he was waiting to decide which way to go, and maybe he was waiting for me; I donât know. As I drew abreast he turned to face me.
Now, I donât want to disappoint you but I canât tell you what his face was like. All I can say is that it was as neat as the rest of him, everything about it just where it should be. He smiled.
It was like looking into a bright light, but it didnât dazzle. It was warm, like the windows of farmhouses late at night when thereâs snow. It made me smile too, the biggest, widest smile that ever happened to me, so wide that I heard a little â¦Â (ONE CLEAR
CHUCK
, AS WHEN ONE CHUCKS TO A HORSE: BUT ONLY ONE) â¦Â somewhere in my back teeth. I must have been bemused for a second or two, because when I blinked the feeling away, the man was gone. Still smiling, I got into a cab that pulled up for the light just then; I suddenly wanted to be home, next to Robin and Tandy and my wife, while I felt just that way.
As the cab started to move, I turned and looked through the rear window and I saw the man briefly, just once more. One of those poor, cowed, unhappy men had sidled up to him, and in every line of his shabby figure I recognized him and all like him, and I could all but hear the cringing voice, âDime fer a cuppa cawfee, mister?â And the last thing I saw was the reflection of that incredible smile on the manâs dirty face, as Mr. Brown Bowler Hat reached into his impossible pocket and handed the man a thick, steaming china mug of hot coffee and walked on.
I leaned back on the cushions and watched New York streaming past outside, and I thought: âWell, if this city has something for everyone, then I suppose it has in it a man who can reach into his pocket and grant anyoneâs smaller, happy-making wishes.â And then I thought, âhe has tickets and tools and cups of coffee and heaven knows what else for other people, but he apparently couldnât give me the one thing I wanted at the time, which was a little story for âPULSE.â â So here I am home again, feeling sort of nice because my wife and kids appreciate the bit of smile I brought in, but otherwise disappointed because, whatever else happened, I donât have a story for you. I guess the man in the brown bowler hat didnât have one in his pocket at the time.
Yours very truly,
                      Theodore Sturgeon
P.S. On the other hand, maybe he did.
The Half-Way Tree Murder
T HE M YRTLE B ANK H OTEL in Jamaica has a marquee built out over the blood-warm water of Kingston Harbor. It overlooks the swimming pool with its lounging, laughing bathers. Drinks are served swiftly by white-gloved waiters. It is warm and shadowed, restful and luxurious.
Cotrell, the C.I.D. man, sat there with the most extraordinary woman he had ever seen.
This had never happened to him before. He was a good manâthe Criminal Investigation Divisionâs best in the districtâand he hung doggedly to a case until he had it cracked. But at the same time he had always been able to separate business from pleasure. For weeks now he had been under the spell of Brunhilde Moot, and yet, for all her effect on him, the Half-Way Tree affair kept circling back into his mind.
He watched her while she watched the sea, the haze across the Harbor that was the wicked sunken pirate city Port Royal, the distant mountains marching up and away to meet the heavy, brazen sky. Her eyes always returned to the fishing boats which worked close inshore, and she watched them â¦Â perhaps she watched the crews, the half-naked, sweating, muscular black and brown and bronze and tan bodies as they worked.
Cotrell felt a smoky surge of distress at the thought; he shook himself angrily. He had a great deal more to do than to help an exotic brown-eyed blonde enjoy the mysteries in which she cloaked herself. And he could ill
Now, I donât want to disappoint you but I canât tell you what his face was like. All I can say is that it was as neat as the rest of him, everything about it just where it should be. He smiled.
It was like looking into a bright light, but it didnât dazzle. It was warm, like the windows of farmhouses late at night when thereâs snow. It made me smile too, the biggest, widest smile that ever happened to me, so wide that I heard a little â¦Â (ONE CLEAR
CHUCK
, AS WHEN ONE CHUCKS TO A HORSE: BUT ONLY ONE) â¦Â somewhere in my back teeth. I must have been bemused for a second or two, because when I blinked the feeling away, the man was gone. Still smiling, I got into a cab that pulled up for the light just then; I suddenly wanted to be home, next to Robin and Tandy and my wife, while I felt just that way.
As the cab started to move, I turned and looked through the rear window and I saw the man briefly, just once more. One of those poor, cowed, unhappy men had sidled up to him, and in every line of his shabby figure I recognized him and all like him, and I could all but hear the cringing voice, âDime fer a cuppa cawfee, mister?â And the last thing I saw was the reflection of that incredible smile on the manâs dirty face, as Mr. Brown Bowler Hat reached into his impossible pocket and handed the man a thick, steaming china mug of hot coffee and walked on.
I leaned back on the cushions and watched New York streaming past outside, and I thought: âWell, if this city has something for everyone, then I suppose it has in it a man who can reach into his pocket and grant anyoneâs smaller, happy-making wishes.â And then I thought, âhe has tickets and tools and cups of coffee and heaven knows what else for other people, but he apparently couldnât give me the one thing I wanted at the time, which was a little story for âPULSE.â â So here I am home again, feeling sort of nice because my wife and kids appreciate the bit of smile I brought in, but otherwise disappointed because, whatever else happened, I donât have a story for you. I guess the man in the brown bowler hat didnât have one in his pocket at the time.
Yours very truly,
                      Theodore Sturgeon
P.S. On the other hand, maybe he did.
The Half-Way Tree Murder
T HE M YRTLE B ANK H OTEL in Jamaica has a marquee built out over the blood-warm water of Kingston Harbor. It overlooks the swimming pool with its lounging, laughing bathers. Drinks are served swiftly by white-gloved waiters. It is warm and shadowed, restful and luxurious.
Cotrell, the C.I.D. man, sat there with the most extraordinary woman he had ever seen.
This had never happened to him before. He was a good manâthe Criminal Investigation Divisionâs best in the districtâand he hung doggedly to a case until he had it cracked. But at the same time he had always been able to separate business from pleasure. For weeks now he had been under the spell of Brunhilde Moot, and yet, for all her effect on him, the Half-Way Tree affair kept circling back into his mind.
He watched her while she watched the sea, the haze across the Harbor that was the wicked sunken pirate city Port Royal, the distant mountains marching up and away to meet the heavy, brazen sky. Her eyes always returned to the fishing boats which worked close inshore, and she watched them â¦Â perhaps she watched the crews, the half-naked, sweating, muscular black and brown and bronze and tan bodies as they worked.
Cotrell felt a smoky surge of distress at the thought; he shook himself angrily. He had a great deal more to do than to help an exotic brown-eyed blonde enjoy the mysteries in which she cloaked herself. And he could ill
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