The Starcomber Read Free Page B

it over his left eye and let it shine into Halsyon’s face. “Now I ask you. Where have we met?” Hypnotized by the fight, Halsyon answered dreamily. “At the Beaux Arts Ball . . . A long time ago. . . . Before the fever . . .”
    â€œAh? Si. It was one half year ago. I was there. An unfortunate night.”
    â€œNo. A glorious night . . . Gay, happy fun . . . Like a school dance . . . Like a prom in costume . . .
    â€œAlways back to the childhood, eh?” Mr. Aquila murmured. “We must attend to that. Cetera desunt, young Lochinvar. Continue.”
    â€œI was with Judy. . . . We realized we were in love that night. We realized how wonderful life was going to be. And then you passed and looked at me. . . . Just once. You looked at me. It was horrible.”
    â€œTch!” Mr. Aquila clicked his tongue in vexation. “Now I remember said incident. I was unguarded. Bad news from home. A pox on both my houses.”
    â€œYou passed in red and black. . . . Satanic. Wearing no mask. You looked at me . . . A red and black look I never forgot. A look from black eyes like pools of hell, like cold fires of terror. And with that look you robbed me of everything . . . of joy, of hope, of love, of life. . . .”
    â€œNo, no!” Mr. Aquila said sharply. “Let us understand ourselves. My carelessness was the key that unlocked the door. But you fell into a chasm of your own making. Nevertheless, old beer and skittles, we must alter same.” He removed the speculum and shook his finger at Halsyon. “We must bring you back to the land of the living. Auxilium ab alto. Jeez. That is for why I have arranged this meeting. What I have done I will undone, eh? But you must climb out of your own chasm. Knit up the raveled sleeve of care. Come inside.”
    He took Halsyon’s arm, led him down a paneled hall, past a neat office and into a spanking white laboratory. It was all tile and glass with shelves of reagent bottles, porcelain filters, an electric oven, stock jars of acids, bins of raw materials. There was a small round elevation in the center of the floor, a sort of dais. Mr. Aquila placed a stool on the dais, placed Halsyon on the stool, got into a white lab coat and began to assemble apparatus.
    â€œYou,” he chatted, “are an artist of the utmost. I do not dorer la pilule. When Jimmy Derelict told me you were no longer at work, God damn! We must return him to his muttons, I said. Solon Aquila must own many canvases of Jeffrey Halsyon. We shall cure him. Hoc age.”
    â€œYou’re a doctor?” Halsyon asked.
    â€œNo. Let us say, a warlock. Strictly speaking a witch-pathologist. Very high class. No nostrums. Strictly modern magic. Black magic and white magic are passé, n’est-ce pas? I cover entire spectrum, specializing mostly in the 15,000 angstrom band.”
    â€œYou’re a witch-doctor? Never!”
    â€œOh yes.”
    â€œIn this kind of place?”
    â€œAh-ha? You too are deceived, eh? It is our camouflage. Many a modem laboratory you think concerns itself with tooth paste is devoted to magic. But we are scientific too. Parbleu! We move with the times, we warlocks. Witch’s Brew now complies with Pure Food and Drug Act. Familiars 100 per cent sterile. Sanitary brooms. Cellophane-wrapped curses. Father Satan in rubber gloves. Thanks to Lord Lister; or is it Pasteur? My idol.”
    The witch-pathologist gathered raw materials, consulted an ephemeris, ran off some calculations on an electronic computer and continued to chat.
    â€œFugit hora,” Aquila said. “Your trouble, my old, is loss of sanity. Oui? Lost in one damn flight from reality and one damn desperate search for peace brought on by one unguarded look from me to you. Helas! I apologize for that, R.S.V.P.” With what looked like a miniature tennis line-marker, he rolled a circle around Halsyon on the dais. “But your trouble is, to wit: You