“Mr. Wunch,” Miss Chittling said, “amazing things are in store for you. A galaxy of stellar bodies have centered their influence on you, and you will be most susceptible to their effect tomorrow as the sun sets.”
Wilbur tried to appear properly impressed.
“Gosh,” he said. This sounded rather inadequate so he added, “Gee.”
“It is not a light matter,” Miss Chittling informed him sternly. “You must plan now to take advantage of the friendly influence of these myriad stars that have, for some reason, interested themselves in your welfare.”
“That right nice of them,” Wilbur said politely, “but—”
“Oh, Elvira!” his wife cried, “are things really that favorable?”
“I have said,” Miss Chittling replied majestically, “that I have never seen anything like it.”
“Well,” Wilbur said cautiously, “this has been a lot of fun, but I’m kind of hungry now, so I think—”
“You stupid, miserable fool,” his wife blazed at him. “Is that all you can think about? Don’t you realize your own good fortune?”
That was easy.
“No,” said Wilbur, “I don’t.”
Miss Chittling harrumphed herself into the conversation.
“I will try and explain it to you, Mr. Wunch. When one star’s friendly influence is directed toward a person, that person is considered to be extremely fortunate or lucky. That is no doubt the origin of the expression born under a lucky star. But,” Miss Chittling paused to sniff, “there is no such thing as luck, merely stellar intervention in human affairs. But in your case, Mr. Wunch, not one, but millions of stars are interceding on your behalf.”
“What for?” Wilbur asked.
“That, I cannot answer,” Miss Chittling replied with rare modesty, “but I do know, Wilbur Wunch, that tomorrow will be a miraculously fortunate day in your life.”
“That’s fine—”
“If,” Miss Chittling rumbled imperturbably on, “you know how to take advantage of your good fortune.”
“You will help him, won’t you?” Wilhelmina said. “You will be good enough to help him, won’t you, Elvira?”
Wilbur scratched his head.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “If I’m going to be so lucky tomorrow, what do I need any help for?”
Miss Chittling smiled. “Silly boy,” she murmured, “you will be lucky tomorrow, yes. But you need someone to coordinate and concentrate the diffused star-force so that the total effect of its intercession will be felt. I can do this. I can, by special observation and interpretation, combine the loose threads of stellar influence so that your good fortune will be received in one lump, so to speak.”
“How?” asked Wilbur.
“By meteor study,” Miss Chittling declared. “I study the relation of meteorites to star-force to human destiny.”
Wilbur swallowed. “I — guess that’s logical enough,” he offered timorously.
Miss Chittling delved into the portfolio again and came up with a leather bag. The contents she emptied into her lap.
Wilbur saw that they were stones and small rock fragments of various sizes, shapes, and hues. Miss Chittling pawed through them and finally picked out three pieces of slate-gray rock about the size of ice cubes.
“What are those?” Wilbur asked uncertainly.
“Meteor fragments,” Miss Chittling explained. She seemed too busy now to talk further. She had drawn forth from the portfolio a queer contraption of steel and wires that looked somewhat like a combination of a slide-rule and grocery scale. Into a compartment she dropped a meteor fragment, and then she moved an indicator along a calibrated bar until it seemed to catch in a tiny notch. Then she removed the meteor fragment from the compartment and inserted the remaining two.
“I think this is it,” she said, spacing her words very carefully. “I think this is it.”
“Oh, Elvira,” Wilhelmina Wunch said breathlessly, “I hope you’ve found it.” In her excitement Wilhelmina’s face flushed red and white like a barber pole. Her predatory nose was hooked forward like a sharp claw and her thin chest rose and fell like a bellows.
Miss Chittling suddenly slumped against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “It is over,” she murmured throatily. “I have succeeded. These meteor fragments possess the correct equation to balance the star-forces with human destinies. Each of these fragments,” she raised the stones dramatically above her head, “are tuned to the galaxy of stars that are about to determine your fate. As the sun sets tomorrow, your stars will be in the ascendency. Make known your desires then, and they will be granted. Each stone represents an accumulation of good fortune, and for each stone a wish can be granted.”
“You mean,” Wilbur said unbelievingly, “because of the stones and the stars and everything, my wishes will be granted tomorrow?”
Miss Chittling nodded. She seemed to be spent from her exertions.
“Oh, that’s simply wonderful!” Wilhelmina cried in her crow-like voice. “Think of it! Riches, money, jewels — everything I’ve always wanted.”
The enthusiasm was contagious. “Gee,” Wilbur said happily, “I can get that fishing rod I’ve always wanted.”
“Fishing rod!” Wilhelmina’s voice was close to the cracking point. “That’s all you can think of. I will decide what we’re going to get from your wishes, and don’t you forget it.”
Wilbur felt a shivery premonition crawl up his spine. Wilhelmina, nagging and fretful, was bad enough, but Wilhelmina, grasping and greedy, would be impossible. But the faint fires of revolt had long ago been stamped out in Wilbur’s soul.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied meekly.
Miss Chittling’s plump hand fluttered before his nose. “Six dollars please,” she said, in a voice just above a whisper.
“Pay her,” hissed Wilhelmina.
Wilbur’s hand automatically dug into his pocket, but his soul writhed with injustice. He had six dollars — just six dollars — saved aside for the entrance fee in his bowling league. No money, no bowling!
He laid the money in Miss Chittling’s pink palm and watched her fingers close over it like the leaves of some flesh-eating plant.
“Thank you for the donation,” she murmured. “Now I must go. I must rest, rest.”
She handed the three stones to Wilbur and climbed heavily to her feet.
“Use your good fortune wisely,” she said as she started for the door.
Wilbur watched her leave, feeling like the man who bought the Brooklyn bridge at a “sacrifice price.” So absorbed was he that he didn’t feel the tug on his sleeve until it was repeated with sufficient force to jerk him halfway around.
His wife faced him. Her cold, hard features were stamped in a mask of greed and triumph. “Stop wool-gathering, you fool,” she snapped, “and give me those meteor fragments.”
“I should really have gone to work today,” Wilbur Wunch said plaintively the next afternoon. “I’ve never missed a day before. They’ll—”
“Oh, shut up, you miserable little worm!” Wilhelmina paced nervously up and down the length of the living room casting impatient glances at the bright afternoon sun. “Can’t you think of anything but that precious office? Can’t you think about me? You’ve never given me the things I deserved. Money, jewels, position! Other women have them, but not Wilbur Wunch’s wife. I’ve slaved and suffered and scrimped through the years, and now that you have the chance to do something for me, you worry about the office!”
She paused and glanced down at the three stone fragments in her hand. “These will give me the things I’ve always craved. You couldn’t do it, and now that you’ve got the opportunity, you’d think that you’d be happy to make amends.”