But why not stay there as long as possible? I still did not want to go to school, and that three-car-garage ambition was as dead as that Sweepstakes ticket. If World War III was about to shift to a rolling boil, there was no point in being an engineer at $6,000 or $8,000 a year in Santa Monica only to be caught in the firestorm.
It would be better to live it up, gather ye rosebuds, carpe that old diem, with dollars and days at hand, then—well, join the Marine Corps maybe, like my dad.
I refolded the paper to the “Personals” column.
They were pretty good. Besides the usual offers of psychic readings and how to learn yoga and the veiled messages from one set of initials to another there were several that were novel. Such as—
REWARD!! Are you contemplating suicide? Assign to me the lease on your apartment and I will make your last days lavish. Box 323, H-T
Or: Hindu gentleman, nonvegetarian, wishes to meet cultured European, African, or Asian lady owning sports car. Object: improving international relations. Box 107
How do you do that in a sports car?
One was ominous—Hermaphrodites of the World, Arise! You have nothing to lose but your chains. Tel. Opéra 59-09
The next one started: ARE YOU A COWARD?
Well, yes, certainly. If possible. If allowed a free choice. I read on:
ARE YOU A COWARD? This is not for you. We badly need a brave man. He must be 23 to 25 years old, in perfect health, at least six feet tall, weigh about 190 pounds, fluent English with some French, proficient with all weapons, some knowledge of engineering and mathematics essential, willing to travel, no family or emotional ties, indomitably courageous and handsome of face and figure. Permanent employment, very high pay, glorious adventure, great danger. You must apply in person, 17, rue Dante, Nice, 2me étage, appt. D.
I read that requirement about face and figure with strong relief. For a giddy moment it had seemed as if someone with a skewed sense of humor had aimed a shaggy joke right at me. Somebody who knew my habit of reading the “Personals.”
That address was only a hundred yards from where I was sitting. I read the ad again.
Then I paid the addition, left a careful tip, went to the kiosk and bought The Stars & Stripes, walked to American Express, got money and picked up my mail, and on to the railroad station. It was over an hour until the next train to Toulon, so I went into the bar, ordered a beer and sat down to read.
Mother was sorry I had missed them in Wiesbaden. Her letter itemized the children’s illnesses, the high prices in Alaska, and expressed regret that they had ever had to leave Germany. I shoved it into my pocket and picked up The Stars & Stripes.
Presently I was reading: ARE YOU A COWARD?—same ad, right to the end.
I threw the paper down with a growl.
There were three other letters. One invited me to contribute to the athletic association of my ex-college; the second offered to advise me in the selection of my investments at a special rate of only $48 a year; the last was a plain envelope without a stamp, evidently handed in at American Express.
It contained only a newspaper clipping, starting: ARE YOU A COWARD?
It was the same as the other two ads except that in the last sentence one phrase had been underlined: You must apply in person—
I splurged on a cab to rue Dante. If I hurried, there was time to untangle this hopscotch and still catch the Toulon train. No. 17 was a walk-up; I ran up and, as I approached suite D, I met a young man coming out. He was six feet tall, handsome of face and figure, and looked as if he might be a hermaphrodite.
The lettering on the door read: DR. BALSAMO—HOURS BY APPOINTMENT, in both French and English. The name sounded familiar and vaguely phony out I did not stop to figure it out; I pushed on in.
The office inside was cluttered in a fashion known only to old French lawyers and pack rats. Behind the desk was a gnomelike character with a merry smile, hard eyes, the pinkest face and scalp I’ve ever seen, and a fringe of untidy white hair. He looked at me and giggled. “Welcome! So you are a hero?” Suddenly he whipped out a revolver half as long as he was and just as heavy and pointed it at me. You could have driven a Volkswagen down its snout.
“I’m not a hero,” I said nastily. “I’m a coward. I just came here to find out what the joke is.” I moved sideways while slapping that monstrous piece of ordnance the other way, chopped his wrist, and caught it. Then I handed it back to him. “Don’t play with that thing, or I’ll shove it up your deposition. I’m in a hurry. You’re Doctor Balsamo? You ran that ad?”
