff could maintain the lab without either of us.”
Horner sat up straight again. His tone was cracked in the middle. “What are you getting at?”
Benrud rolled a sip of whiskey on his tongue. Noble stuff, he thought. If the Celts had done nothing else, they had contributed whisky, James Stephens, and Hamilton’s canonical equations. That was enough beauty for any race to give the world.
“When I realized what my trouble was,” he said, “my first act was to make a thorough search for the cause. You remember that, don’t you? I didn’t admit that I was looking for beryllium dust exactly, but I did have every bin and respirator and everything else I could think of checked. A good idea in any event. We do keep some deadly things on hand.” He paused. “I didn’t find anything wrong.”
“Well, it must have been some freak accident,” said Horner. He had recovered coolness—if, indeed, he had ever really lost it.
“Methodical people like me seldom have freak accidents,” declared Benrud, “though to be sure the police would have to accept such an explanation, after all this time.”
“But what else—Harry, you know how sorry I am about this, but if you insist on talking about the cause, then what else might have done it?”
“I wondered,” said Benrud. “Then I remembered the time several months ago when I had one of my periodic sore throats, and you urged me to try a spray some Los Angeles chemist was experimenting with, and gave me anatomizer full of it. Cloudy stuff. I wouldn’t have seen colloidal particles.”
Horner had already leaped back to his feet, the glass falling and ice cubes bouncing across the rug. “What the hell did you say!” he shouted.
“I remembered your insistence that I keep with it till the atomizer was exhausted, even though my throat cleared up well before,” said Benrud. “And afterward you asked for the atomizer back. Now what’s a two-bit gadget like that to you?”
“For God’s sake,” whispered Horner. “You’re out of your head.”
“Perhaps.” Benrud took another long swallow. He was careful not to move. The big man could tie him in knots, if need be. “Why did you want that atomizer back?” he asked. “Where is it now? Who is this chemist friend of yours and what’s his address?”
“I—Look here, Harry, you’re sick. Let me help you to bed.”
“Give me the guy’s name and address,” said Benrud, smiling a little. “I’ll write, and if he answers I’ll beg your humble pardon.”
“He died,” said Horner. He stood with fists hanging at his sides, looking straight at the other man without blinking much. His voice fell flatly.
“Well, tell me his name and address anyway. Alive or dead, this thing can be checked up on, you know. After all, Jim, I want to be sure about my family’s future protector.”
Horner smacked one fist into an open palm. His mouth stretched to show the large wellcared-for teeth. Horner had always been uncommon fond of his own excellent body. “I tell you, you’re delirious,” he said. He stood for a moment, thinking. Then, abruptly: “What is it you want?”
“Proof about that chemist.”
“What chemist? Nobody mentioned any chemist. You’re sick and imagining things.”
Benrud sighed. He was suddenly very tired again.
“Let’s not go through that rigmarole,” he said. “I know what a fever feels like. I haven’t got one.”
Horner stood motionless, the loose sports shirt wrinkling as he breathed in and out, effortlessly in his health. He said at last, looking away: “You might as well forget it, Harry. It couldn’t be proven, you know.”
“I know,” said Benrud. “If I spoke, you could convince Moira that my brain had gone as rotten as my lungs. I don’t want her to remember me like that.”
Horner sat down once again. Benrud would have found it easier to go on had the man shown a flicker of dark enjoyment, but his face might have looked across any midnight poker table, in any of the games they had had. Benrud coughed, it ripped within him, and he hoped he could get this over with soon.
“I’m sorry,” said Horner in a dull tone. Perhaps he even meant it.
“So am I,” wheezed Benrud. Presently: “But I’m human enough to want some revenge. It would be nice to convict you. California uses the gas chamber for premeditating murderers—exquisitely sadistic. Not to mention all the prior annoyances. You would never plead guilty, no matter how bad it looked; you’d suffer all the procedure.”
“Because I’m not guilty,” said Horner.
“If you’re not, then answer my questions.”
“Oh, forget it! I’m going home.”
“One minute,” said Benrud. “How do you know I haven’t poisoned your whisky?”
Horner sat altogether still. The color drained from him.
