The Wrong Venus Read Free

“I’ll probably look like a stamped timecard the rest of my life.”
    One of the watches began to buzz in the vest, which was lying on the floor under the washbasin. Colby glanced at his own watch and felt the chill along his nerves again. They were due in London in twenty-five minutes, and so far they’d stopped two of them.
    But maybe they were out of the turbulence. The plane continued to bore straight ahead. They untangled themselves and he grabbed up the vest. In a moment they had evolved a system. She pushed them out of the pockets, Colby bit off the plastic bag, dropped the latter in the towel disposal, dipped the watch movement in the crème de menthe, handed it back to her, and she returned it to the vest. They worked swiftly and in silence. He counted . . . ten . . . thirty . . . forty-five . . . sixty. . . .
    Twenty minutes to London.
    The plane slammed into another wall of turbulence. It shot forward and to the right, and they were against the door again. “Damn!” Colby said.
    “And just when we were doing so beautifully—”
    The knob rattled, and on the other side of the door a feminine voice called out, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you to return to your seats—” There was a horrified gasp, and then the voice went on, “You can’t be in there together!”
    “Why not?” Colby asked. “It doesn’t say so.”
    “Of course not, but everybody knows—”
    That was just what they needed, he thought—a refresher course in la différence while the plane continued to zero in on London at four hundred miles an hour. Why the hell did she have to be passing the John at that particular moment?
    The knob rattled again. “Open the door immediately, or I shall have to call the First Officer!”
    The plane steadied for a moment. “I’ll get rid of her,” Martine whispered in his ear. Snatching up the vest, she shoved it in his hand and motioned for him to drop it behind the chemical toilet. As he straightened and turned, facing her and the door again, she winked,’ opened her mouth wide, and put her hand on her stomach with a grimace of pain. Then she reached around in back and unlatched the door, which flew open. It was the short, red-haired stewardess, the one who looked Scottish, bristling with Presbyterian outrage. Colby opened his mouth and groaned. It was happening a little fast for him, but that seemed to be what she’d meant.
    The stewardess gasped again, staring at his naked chest, or as much of it as was visible past Martine Randall.
    “Wider,” Martine ordered, peering intently into the back of his mouth. Colby repeated the groan, with his hand pressed to his lower abdomen. He hoped this was where the pain was supposed to be. She tilted his head a little, as though for better light. “Strange . . . very strange. . . .”
    “Really!”
    “. . . certainly no evidence of Barker’s syndrome,” Martine went on. Then, as though aware of the stewardess for the first time, she snapped, “Yes, yes, what is it? Must you stand there yammering?”
    “This gentleman cannot be in here with his clothes off!”
    Martine turned with a withering glance. “Do you expect him to take them off out in the cabin? Don’t just stand there, bring me an electric torch and a spoon.”
    “What—? What for?”
    Martine sighed. “My dear girl, I asked for a torch and a spoon on the assumption that you do not have a laryngoscope aboard your aircraft. In the event that I have underestimated its facilities, please accept my apologies, and bring the laryngoscope instead. And quickly—”
    The stewardess began to look uncertain. “You’re a physician?”
    “Bravo, that’s a good girl. . . . Smartly, now—”
    “But what’s wrong with him? He looks all right.”
    “My dear, I’m sure the airline wouldn’t want to add the burden of medical diagnosis to your other—”
    The plane lurched. The stewardess shot inward and the door slammed shut behind her. Colby was against the outer wall, now with two girls