“Tut, tut,” he said, not at all annoyed. “Impetuous youth. No, Doctor Balsamo is in there.” He pointed his eyebrows at two doors on the left wall, then pushed a bell button on his desk—the only thing in the room later than Napoleon. “Go in. She’s expecting you.”
“‘She’? Which door?”
“Ah, the Lady or the Tiger? Does it matter? In the long run? A hero will know. A coward will choose the wrong one, being sure that I lie. Allez-y! Vite, vite! Schnell! Get the lead out, Mac.”
I snorted and jerked open the right-hand door.
The doctor was standing with her back to me at some apparatus against the far wall and she was wearing one of those white, high-collared jackets favored by medical men. On my left was a surgeon’s examining table, on my right a Swedish-modern couch; there were stainless-steel and glass cabinets, and some framed certificates; the whole place was as up-to-date as the outer room was not.
As I closed the door she turned and looked at me and said quietly, “I am very glad that you have come.” Then she smiled and said softly, “You are beautiful,” and came into my arms.
FOUR
About a minute and forty seconds and several centuries later “Dr. Balsamo-Helen of Troy” pulled her mouth an inch back from mine and said, “Let me go, please, then undress and lie on the examining table.”
I felt as if I had had nine hours of sleep, a needle shower, and three slugs of ice-cold akvavit on an empty stomach. Anything she wanted to do, I wanted to do. But the situation seemed to call for witty repartee. “Huh?” I said.
“Please. You are the one, but nevertheless I must examine you.”
“Well…all right,” I agreed. “You’re the doctor,” I added and started to unbutton my shirt. “You are a doctor? Of medicine, I mean.”
“Yes. Among other things.”
I kicked out of my shoes. “But why do you want to examine me?”
“For witches’ marks, perhaps. Oh, I shan’t find any, I know. But I must search for other things, too. To protect you.”
That table was cold against my skin. Why don’t they pad those things? “Your name is Balsamo?”
“One of my names,” she said absently while gentle fingers touched me here and there. “A family name, that is.”
“Wait a minute. Count Cagliostro!”
“One of my uncles. Yes, he used that name. Though it isn’t truly his, no more than Balsamo. Uncle Joseph is a very naughty man and quite untruthful.” She touched an old, small scar. “Your appendix has been removed.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let me see your teeth.”
I opened wide. My face may not be much but I could rent my teeth to advertise Pepsodent. Presently she nodded. “Fluoride marks. Good. Now I must have your blood.”
She could have bitten me in the neck for it and I wouldn’t have minded. Nor been much surprised. But she did it the ordinary way, taking ten cc from the vein inside my left elbow. She took the sample and put it in that apparatus against the wall. It chirred and whirred and she came back to me. “Listen, Princess,” I said.
“I am not a princess.”
“Well… I don’t know your first name, and you inferred that your last name isn’t really ‘Balsamo’—and I don’t want to call you ‘Doc.’” I certainly did not want to call her “Doc”—not the most beautiful girl I had ever seen or hoped to see…not after a kiss that had wiped out of memory every other kiss I had ever received. No.
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She considered it. “I have many names. What would you like to call me?”
“Is one of them ‘Helen’?”
She smiled like sunshine and I learned that she had dimples. She looked sixteen and in her first party dress. “You are very gracious. No, she’s not even a relative. That was many, many years ago.” Her face turned thoughtful. “Would you like to call me ‘Ettarre’?”
“Is that one of your names?”
“It is much like one of them, allowing for different spelling and accent. Or it could be ‘Esther’ just as closely. Or ‘Aster.’ Or even ‘Estrellita.’”
“‘Aster,’” I repeated. “Star. Lucky Star!”
“I hope that I will be your lucky star,” she said earnestly. “As you will. But what shall I call you?”
