by Isaac Asimov
Tad Jarmon closed the journal and leaned back with a cold, thoughtful smile.
The Way It Is Now
by Elaine Slater
When they were first married right after graduation from college, he had never been able to spend enough time with her. They bought a small cabin in the North Woods with no communication to the outside world, and spent every weekend there, walking hand in hand, sitting by a roaring fire, lost in each other — that is, when they weren’t chopping wood or hauling water from the brook, huffing and laughing at the unaccustomed exertion.
But lately things had changed. Business commitments kept him occupied on Saturdays. He could no longer find the time to escape to the cabin. When she spoke to him, he was never quite there. His reading moved gradually from the Partisan Review to the Wall Street Journal, and endless market reports. He still sat through the arty movies — Fellini, Truffaut — but when she tried to probe their murky depths, he never contributed a word.
“Where are you?” she would ask in exasperation. “Am I talking to a stone?”
“I heard you,” he would reply, jumping slightly as though she had caught him at the cookie jar. “Your last words were precisely ‘and the dog, of course, symbolizes the eternal evil in man.’ ”
She would sigh. He was listening evidently, but still... he wasn’t all there. His mind was on other things, and not all the newly acquired luxuries that his business success brought could compensate for the loss of her young, playful, loving husband. His sense of humor seemed now to be reserved for his business associates, who told her how he broke them up at the Board meetings. He worked several nights a week and came home bone-weary. How could a man that tired exercise a sense of humor, or talk, or, for that matter, make love?
Now they had a house in the suburbs and a housekeeper. She read the magazine advertisements and decided there was a ready remedy at hand. She bathed at twilight, perfumed herself, donned an expensive dressing gown, lit candles, and made a mixer of martinis. When he arrived home, his favorite Mozart concerto was playing. He looked mildly surprised at her outfit, commented that she smelled good, said he preferred a bourbon on the rocks to a martini which gave him indigestion, suggested more lighting over dinner because he couldn’t see what he was eating, picked up the latest Barrons Report, and fell asleep on the sofa. His own snoring woke him up and he stumbled up to the bedroom.
If she had suspected another woman, she would have had a better idea of how to fight back. But how does one fight the overwhelming commitment to Business? She read Betty Freidan and decided to get a job, but even that didn’t fill the gaping void in her life. She thought about taking a lover, and had lunch with one of the young men with whom she worked. He showed an extraordinary interest in her husband’s stock portfolio, and shuddering at the thought of a preoccupied lover, she decided she hated all men.
She began to brood. Her friends had children on whom they could vent their frustrations. She had no one. She mulled over the idea of suicide, but her other self kept calling out rebelliously.
“Why should I die? I’m perfectly capable of laughter, of life, of love! It’s he who is dead already and doesn’t know it. It’s not fair for you to kill me.”
The Evergreen Review slipped out of her lap, and she stared for a long time at her hands.
When he came home that night, she made no attempt to share with him the boring day’s activities. He didn’t seem to notice the deathly silence, although the housekeeper became so nervous that she broke a rare Minton plate. When the telephone rang just as they were having their coffee, he jumped up to answer it.
His suddenly animated voice was saying, “Harry! How did it go in Toronto? I’ve thought of nothing else all evening.” — as she walked thoughtfully upstairs.
When he came into their bedroom, he was jubilant. He caught her around the waist and shouted, “The Toronto deal is going through! Can you beat that? After two years of negotiating it’s finally going through. Bigness is the only thing that talks these days, and we’re going to be BIG! If only Harry was here right now, would I love to hear all the details. I’d—”
She interrupted him quietly. “Let’s celebrate. Let’s go to the cabin this weekend. We haven’t been there in months. The road will soon be impassable and we won’t be able to go again until spring.”
“This weekend?” He looked dubious.
“Yes — we’ll have a second honeymoon. We could find each other again.”
“Have you lost me? Or have I lost you?” he asked in his old teasing voice. “Okay, honey, if you want a second honeymoon you’ll have it. But I’ll have to cancel two meetings on Saturday. How about putting it off for a week or two?”
“No,” she said firmly.
He was too triumphant at the thought of the successful Toronto deal to argue; so on Friday they drove up to the cabin.
It was just as they had left it. No one ever came near the place. There was a pile of wood in the snow by the ax. The wood was not too wet and they quickly made a smoky fire to warm the little room.
She bounced on the squeaky brass bed a few times, and gazed about her happily. All the old warmth and affection began to return. Perhaps here they would find what they had lost. Perhaps here he would look at her again, not through her. Perhaps here he would once again be interested, if only for a weekend, in her, in her life, in her love — and forget the business world which consumed him. Yes, she was ready to settle for a weekend.
He gazed into the fireplace, at the crackling blue and orange flames. There was a distant, even wistful look on his face. She watched him tenderly, feeling the old love for that tired worn face. She sat opposite him in the shabby old chair that they had bought together in a country junk shop, and had loaded hysterically onto the pickup that he had driven in those days. The front seat was so loaded with their gear that she had ridden the whole day to the cabin seated on that chair in the back of the truck amid a clutter of second-hand household goods.
