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Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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setup; yet she was as fresh and crisp-looking as a frozen lettuce leaf. “I’ve been trying the impossible and learning a great deal from it,” she said. “I’ve a suspicion that the velocity of light is not, after all, a constant. I think that there are greater speeds in the deep ultraviolet.That’s why I have this new gear-wheel light-interrupter; but it will take some close figuring. Any difference will be fractional—
very
small. I can’t do a thing until I get that new rheostat. The one I’ve got is too clumsy; I haven’t control enough. It’s like the old gag about a drugstore sandwich: the first bite and you haven’t reached the filling, the next bite and you’re past it. When they get around to delivering the new ’stat—it’s a micro-vernier, variable to three twenty-five thousandths of—”
Terry, listening vaguely, felt again that surge of impatience with her sister. Meeting Ben at the house party had filled her with plans. She was sure that if Florence and Ben ever met, they would hit it off beautifully. She was equally sure that it would take a stroke of genius—or a stick of dynamite—to pry Florence loose from her little laboratory long enough to spend a whole evening with him.
“Oh, Florrie!” she interrupted. “Don’t you
ever
want to have any fun? Work all day and most of the night, puttering around with your beams and rays and colors; if you stopped for just a
little
while you’d see what I mean …”
Florence had a very lovely laugh. “Terry, look. I haven’t been working all afternoon; can’t, until I get my rheostat. And I’m all worn out fretting about it. When it gets here,
then
I’ll have my fun … What would you like to eat?”
They both recognized that as the signal to drop the matter; and drop it they did. Florence, of course, promptly lost the subject in the maze of mathematics that constituted her own private dreamland; but Terry worried the problem tenaciously. This sort of thing had been going on too long. Why, Florrie was an old maid! Terry was frightened of that phrase …
In the next ten days Terry saw Ben Pastene four times. Each time she saw him she liked him better—for Florence, of course. Oh, of course. Ben’s tall, serious, slightly stoop-shouldered self was a bit out of her field … but then he was awfully sweet. Oh, if only Florence—but no, Florence had refused point blank to come with her and meet him, had refused even to pretty up and let Terry bring him home. Some other time, perhaps; but this new stroboscopic effect … and the convention next month; she
had
to have her paper ready;and oh, Terry darling, please don’t be such a little schemer.
Terry’s light, laughing efforts began to be just the slightest bit grim.
It came to a head one evening, with Terry standing near the foyer, instinctively choosing the one spot in the room where the lights would bring out to advantage her firm delicate profile. She had an innate dramatic sense; and in this last plea to her sister she played it for all it was worth. And the more she talked, the funnier it seemed to Florence. She had everything in the world she wanted—now that her micro-vernier rheostat had arrived!—and her beloved sister was trying to palm off one of her glamour-boys on her.
“You’re wrong, Terry,” she said steadily, when at last she could get a word in. “I
don’t
live an unhealthy life, and I am
not
determined to be a spinster. Neither am I determined to marry. Can’t you see that, you idiot? I’ve got more important things to think about!”
“Important?” shrilled her sister. “What could be more important that a husband, and a home, and—and the p-protection he could give you—” Terry was near the breaking point.
Florence’s voice was very soft. “Sweetheart, I have a home. And I don’t need protection. Now, please—”
Terry flung out of the room. “Sometimes, Florence, for a girl with so many brains, you can be un-ut-ter-ab-ly STUPID!”
very
small. I can’t do a thing until I get that new rheostat. The one I’ve got is too clumsy; I haven’t control enough. It’s like the old gag about a drugstore sandwich: the first bite and you haven’t reached the filling, the next bite and you’re past it. When they get around to delivering the new ’stat—it’s a micro-vernier, variable to three twenty-five thousandths of—”
Terry, listening vaguely, felt again that surge of impatience with her sister. Meeting Ben at the house party had filled her with plans. She was sure that if Florence and Ben ever met, they would hit it off beautifully. She was equally sure that it would take a stroke of genius—or a stick of dynamite—to pry Florence loose from her little laboratory long enough to spend a whole evening with him.
“Oh, Florrie!” she interrupted. “Don’t you
ever
want to have any fun? Work all day and most of the night, puttering around with your beams and rays and colors; if you stopped for just a
little
while you’d see what I mean …”
Florence had a very lovely laugh. “Terry, look. I haven’t been working all afternoon; can’t, until I get my rheostat. And I’m all worn out fretting about it. When it gets here,
then
I’ll have my fun … What would you like to eat?”
They both recognized that as the signal to drop the matter; and drop it they did. Florence, of course, promptly lost the subject in the maze of mathematics that constituted her own private dreamland; but Terry worried the problem tenaciously. This sort of thing had been going on too long. Why, Florrie was an old maid! Terry was frightened of that phrase …
In the next ten days Terry saw Ben Pastene four times. Each time she saw him she liked him better—for Florence, of course. Oh, of course. Ben’s tall, serious, slightly stoop-shouldered self was a bit out of her field … but then he was awfully sweet. Oh, if only Florence—but no, Florence had refused point blank to come with her and meet him, had refused even to pretty up and let Terry bring him home. Some other time, perhaps; but this new stroboscopic effect … and the convention next month; she
had
to have her paper ready;and oh, Terry darling, please don’t be such a little schemer.
Terry’s light, laughing efforts began to be just the slightest bit grim.
It came to a head one evening, with Terry standing near the foyer, instinctively choosing the one spot in the room where the lights would bring out to advantage her firm delicate profile. She had an innate dramatic sense; and in this last plea to her sister she played it for all it was worth. And the more she talked, the funnier it seemed to Florence. She had everything in the world she wanted—now that her micro-vernier rheostat had arrived!—and her beloved sister was trying to palm off one of her glamour-boys on her.
“You’re wrong, Terry,” she said steadily, when at last she could get a word in. “I
don’t
live an unhealthy life, and I am
not
determined to be a spinster. Neither am I determined to marry. Can’t you see that, you idiot? I’ve got more important things to think about!”
“Important?” shrilled her sister. “What could be more important that a husband, and a home, and—and the p-protection he could give you—” Terry was near the breaking point.
Florence’s voice was very soft. “Sweetheart, I have a home. And I don’t need protection. Now, please—”
Terry flung out of the room. “Sometimes, Florence, for a girl with so many brains, you can be un-ut-ter-ab-ly STUPID!”
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