“As I was saying, Jim,” said Benrud, “you’re a fighter. And, I now believe, an ultimate sort of egotist, pleasant enough, companionable enough, but when all the cards are down you are a man who doesn’t believe that anything but himself really exists. So you’ll put up a fight, if charged with murder. No guilty plea, nothing so helpful, to earn a lesser sentence. And you’ll sit in the chair holding your breath till your lungs can’t stand it any longer.”
“Did you poison it?” mumbled Horner.
“Motives can be found easily enough, of course,” said Benrud.
Sweat glistened like oil on Horner’s face.
“Money, jealousy. You could have—”
“Did you poison that drink?” Horner asked like an old man.
“No,” said Benrud. “I don’t want Moira to remember me that way, either. Or even as a suicide.”
He stood up. Horner rose too, shivering a little, though the night was summery. Benrud picked up the knife with some care. His own fingerprints on it wouldn’t matter, for Horner’s were certainly there in abundance.
The big man achieved a grin. “You dying shrimp,” he said, “do you seriously expect you can hurt me?”
“Not that way,” said Benrud.
He had looked up the right place to cut, and the knife entered and slashed the abdominal aorta with much less pain than he expected. Horner yelled and plunged across the room. Blood smeared across his hands. Benrud fended him off with a kick. He lurched backward. The dropped glass crunched under his shoe and he knocked over the occasional table.
Benrud dialed O. “Operator!” he gasped. “Police. I’m being attacked, Jim Horner is attacking me, Jim Horner, this is Harry Benrud and I’m—”
Horner caromed into him again. The phone toppled to the floor. It would take awhile to trace the call and for the police to arrive. Long enough for a weakened man to die. Benrud lay back and let the darkness have him.
—Poul and Karen Anderson
In Memoriam: Henry Kuttner
(Los Angeles, 1914—Santa Monica, February 4, 1958)
Tomorrow and tomorrow bring no more
Beggars in velvet, blind mice; pipers’ sons;
The fairy chessmen will take wing no more
In shock and clash by night where fury runs.
A gnome there was, whose paper ghost must know
That home there’s no returning—that the line
To his tomorrow went with last year’s snow.
Gallegher Plus no longer will design
Robots who have no tails; the private eye
That stirred two-handed engines, no more sees.
No vintage seasons more, or rich or wry,
That tantalize us even to the lees;
Their mutant branch now the dark angel shakes
And happy endings end when the bough breaks.
—KAREN ANDERSON
CY
RIL M. KORNBLUTH
(D. March 1958)
Yours not this August; yours no set of days
Demarked by solstice or by lunar phase;
Yours, now unalmanacked Eternity.
Takeoff to everywhere and everywhen,
To space-time spread continuous in your ken;
Cosmos and atom ranged in unity.
The explorers of the variousness of life,
Their growth and death, their thought and love and strife,
All are yourself, and you are all who be.
We living yet in days and limits make
Each what he can of what ways he can take
That share of glory which you made him see.
—Karen Anderson
A FEAST FOR THE GODS
A strong, loud wind drove grizzly clouds low above Oceanus. The waves that rumbled before it were night-purple in their troughs, wolf-gray on their crests, and the foam lacing them blew off in a salt mist of spindrift. But where Hermes hurried was a radiance like sunlight.
Otherwise the god willed himself invisible to mortals. This required him to skim the water, though damp and the gloom of a boreal autumn were not to his liking. He had started at a sunny altitude but descended after his third near collision with an aircraft.
I should have inquired beforehand, he thought, and then: Of whom? Nobody lives in this islandless waste.— Well, someone could have told me, someone whose worshipers still ply the seas.
Or I should have reasoned it out for myself, he continued, chagrined since he was supposed to be the cleverest of the Olympians. After all, we see enough flyers elsewhere, and hear and smell them. It stands to reason mortals would use them on this route.
But so many!
The ships, too, had multiplied. They were akin to those engine-driven vessels which Hermes often observed on the Midworld. He sighed for the white-winged stateliness of the last time he passed this way, two centuries ago.
However, he was not unduly sentimental. Unlike most gods, including several in his own pantheon, he rather enjoyed the ingenuity of latter-day artisans. If only they were a bit less productive. They had about covered the earth with their machines and their children; they were well along toward doing likewise for the great deep, and the firmament was getting cluttered.
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