How funny that had been! Everyone on the road had turned to look, laugh, and wave. And when they arrived at the cabin after an unbelievably bumpy trip — over miles of isolated dirt roads with low overhanging branches that clawed at her face and battered the truck — she had jumped into his waiting arms. Happily he had carried her to the threshold, where he discovered he had to drop her unceremoniously in order to get at the key which was hanging on a rusty nail. They had laughed together until they couldn’t stand up, but they had clung to each other for support. Yes, clung to each other...
She was deep in nostalgia. He lifted his head and gazed at her. She gazed back into his eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. Were they as far away as hers? He started to speak, and she leaned forward, a slight smile on her lips.
“You know—” he began wistfully.
“What?” she interrupted flirtatiously.
“—Central American Tobacco has just merged with Amalgamated Biscuit.”
She buried the bloodstained ax in the snow and went back to sit by the fire — to lose herself in nostalgia before she had to go look for the shovel.
The Hot Rock
by James McKimmey
A sharp, chilling wind blew fog across London. The portly man, wearing a dark duster-length overcoat with a fur collar and a homburg fitted squarely on his bald head, closed the door of his small shop on Chandos Place and locked it. When he had escorted the mink-clad woman into the waiting cab, the fog had obliterated the gold lettering on the door of the shop, which read: Henry Thornwall Esq., Jeweler.
Henry leaned forward, patting an inside pocket to make certain that he had not, in the tension of what they were doing, forgotten his examining glass, then gave the driver an address near the Thames. He leaned back with a sigh.
Street lamps flashed against the face of his companion. She looked young from a distance, but on closer examination it was obvious that she was middle-aged, heavily made up, rich, and, right now, very excited.
She put a hand on Henry’s plump wrist, squeezing
fingers glittering with rings. “How dangerous is this, Henry?”
Henry shook his head, “I wish I knew. Madam. It’s not my... ah... accustomed... well, you know.”
“I know,” she said softly, a waver in her voice. “But the Sional, Henry!”
“Shhh.” He looked ahead at the driver.
“For twenty thousand pounds!” She tapped her large purse. “And it’s worth double that!”
“Shhh, shhh,” went Henry.
The cab moved ahead, the driver making his way through the murk as though by magic. Henry leaned sideways and put his mouth close to her ear. “It’s all happened so quickly. Tell me again what he said on the telephone.”
“He whispered, Henry,” she said softly.
“Yes, quite,” Henry nodded. “What did he whisper, then?”
“That he had the Sional Diamond and would sell it to me for twenty thousand pounds if I would meet him at the address you’ve given the driver — with the money.”
Henry nodded again. “And that name he gave himself?”
“The Cockroach.” She shuddered. “I said I’d do what he asked if I were allowed to bring you to examine the stone. But why do you suppose he has chosen me, Henry?”
Henry shrugged. “Mrs. Peter Sterling-Bahr?”
“I suppose it’s obvious, isn’t it? Peter would die if he knew. But he won’t find out. He never pays any attention to my money. Unless something happens that...”
Henry put a hand into the right pocket of his coat and pulled out a small chrome-plated pistol. It reflected lights they were passing as he checked it.
“Henry!” the woman said.
Henry returned the pistol to his pocket. “Chaps like this... I don’t know. They whisper so you can’t get a good chance at their accent so you might know something that way. They constantly run underground like sewer rats. I, well, thought it might prove comforting.”
The woman touched Henry’s hand again. “I never thought of you as being so heroic, Henry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“Madam,” Henry said gently. He smiled. Then the smile disappeared. “And we are here, I’m afraid.”
They moved toward an old warehouse in the wind-driven fog as the cab’s taillights abruptly disappeared.
“Shouldn’t we have kept him?” Mrs. Peter Sterling-Bahr asked.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Henry said. “His license may already have been observed. We wouldn’t want you followed to the hotel where you’re going to put it, you know.”
“Of course. Oh, Henry,” she said, hugging his arm, “what would I do without you?”
“Let’s, ah, complete the business first. Madam. Then...” His voice trailed away as they stopped before a closed wooden door. Henry put his hand on the latch, paused, took a breath, then opened it. There was a yellow crack of light far across a large high-ceilinged room. Henry dug into the left-hand pocket of his coat and produced a small flashlight.
“You thought of everything, didn’t you, Henry?” the woman whispered.
“I rather hope so, anyway,” Henry said as they moved forward following the small beam of light.
“I’m trembling, Henry.”
He squeezed her hand.
They arrived at the door where light was escaping below on the dusty wooden floor. Again Henry took a breath, then turned the handle. They looked in at a small figure seated at an old desk beneath a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling of a small room; long and greasy-looking hair with streaks of gray hung shoulder-length; metal-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses decorated a face that looked surprisingly boyish; the suit was wide-shouldered, gray and pin-striped; delicate hands rested on either side of a wide-brimmed fedora placed on the desk.
Henry and the woman stood in absolute silence, staring.
“Madam Sterling-Bahr?” came the throaty whisper. “I am The Cockroach.”
The woman managed to nod.