I thought about it. I certainly was not going to dig up “Flash”—I am not a comic strip. The army nickname I had held longest was entirely unfit to hand to a lady. At that I preferred it to my given name. My daddy had been proud of a couple of his ancestors—but is that any excuse for hanging “Evelyn Cyril” on a male child? It had forced me to Team to fight before I learned to read.
The name I had picked up in the hospital ward would do. I shrugged. “Oh, Scar is a good enough name.”
“‘Oscar,’” she repeated, broadening the “O” into “Aw,” and stressing both syllables. “A noble name. A hero’s name. Oscar.” She caressed it with her voice.
“No, no! Not ‘Oscar’—‘Scar.’ ‘Scarface.’ For this.”
“Oscar is your name,” she said firmly. “Oscar and Aster. Scar and Star.” She barely touched the scar. “Do you dislike your hero’s mark? Shall I remove it?”
“En? Oh, no. I’m used to it now. It lets me know who it is when I see myself in a mirror.”
“Good. I like it, you wore it when I first saw you. But if you change your mind, let me know.” The gear against the wall went whush, chunk! She turned and took a long strip from it, then whistled softly while she studied it.
“This won’t take long,” she said cheerfully and wheeled the apparatus over to the table. “Hold still while the protector is connected with you, quite still and breathe shallowly.” She made half a dozen connections of tubes to me; they stuck where she placed them. She put over her head what I thought was a fancy stethoscope but after she got it on, it covered her eyes.
She chuckled. “You’re pretty inside, too, Oscar. No, don’t talk.” She kept one hand on my forearm and I waited.
Five minutes later she lifted her hand and stripped off the connections. “That’s all,” she said cheerfully. “No more colds for you, my hero, and you won’t be bothered again by that flux you picked up in the jungle. Now we move to the other room.”
I got off the table and grabbed at my clothes. Star said, “You won’t need them where we are going. Full kit and weapons will be provided.”
I stopped with shoes in one hand and drawers in the other. “Star—”
“Yes, Oscar?”
“What is this all about? Did you run that ad? Was it meant for me? Did you really want to hire me for something?”
She took a deep breath and said soberly, “I advertised. It was meant for you and you only. Yes, there is a job to do…as my champion. There will be great adventure…and greater treasure…and even greater danger—and I fear very much that neither one of us will live through it.” She looked me in the eyes. “Well, sir?”
I wondered how long they had had me in the locked ward. But I didn’t tell her so, because, if that was where I was, she wasn’t there at all. And I wanted her to be there, more than I had ever wanted anything. I said, “Princess…you’ve hired yourself a boy.”
She caught her breath. “Come quickly. Time is short.” She led me through a door beyond the Swedish-modern couch, unbuttoning her jacket, unzipping her skirt, as she went, and letting garments fall anywhere. Almost at once she was as I had first seen her at the plage.
This room had dark walls and no windows and a soft light from nowhere. There were two tow couches side by side, black they were and looking like biers, and no other furniture. As soon as the door was dosed behind us I was suddenly aware that the room was achingly, painfully anechoic; the bare walls gave back no sound.
The couches were in the center of a circle which was part of a large design, in chalk, or white paint, on bare floor. We entered the pattern; she turned and squatted down and completed one line, closing it—and it was true; she was unable to be awkward, even hunkered down, even with her breasts drooping as she leaned over.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A map to take us where we are going.”
“It looks more like a pentagram.”
She shrugged. “All right, it is a pentacle of power. A schematic circuit diagram would be a better tag. But, my hero, I can’t stop to explain it. Lie down, please, at once.”
I took the right-hand couch as she signed me, but I couldn’t let ft be. “Star, are you a witch?”
“If you like. Please, no talking now.” She lay down, stretched out her hand. “And join hands with me, my lord; it is necessary.”
Her hand was soft and warm and very strong. Presently the light faded to red, then died away. I slept.
FIVE
I woke to singing birds.
