"Won't you grant me a few moments, my dear young lady? I am old and like the sparkle of young folk's company. I get very little of it. Please." He nudged them gently into his office, and seated them. Then he ordered lemonade and cookies sent in, offered them cigarettes, and lit a cigar.
Forty minutes later Ed listened entranced, while Betty was quite evidently acutely nervous and anxious to leave, as the doctor spun out a story concerning his adventures as a young man in Tierra del Fuego. When the doctor stopped to relight his cigar, she stood up.
"Doctor, - we really must leave. Couldn't we hear the rest tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? There will not be time tomorrow."
"But you haven't time today either. Your secretary has rung five times."
"Couldn't you spare me just a few more minutes?"
"I really can't today, doctor. I have an appointment. There is someone waiting for me."
"There is no way to induce you?"
"I'm afraid not. Come, Ed."
After they had gone, the doctor stepped to the window and stared out over the city. Presently he picked out two tiny figures as they left the office building. He watched them hurry to the corner, wait for the lights to change, then start across the street. When they were part way across, there came the scream of a siren. The two little figures hesitated, started back, stopped, and turned. Then the car was upon them. As the car slammed to a stop, they showed up from beneath it, no longer two figures, but simply a limp unorganized heap of clothing.
Presently the doctor turned away - from the window. Then he picked up his phone, and spoke to his secretary.
"Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.... No... No one... I don't care; cancel them." Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long after dark he held it, still unlighted.
Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet's luncheon spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.
Somewhat later he let a few drops of fiori d'Alpini roll around his tongue and trickle down his throat. The heavy fragrant syrup warmed his mouth, and reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed. It - had been a good meal, an exquisite meal and had justified the exotic liqueur. His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hail and the dining room door was pushed open.
"Madonna! Non si puo entrare! The Master is eating!"
"Never mind, - Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You ..may go." Pinero faced the surly - faced spokesman of the intruders. "You have business with me; yes?"
"You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense."
"And so?"
The caller did not answer at once. A smaller dapper individual moved out from behind him and faced Pinero.
"We might as well begin." The chairman of the committee placed a key in the lock - box and opened it. "Wenzell, will you help me pick out today's envelopes?" He was interrupted by a touch on his arm. - "Dr. Baird, you are wanted on the telephone."
"Very well. Bring the instrument here."
When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello.... Yes; speaking.... What? .. No, we have beard nothing... Destroyed the machine, you say.... Dead! How?.... No! No statement. None at all.... Call me later...."
He slammed the instrument down - and pushed it from him.
"What's up? Who's dead now?"
Baird held up one hand. "Quiet, gentlemen, please!
Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home."
"Murdered?!"
"That isn't all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed his apparatus." -
No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.
Finally one spoke up. "Get it out."
"Get what out?"
"Pinero's envelope. It's in there too. I've seen it."
Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and scanned it.
"Well? Out with it!"
"One thirteen p.m. - today."
They took this in silence.
Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching for the lock - box. Baud interposed a hand.
"What do you want?"
"My prediction - it's in there - we're all in there."
"Yes, yes. We're all in here. Let's have them."
Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His hands shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.
"You're right, of course," he said.
"Bring me that waste basket." Baird's voice was low and strained but steady.
He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.
"I'm afraid I've ruined this table top."
FOREWORD
For any wordsmith the most valuable word in the English language is that short, ugly, Anglo - Saxon monosyllable: No!!! It is one of the peculiarities in the attitude of the public toward the writing profession that a person who would never expect a free ride from a taxi driver, or free groceries from a market, or free gilkwoks from a gilkwok dealer, will without the slightest embarrassment ask a professional writer for free gifts of his stock in trade.
This chutzpah is endemic in science fiction fans, acute in organized SF fans, and at its virulent worst in organized fans - who - publish - fan - magazines.
The following story came into existence shortly after I sold my first story - and resulted from my having not yet learned to say No!
"Anyone who considers protocol unimportant has never dealt with a cat."
- L. Long
SUCCESSFUL OPERATION
"How dare you make such a suggestion!"
The State Physician doggedly stuck by his position. "I would not make it, sire, if your life were not at stake. There is no other surgeon in the Fatherland who can transplant a pituitary gland, but Doctor Lans."
"You will operate!"
The medico shook his head. "You would die, Leader. My skill is not adequate."
The Leader stormed about the apartment. He seemed about to give way to one of the girlish bursts of anger that even the inner state clique feared so much. Surprisingly he capitulated.
"Bring him here!" he ordered.
Doctor Lans faced the Leader with inherent dignity, a dignity and presence that three years of "protective custody" had been unable to shake. The pallor and gauntness of the concentration camp lay upon him, but his race was used to oppression. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see ... I can perform that operation. What are your terms?"
"Terms?" The Leader was aghast. "Terms, you filthy swine? You are being given a chance to redeem in part the sins of your race!"
The surgeon raised his brows. "Do you not think that I know that you would not have sent for me had there been any other course available to you? Obviously, my services have become valuable.
"You'll do as you are told! You and your kind are lucky to be alive."
"Nevertheless I shall not operate without my fee." "I said you are lucky to be alive - " The tone was an open threat.
Lans spread his hands, did not answer.
"Well - I am informed that you have a family..."
The surgeon moistened his lips. His Emma - they would hurt his Emma... and his little Rose. But he must be brave, as Emma would have him be. He was playing for high stakes - for all of them. "They cannot be worse off dead," he answered firmly, "than they are now.