native of Breviary Minor fifty years ago. He generously embedded it in my shoulder before I cracked his skull. Still twinges in wet weather. My shoulder, not the blade or even his putative skull. It’s yours. Methinks it might stand you in good stead where you’re going.”
Merritt’s eyes grew wet. She embraced the old polypolisologist. He felt like a sheet wrapped around sticks and ropes.
“All right, all right, on your way now. And don’t come back missing any of your delightful parts.”
Merritt threaded the scabbard onto her belt. “No, sir!”
She recounted the visit to Art that evening. He chuckled and shook his head. “Edgar’s seen a lot. But I expect he’s grown overcautious.”
Merritt wondered.
Eventually Spring came. The first week in April marked the slightly premature end to Arturo Scoria’s last class. All the preparations for their trip had been made.
Or so Merritt believed.
Art approached her late one afternoon and said, “We have a business dinner tonight. Dress nicely, because it’s at the Petaluma.”
Seated at the chic restaurant that evening, laughing and sipping champagne, Merritt knew herself to be on top of the world.
Then in strolled Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis.
They headed straight for Merritt’s table. Scoria rose to greet them heartily. Merritt found herself stuttering her hello. The pair sat down, Pivot pulling out Cady’s chair for her, and Scoria extemporized.
“Merritt, it’s like this. We really should have a medico along on this expedition, and I’ve been unable to secure one from the WMA-approved ranks. Seems the Wharton Medical Association doesn’t license its members to practice out-of-Borough. I suppose I could’ve scouted for a competent sawbones in Hakelight or elsewhere. No guarantee of success there either, though. But then I thought, we don’t need a brain surgeon for this romp, just someone reasonably competent in first aid. So I hit upon your old Borough-mate here. I like his character. He made a mistake in his choice of pals when he was starting his career, but he was blinded by his quest for knowledge. We can all empathize with that, I think. And he didn’t rat out his friends or plead ignorance. He’s smart, and he just needs a chance to rehabilitate himself, which this expedition can offer. Plus, he’s a big bruiser who looks like he can take care of himself in a punch-up. I want to bring him onboard. Do you object?”
Merritt studied Ransome Pivot’s pared-down lineaments. She sensed that all his boyish bumblepuppy innocence had been burned away, leaving him wiser and humbler, with a core of suffering. How could she refuse?
“No, of course not, Arturo.”
Cady Rachis spoke in her torch singer’s throaty purr. “You won’t have cause to regret our presence, dear.”
Merritt turned google-eyed toward Arturo, who had the good graces at least to look chagrined.
“Sex appeal and show business, Mer! The final touch! ‘Gorgeous nightclub singer lulls savages with song!’ Can’t you just see the headlines?”
Merritt fumed silently for a moment, then burst out laughing. She raised her champagne flute and said, “Vayavirunga, beware!”
The spanking-new cherry-colored and impeller-powered charabanc from Roger Kynard & Progeny was easily eighteen feet long, and featured six rows of padded bench seats.
A hired uniformed driver occupied the first row behind the steering wheel.
The second bench hosted Arturo Scoria, Durian Vinnagar and Merritt, with Merritt in the middle as buffer between the rivals.
In the third rank sat Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis, holding hands.
Balsam Troutwine lolled alone in the fourth row with easy imperiousness.
The last two benches were jammed with six bike messenger boys, looking like a family of slightly disreputable cousins.
The well-stuffed, strapped-down boot of the charabanc was laden with essential items which Scoria felt uncertain of purchasing in Hakelight.
The charabanc could make
Merritt’s eyes grew wet. She embraced the old polypolisologist. He felt like a sheet wrapped around sticks and ropes.
“All right, all right, on your way now. And don’t come back missing any of your delightful parts.”
Merritt threaded the scabbard onto her belt. “No, sir!”
She recounted the visit to Art that evening. He chuckled and shook his head. “Edgar’s seen a lot. But I expect he’s grown overcautious.”
Merritt wondered.
Eventually Spring came. The first week in April marked the slightly premature end to Arturo Scoria’s last class. All the preparations for their trip had been made.
Or so Merritt believed.
Art approached her late one afternoon and said, “We have a business dinner tonight. Dress nicely, because it’s at the Petaluma.”
Seated at the chic restaurant that evening, laughing and sipping champagne, Merritt knew herself to be on top of the world.
Then in strolled Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis.
They headed straight for Merritt’s table. Scoria rose to greet them heartily. Merritt found herself stuttering her hello. The pair sat down, Pivot pulling out Cady’s chair for her, and Scoria extemporized.
“Merritt, it’s like this. We really should have a medico along on this expedition, and I’ve been unable to secure one from the WMA-approved ranks. Seems the Wharton Medical Association doesn’t license its members to practice out-of-Borough. I suppose I could’ve scouted for a competent sawbones in Hakelight or elsewhere. No guarantee of success there either, though. But then I thought, we don’t need a brain surgeon for this romp, just someone reasonably competent in first aid. So I hit upon your old Borough-mate here. I like his character. He made a mistake in his choice of pals when he was starting his career, but he was blinded by his quest for knowledge. We can all empathize with that, I think. And he didn’t rat out his friends or plead ignorance. He’s smart, and he just needs a chance to rehabilitate himself, which this expedition can offer. Plus, he’s a big bruiser who looks like he can take care of himself in a punch-up. I want to bring him onboard. Do you object?”
Merritt studied Ransome Pivot’s pared-down lineaments. She sensed that all his boyish bumblepuppy innocence had been burned away, leaving him wiser and humbler, with a core of suffering. How could she refuse?
“No, of course not, Arturo.”
Cady Rachis spoke in her torch singer’s throaty purr. “You won’t have cause to regret our presence, dear.”
Merritt turned google-eyed toward Arturo, who had the good graces at least to look chagrined.
“Sex appeal and show business, Mer! The final touch! ‘Gorgeous nightclub singer lulls savages with song!’ Can’t you just see the headlines?”
Merritt fumed silently for a moment, then burst out laughing. She raised her champagne flute and said, “Vayavirunga, beware!”
The spanking-new cherry-colored and impeller-powered charabanc from Roger Kynard & Progeny was easily eighteen feet long, and featured six rows of padded bench seats.
A hired uniformed driver occupied the first row behind the steering wheel.
The second bench hosted Arturo Scoria, Durian Vinnagar and Merritt, with Merritt in the middle as buffer between the rivals.
In the third rank sat Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis, holding hands.
Balsam Troutwine lolled alone in the fourth row with easy imperiousness.
The last two benches were jammed with six bike messenger boys, looking like a family of slightly disreputable cousins.
The well-stuffed, strapped-down boot of the charabanc was laden with essential items which Scoria felt uncertain of purchasing in Hakelight.
The charabanc could make
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