boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

274 Anthony Boucher
She opened her generous mouth. Now the face which had begun to seem oddly
beautiful to Arthur was distorted into a comedy mask; he leaned forward and peered,
honestly interested professionally in this odd physiological fact. (For one instant even
the corner of his eye was observing nothing but a singular uvula.)
“And does this Marchesi sing well?” the baritone asked.
“Perfectly,” said the Parva.
“I’ll agree,” Arthur added. “But I’m not sure that’s a desideratum. The voice is
free of human errors—and of humanity.” (If I were Harden … He could have switched
them then; if he did I should switch back. But is he counting on that? Did he leave them
alone so that I would switch them back and feed myself whatever he’s slipped in there?)
“Freedom from errors,” the girl said a trifle sharply, “should be humanity’s
goal.”
“Please! Let’s stay away from politics and keep to music.” (Or is it indeed my turn
to switch anyway? Where is it now ? First he … Then …)
The girl’s glass was empty. “Gentlemen, neither of you’s even sipped his drink.
And I shouldn’t have had two Deimoses; they’re too sweet. I want a taste of whisky
to clean my mouth. Which of you will be so kind?”
(Which glass is it? Which was the last switch? And if it is mine and I offer it, will
he let her … ?)
As if actuated by one control button, the two men rose, neatly upsetting the table.
The two streams of bourbon, toxic and intoxicant, mingled on the floor.
It is not within the scope of this narrative to detail the three months of the trip. That
scene in the bar was in its way typical enough.
Conversations, in and out of the bar, with Faustina Parva followed the same
pattern. The two were drawn together by their common deep devotion to singing,
and held apart by the difference in their attitudes. And at the moment when
Arthur was struggling hardest to repress a sharp retort to some philosophical echo
of Weddergren, he would find himself wondering why he had never noticed before
that she had unusually deep dimples, which lent a curious softness to an otherwise
almost severely carved face.
There was no doubt that Ivor Harden was a Populust agent, and that his singing
career was a fraud. His inadequacy as a vocalist did not prove it; some of the least
talented can be the most career-minded. But it was significant, for instance, that
he bothered to avail himself of an air lock for practice only twice in the course of
the trip.
It was also not without significance that the steward reported his presence in
Arthur’s corridor just before the incident of the Martian sand adder in the bedclothes,
and that he had left his palmprints on the cargo box which so nearly decapitated
Arthur when the captain (his warmest friend since the lock-solution) was showing
him over the hold.
Typical Populist scorn of the methodology of any science—criminalistics, in this
case—not to know that palmprints are as sure as fingerprints, nor to realize that
Arthur would long ago have unobtrusively secured all the baritone’s prints (smiling
to himself with the pleasant notion that something might be solved by means of
the big toe).