Read Online I Will Fear No Evil by Robert Heinlein - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Heinlein
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a Circle is never to join it. Especially a Seven Circle. Did you promise? I can grit my teeth and smile if I have to.”
“No. Told him had to see you, tell him tomorrow.”
“Well? What do you want me to say, dearest?”
“I’ll tell him No.”
“Dearest, I don’t think you answered me. Is there some special reason you want us in this Seven? An art critic perhaps? Or a dealer? If it’s Gigi you have on your mind, why not ask her to model some daytime while I’m working? She’d be up here at once, her tail quivering—I’ve seen her eyeing you.”
He shook his head and grinned. “Nyet, Yvette. Believe, lass—I stalled Big Sam because possible you wanted to join in. But Big Sam chills me too—bad aura.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved! I’ll swing, darling; I promised you that when I asked you to marry me. And I have, the few times you’ve wanted to. And most were fun and only one struck me as boring. But I like to size up the players.”
“Grab pizza, climb throne. Paint legs while you eat.”
“Yes, darling.” She mounted the model’s throne with a wedge of pizza in each hand; there followed a long period broken only by sounds of chomping, and of low profanity that punctuated his alternating pleasure and exasperation. Neither noticed either; Joe Branca was deep in the euphoria of creation, his wife was immersed in the warm glow of being cherished.
At last he said, “Down,” and offered his hand.
“May I look?”
“No. Ribs and tits now. Don’ raise arms yet. Want to study them.”
“As if you didn’t know every wrinkle.”
“Shut up. What to think about how to paint ’em in the morning.” Presently he said, “Been thinking maybe you crowd Boss too hard with only a gee-panty. Solved now.”
“So?”
“Da. Paint a bra on you.”
“But wouldn’t that spoil it, dear? Mermaids don’t wear bras.”
“Was problem. Bad empathy. So use sea shells. Flat curved kind with nubbly backs. You know.”
“Sorry but I don’t, dear. Sea shells are scarce in Iowa.”
“No matter. Sea shells fix bad empathy, symbols all match.” He grinned. “Pretty one, I’ll paint sea-shell bra cups so fool-the-eye that Boss won’ know for sure. He’ll spend day trying to see whether is real bra or just paint. If he breaks down and asks—I win.”
She gurgled happily. “Joe, you’re a genuis!”
4
As Dr. Boyle came out of the operating theater Mr. Salomon stood up. “Doctor!”
Boyle checked his impatient strides. “Oh. You again. Go to hell.”
“No doubt I will. But wait a moment, Doctor.”
The surgeon answered with controlled fury: “Listen, chum—I’ve been operating eleven hours with one short break. By now I hate everybody, especially you. So let me be.”
“I thought perhaps you could use a drink.”
The surgeon suddenly smiled. “Where’s the nearest pub?”
“About twenty yards from here. In my car. Parked on this floor. Stocked with Australian beer, both cold and room temperature. And other things. Whisky. Gin. Name it.”
“My word, you Yahnk barstahds do know how. Right. But I must change first.” Again he turned away.
Salomon again stopped him. “Doctor, I took the liberty of having your street clothes packed into your bag and placed in my car. So let’s have that drink at once.”
Boyle shook his head and grinned. “You do take liberties—too right. Very well, if you can stand the stink, I’ll tub and change at my hotel. ‘Lay on, MacDuff!’ ”
Salomon let it go at that until they were locked into his car and he had poured beer for them—the authentic kangaroo kick for the surgeon, a much weaker American brew for himself; he had tangled with Australian beer in his youth and was wary. The big car started smoothly and continued so; Rockford had been warned that drinking might take place in the passenger compartment.
Salomon waited until his guest had half a glass down him and had sighed in relief. “Doctor, how did it go?”
“Eh? Smoothly. We had
“No. Told him had to see you, tell him tomorrow.”
“Well? What do you want me to say, dearest?”
“I’ll tell him No.”
“Dearest, I don’t think you answered me. Is there some special reason you want us in this Seven? An art critic perhaps? Or a dealer? If it’s Gigi you have on your mind, why not ask her to model some daytime while I’m working? She’d be up here at once, her tail quivering—I’ve seen her eyeing you.”
He shook his head and grinned. “Nyet, Yvette. Believe, lass—I stalled Big Sam because possible you wanted to join in. But Big Sam chills me too—bad aura.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved! I’ll swing, darling; I promised you that when I asked you to marry me. And I have, the few times you’ve wanted to. And most were fun and only one struck me as boring. But I like to size up the players.”
“Grab pizza, climb throne. Paint legs while you eat.”
“Yes, darling.” She mounted the model’s throne with a wedge of pizza in each hand; there followed a long period broken only by sounds of chomping, and of low profanity that punctuated his alternating pleasure and exasperation. Neither noticed either; Joe Branca was deep in the euphoria of creation, his wife was immersed in the warm glow of being cherished.
At last he said, “Down,” and offered his hand.
“May I look?”
“No. Ribs and tits now. Don’ raise arms yet. Want to study them.”
“As if you didn’t know every wrinkle.”
“Shut up. What to think about how to paint ’em in the morning.” Presently he said, “Been thinking maybe you crowd Boss too hard with only a gee-panty. Solved now.”
“So?”
“Da. Paint a bra on you.”
“But wouldn’t that spoil it, dear? Mermaids don’t wear bras.”
“Was problem. Bad empathy. So use sea shells. Flat curved kind with nubbly backs. You know.”
“Sorry but I don’t, dear. Sea shells are scarce in Iowa.”
“No matter. Sea shells fix bad empathy, symbols all match.” He grinned. “Pretty one, I’ll paint sea-shell bra cups so fool-the-eye that Boss won’ know for sure. He’ll spend day trying to see whether is real bra or just paint. If he breaks down and asks—I win.”
She gurgled happily. “Joe, you’re a genuis!”
4
As Dr. Boyle came out of the operating theater Mr. Salomon stood up. “Doctor!”
Boyle checked his impatient strides. “Oh. You again. Go to hell.”
“No doubt I will. But wait a moment, Doctor.”
The surgeon answered with controlled fury: “Listen, chum—I’ve been operating eleven hours with one short break. By now I hate everybody, especially you. So let me be.”
“I thought perhaps you could use a drink.”
The surgeon suddenly smiled. “Where’s the nearest pub?”
“About twenty yards from here. In my car. Parked on this floor. Stocked with Australian beer, both cold and room temperature. And other things. Whisky. Gin. Name it.”
“My word, you Yahnk barstahds do know how. Right. But I must change first.” Again he turned away.
Salomon again stopped him. “Doctor, I took the liberty of having your street clothes packed into your bag and placed in my car. So let’s have that drink at once.”
Boyle shook his head and grinned. “You do take liberties—too right. Very well, if you can stand the stink, I’ll tub and change at my hotel. ‘Lay on, MacDuff!’ ”
Salomon let it go at that until they were locked into his car and he had poured beer for them—the authentic kangaroo kick for the surgeon, a much weaker American brew for himself; he had tangled with Australian beer in his youth and was wary. The big car started smoothly and continued so; Rockford had been warned that drinking might take place in the passenger compartment.
Salomon waited until his guest had half a glass down him and had sighed in relief. “Doctor, how did it go?”
“Eh? Smoothly. We had
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