Her hand was still in mine. I turned my head and she smiled at me. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning. Princess.” I glanced around. We were still lying on those black couches but they were outdoors, in a grassy dell, a clearing in trees beside a softly chuckling stream—a place so casually beautiful that it looked as if it had been put together leaf by leaf by old and unhurried Japanese gardeners.
Warm sunshine splashed through leaves and dappled her golden body. I glanced up at the sun and back at her. “Is it morning?” It had been noonish or later and that sun ought to be—seemed to be—setting, not rising—
“It is again morning, here.”
Suddenly my bump of direction spun like a top and I felt dizzy. Disoriented—a feeling new to me and very unpleasant. I couldn’t find north.
Then things steadied down. North was that way, upstream—and the sun was rising, maybe nine in the morning, and would pass across the north sky. Southern Hemisphere. No sweat.
No trick at all—Just give the kook a shot of dope while examining him, lug him aboard a 707 and jet him to New Zealand, replenishing the Mickey Finn as needed. Wake him up when you want him.
Only I didn’t say this and never did think it. And it wasn’t true.
She sat up. “Are you hungry?”
I suddenly realized that an omelet some hours ago—how many?—was not enough for a growing boy. I sat up and swung my feet to the grass. “I could eat a horse.”
She grinned. “The shop of La Société Anonyme de Hippophage is closed I’m afraid. Will you settle for trout? We must wait a bit, so we might as well eat. And don’t worry, this place is defended.”
“‘Defended’?”
“Safe.”
“All right. Uh, how about a rod and hooks?”
“I’ll show you.” What she showed me was not fishing tackle but how to tickle fish. But I knew how. We waded into that lovely stream, just pleasantly cool, moving as quietly as possible, and picked a place under a bulging rock, a place where trout like to gather and think—the fishy equivalent of a gentlemen’s club.
You tickle trout by gaining their confidence and then abusing it. In about two minutes I got one, between two and three pounds, and tossed it onto the bank, and Star had one almost as large. “How much can you eat?” she asked.
“Climb out and get dry,” I said. “I’ll get another one.”
“Make it two or three,” she amended. “Rufo will be along.” She waded quietly out.
“Who?”
“Your groom.”
I didn’t argue. I was ready to believe seven impossible things before breakfast, so I went on catching breakfast. I let it go with two more as the last was the b
iggest trout I’ve ever seen. Those beggars fairly queued up to be grabbed.
By then Star had a fire going and was cleaning fish with a sharp rock. Shucks, any Girl Scout or witch can make fire without matches. I could myself, given several hours and plenty of luck, just by rubbing two dry clichés together. But I noticed that the two short biers were gone. Well, I hadn’t ordered them. I squatted down and took over cleaning the trout.
Star came back shortly with fruits that were applelike but deep purple in color and with quantities of button mushrooms. She was carrying the plunder on a broad leaf, like canna or ti, only bigger. More like banana leaves.
My mouth started to water. “If only we had salt!”
“I’ll fetch it. It will be rather gritty. I’m afraid.”
Star broiled the fish two ways, over the fire on a forked green stick, and on hot flat limestone where the fire had been—she kept brushing the fire along as she fed it and placed fish and mushrooms sizing where it had been. That way was best, I thought. Little fine grasses turned out to be chives, local style, and tiny clover tasted and looked like sheep sorrel. That, with the salt (which was gritty and coarse and may have been licked by animals before we got it—not that I cared) made the trout the best I’ve ever tasted. Well, weather and scenery and company had much to do with it, too, especially the company.
I was trying to think of a really poetic way of saying, “How about you and me shacking up right here for the next ten thousand years? Either legal or informal—are you married?” when we were interrupted. Which was a shame, for I had thought up some pretty language, all new, for the oldest and most practical suggestion in the world.
Old baldy, the gnome with the oversized six-shooter, was standing behind me and cursing.
I was sure it was cursing although the language was new to me. Star turned her head, spoke in quiet reproval in the same language, made room for him and offered him a trout. He took it and ate quite a bit of it before he said, in English, “Next time I won’t pay him anything. You’ll see.”