The Mindworm by C. M. Kornbluth

Speeding down the South Shore she learned that his name was Michael Brent, exactly as it ought to be. She wished she could tell him she was Jennifer Brown or one of those real cute names they had nowadays, but was reassured when he told her he thought Dolly Gonzalez was a beautiful name. He didn’t, and she noticed the omission, add: “It’s the most beautiful name I ever heard!” That, she comfortably thought as she settled herself against the cushions, would come later.

They stopped at Medford for lunch, a wonderful lunch in a little restaurant where you went down some steps and there were candles on the table. She called him “Michael” and he called her “Dolly.” She learned that he liked dark girls and thought the stories in True Story really were true, and that he thought she was just tall enough, and that Greer Garson was wonderful, but not the way she was, and that he thought her dress was just wonderful.

They drove slowly after Medford, and Michael Brent did most of the talking. He had traveled all over the world. He had been in the war and wounded—just a flesh wound. He was thirty-eight, and had been married once, but she died. There were no children. He was alone in the world. He had nobody to share his town house in the 50’s, his country place in Westchester, his lodge in the Maine woods. Every word sent the girl floating higher and higher on a tide of happiness; the signs were unmistakable.

When they reached Montauk Point, the last sandy bit of the continent before blue water and Europe, it was sunset, with a great wrinkled sheet of purple and rose stretching half across the sky and the first stars appearing above the dark horizon of the water.

The two of them walked from the parked car out onto the sand, alone, bathed in glorious Technicolor. Her heart was nearly bursting with joy as she heard Michael Brent say, his arms tightening around her: “Darling, will you marry me?”

“Oh, yes, Michael!” she breathed, dying. .

The Mindworm, drowsing, suddenly felt the sharp sting of danger. He cast out through the great city, dragging tentacles of thought:

“. . . die if she don’t let me . . .”

“. . . six an’ six is twelve an’ carry one an’ three is four . . .”

“. . . gobblegobble madre de dios pero soy gobblegobble . . .”

“. . . parlay Domino an’ Missab and shoot the roll on Duchess Peg in the feature . . .”

“. . . melt resin add the silver chloride and dissolve in oil of lavender stand and decant and fire to cone zero twelve give you shimmering streaks of luster down the walls . . .”

“. . . moiderin’ square-headed gobblegobble tried ta poke his eye out wassamatta witta ref. . .”

“. . . O God I am most heartily sorry I have offended thee in …”

“. . . talk like a commie. . .”

“. . . gobblegobblegobble two dolla twenny-fi’ sense gobble . . .”

“. . . just a nip and fill it up with water and brush my teeth . . .”

“. . . really know I’m God but fear to confess their sins . . .”

“. . . dirty lousy rock-headed claw-handed paddle-footed goggle-eyed snot-nosed hunch-backed feeble-minded pot-bellied son of . . .”

“. . . write on the wall alfie is a stunkur and then . . .”

“. . . thinks I believe it’s a television set but I know he’s got a bomb hi there but who can I tell who can help so alone. . .”

“. . . gabble was ich weiss nicht gabble geh bei Broadvay gabble . . .”

“. . . habt mein daughter Rosie such a fella gobblegobble . . .”

“. . . wonder if that’s one didn’t look back. . .”

“. . . seen with her in the Medford restaurant. . .”

The Mindworm struck into that thought.

“. . . not a mark on her but the M. E.’s have been wrong before and heart failure don’t mean a thing anyway try to talk to her old lady authorize an autopsy get Pancho ‘little guy talks Spanish be best . . .”

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