The Cockroach curled a slender finger and motioned them forward. They went to the desk and stood looking at the tinted glasses reflecting light from the bulb above. The Cockroach removed a small revolver from a pocket. The woman turned in alarm just in time to see that Henry had also gotten out his pistol. The two weapons pointed at each other.
“No nonsense, you understand,” Henry said in a controlled voice, and adoration showed in the woman’s eyes.
The Cockroach stared at the chrome pistol for some time, then drew out from a pocket a small object wrapped in velvet. The fabric was worked loose, exposing a magnificent briolette-cut diamond. The woman drew her breath in, blinking. Henry’s eyes narrowed. “May I?” he asked.
The Cockroach shrugged, and Henry carefully placed his pistol in the woman’s hand, saying, “Don’t hesitate to pull the trigger, my dear, if he should become cute in any fashion.”
“Oh, Henry,” the woman breathed, but she held the pistol firmly as Henry got out his jeweler’s loupe and fitted it to his eye and examined the stone at length. Finally he nodded. He returned it to the velvet and put away his examining glass. “Yes, indeed.” He reclaimed his pistol from the woman.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Most assuredly.”
“Money,” The Cockroach whispered.
When the transaction had been completed and the diamond was in the woman’s purse, Henry said, “Shall we, then?”
He began backing toward the door, pistol in hand, and the woman went with him. In the large outer room, they made their way through darkness. “I’d use the torch,” Henry said quietly, “but I shouldn’t want him to go out the back door of that room and up into the loft somewhere where he could shoot at it.”
“Dear God,” the woman whispered.
They finally fumbled their way outside into a shroud of cold. Then they hurried along the sidewalk. It seemed an eternity, but at last they were able to find a free cab. As they got in, Henry gave the address of a club near Piccadilly Circus. He put an arm around the woman’s fur-covered shoulders, feeling her trembling.
“Foolish place to go, rather,” he said. “Too many theatrical types, and worse. But I do have a membership.”
“Must we go there?” she asked. “Can’t I simply go straight to the hotel, then—”
He shook his head. “Beggar might be following. Best to put him off.”
“Of course,” she said. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Henry.”
“Mr. Peter Sterling-Bahr would not like that, I suspect.”
“But I shouldn’t care,” the woman said, holding Henry’s hand tightly.
They went upstairs to an informal room which hummed with conversation as members stood and sat about. Henry ordered a gin and orange for both of them. The woman sipped hers, face looking pale.
“Henry,” she said, “the Sional! In my purse!”
“Yes, Madam. We seem to have done it.”
“Not madam, Henry. Not ever again. Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth,” Henry nodded, testing the sound of it. He repeated it.
She had removed her coat, and it was spread on the sofa beside her. Her dress was black, her jewelry was notable, and her legs looked much younger than the rest of her as she crossed them and gave Henry that same look she’d shown in the warehouse near the river.
“You couldn’t go with me to the hotel?” she asked.
“I should rather like to, certainly,” he said.
“You couldn’t come after I’ve checked in — please, dear Henry!”
“I should like that, indeed, Elizabeth. But—”
“Later, then?” she said. “Some other day or night?”
“I shall require you to remember that.”
“I shall. And how do I do it at the hotel, again?”
“Ask them to put the item you have in your purse into safekeeping for the night.”
“But if I went home instead—”
He shook his head. “With your husband on business in Paris—”
“But the servants,” she said. “Surely—”
“Blighter may already be in with one of them. I would rather trust the Ritz, my dear,” he said positively. “A formidably reliable establishment. Then, tomorrow, I shall accompany you to the vault. I think we might go now, if you’ve finished your drink,” he suggested.
They returned to the street where Henry obtained yet another cab. He directed it to the misty glitter of Piccadilly Circus and said to the woman, “Much better if you get out and walk to the hotel rather than taking another cab. If someone should be following this one, they’ll continue, I think. When we next stop with the traffic, simply get out and join the crowd on the sidewalk. I’ll call you at the hotel the second I’ve gotten home.”
“I do hate leaving you, Henry.”
Henry smiled. “I hate leaving you, Elizabeth.” He touched her, then said, “Now, my dear.”
She got out swiftly and hurried toward the crowded sidewalk where neon cut through swirls of reflecting fog. The cab moved on, and Henry looked through the back window just as a small figure in a pin-striped suit, wearing tinted glasses and a wide-brimmed fedora over long greasy hair, came up to Elizabeth. An arm was put around her waist, and she was drawn toward a dark doorway. Her mouth opened as though she might be screaming, but Henry, looking away and settling back in his seat, guessed that she wasn’t making a sound.
When he reached his flat, the telephone was ringing. He lifted it, saying, “Henry Thornwall here.”
“Oh, Henry!” Mrs. Peter Sterling-Bahr said in anguish. “How could it have happened!”
“Are you all right?” he asked with concern.
“Not hurt. Not physically. But he just came up on me on the sidewalk the minute I got out of the cab. He put his arm around me and whispered he had his gun pointed at me and made me go into a doorway where he got the stone out of my purse and ran off! What could I do! It’s stolen! I couldn’t... Oh, Henry! How could he have followed us? In the fog? Two cabs? The club? And yet be there on the sidewalk, waiting... Henry?”
