“Because I don’t want to, that’s why.”
“Well, I suppose it’s up to you,” Woresley said.
“You bet your life it’s up to me,” Yasmin said.
“Aren’t you having a good time?” I said.
“The fun’s wearing off,” she said. “In the beginning it was a lark. Terrific joke. But now all of a sudden I seem to have had enough.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’ve said it.”
“Hell.”
“What both of you seem to be forgetting,” she said, “is that every time we want the sperm of some bloody genius, I’m the one who has to go in and do the fighting. I’m the one who gets it in the neck.”
“Not in the neck,” I said.
“Stop trying to be funny, Oswald.” She sat there looking glum. A. R. Woresley said nothing.
“If you have a month’s holiday now,” I said, “will you come to America with me immediately after that?”
“Yes, all right.”
“You’re going to enjoy Rudolph Valentino.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “I think my romping days are over.”
“Never!” I cried. “You might as well be dead!”
“Romping isn’t everything.”
“Jesus, Yasmin. You’re talking like Bernard Shaw!”
“Maybe I’ll become a nun.”
“But you will come to America first?”
“I’ve already told you I would,” she said.
A. R. Woresley took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “We’ve got a remarkable collection, Cornelius, truly remarkable. When do we start selling?”
“We mustn’t hurry it,” I said. “My feeling is that we should not put any man’s sperm up for sale until after he’s dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Great men are more interesting dead than alive. They become legends when they’re dead.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Woresley said.
“We’ve got plenty of ancient ones on the list,” I said. Most of them aren’t going to last very long. I’ll bet you fifty per cent of the whole lot will be gone in five or ten years.”
“Who’s going to do the selling when the time comes?” Woresley asked.
“I am,” I said.
“You think you can manage it?”
“Look,” I said. “At the tender age of seventeen I had no trouble whatsoever in selling red pills to the French foreign minister, to a dozen ambassadors, and to just about every big shot in Paris. And just recently I have successfully sold Lady Victoria Nottingham to all the crowned heads of Europe bar one.”
“I did that,” Yasmin said. “Not you.”
“Oh no you didn’t,” I said. “King George’s letter did the selling and that was my idea. So you don’t seriously think I’m going to have any trouble selling the seeds of genius to a bunch of rich females, do you?”
“Perhaps not,” Woresley said.
“And by the way,” I said, “if I’m the one who does all the selling, I think I ought to be entitled to a bigger cut of the profits.”
“Hey!” Yasmin cried. “Now you just stop that, Oswald!”
“The agreement was equal shares all round,” Woresley said, looking hostile.
“Calm down,” I said. “I was only joking.”
“I should damn well hope so,” Yasmin said.
“As a matter of fact, I think Arthur should have the major share because he invented the whole process,” I said.
“Well, I must say that’s very generous of you, Cornelius,” Woresley said, beaming.
“Forty per cent to the inventor and thirty per cent each to Yasmin and me,” I said. “Would you agree to that, Yasmin?”
“I’m not sure I would,” she said. “I’ve worked damn hard on this. I want my one-third.”
What neither of them knew was that I had long since decided that I myself was the one who would take the major share in the end. Yasmin, after all, would never need very much. She liked to dress well and to eat good food, but that was about as far as it went. As for old Woresley, I doubted whether he’d know what to do with a large sum of money even if he had it. Pipe tobacco was about the only luxury he ever permitted himself. But I was different. The style of living to which I aspired made it absolutely necessary that I have a fortune at my fingertips. It was impossible for me to tolerate indifferent champagne or mild discomfort of any sort. The way I looked at it, the best— and by that I mean only the very best—was not nearly good enough for me.
I figured that if I gave them ten per cent each and took eighty for myself, then they ought to be happy. They would scream blue murder at first, but when they realized there was nothing they could do about it, they would soon settle down and be grateful for small mercies. Now there was of course only one way in which I could put myself in the position of being able to dictate terms to the other two. I must get possession of The Semen’s Home and all the treasures it contained. Then I must move it to a safe and secret place where neither of them could reach it. That would not be difficult. As soon as Yasmin and I had returned from America, I would hire a removal van and drive up to Dunroamin when the place was empty and make off with the precious treasure chest.
No problem.
But a bit of a dirty trick, some of you may be thinking? A bit caddish?
Rubbish, I say. You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you grab your opportunities. Charity has never begun at home. Not in my home, anyway.
“So when will you two be going to America?” A. R. Woresley asked us.
I got out my diary. “One month from now will be Saturday, the fifteenth of May,” I said. “How’s that with you, Yasmin?”
“The fifteenth of May,” she said, taking her own diary from her purse. “That seems all right. I’ll meet you here on the fifteenth. In four weeks’ time.”
“And I’ll book cabins on the Mauretania for as soon as possible after that.”
“Fine,” she said, writing the date in her diary.
“Then we’ll collar old Henry Ford and Mr. Marconi and Rudolph Valentino and all the other Yanks.”
“Don’t forget Alexander Graham Bell,” Woresley said.
“We’ll get the lot,” I said. “After a month’s rest, the old girl will be roaring to go again, you see if she isn’t.”
“Hope so,” Yasmin said. “But I do need a rest, honestly I do.”
“Where will you go?”
“Up to Scotland to stay with an uncle.”
“Nice uncle?”
“Very,” she said. “My father’s brother. He fishes for salmon.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Right now,” she said. “My train goes in about an hour. Will you take me to the station?”
“Of course I will,” I said. “I myself am off to London.” I drove Yasmin to the station and helped her into the waiting-room with her bags. “See you in exactly a month,” I said. “At Dunroamin.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“Have good hols.”
“Same to you, Oswald.”
I kissed her farewell and drove down to London. I went straight to my house in Kensington Square. I was feeling good. The great scheme was actually coming to pass. I could see myself in about five years’ time sitting with some silly rich female and her saying to me, “I rather fancy Renoir, Mr. Cornelius. I do so adore his pictures. How much does he cost?”
“Renoir is seventy-five thousand, madam.”
“And how much is a king?”
“That depends which one.”
“This one here. The dark good-looking one—King Alfonso of Spain.”
“King Alfonso is forty thousand dollars, madam.”
“You mean he’s less than Renoir?”
“Renoir was a greater man, madam. His sperm is exceedingly rare.”
“What happens if it doesn’t work, Mr. Cornelius? I mean if I don’t become pregnant?”
“You get a free go.”
“And who would actually perform the insemination?”
“A senior gynaecologist, madam. It would all be most carefully planned.”
“And my husband would never find out?”
“How could he? He’d think he’d done it himself.”
“I suppose he would, wouldn’t he?” She giggles.
“Bound to, madam.”
“It would be rather nice to have a child by the King of Spain, wouldn’t it?”