For another thing, Beatrice Rumfoord had liquidated her diversified portfolio of securities, and had put the proceeds into shares of Galactic Spacecraft, intending thereby to get a leather-lunged voice in whatever was done with The Whale.
For another thing, Malachi Constant had taken to writing Beatrice Rumford offensive letters, in order to keep her away — in order to make himself absolutely and permanently intolerable to her. To see one of these letters was to see them all. The most recent one went like this, written on stationery of Magnum Opus, Inc., the corporation whose sole purpose was to manage the financial affairs of Malachi Constant.
Hello from sunny California, Space Baby! Gee, I am sure looking forward to jazzing a high-class dame like you under the twin moons of Mars. You’re the only kind of dame I never had, and I’ll bet your kind is the greatest. Love and kisses for a starter. Mal.
For another thing, Beatrice had bought a capsule of cyanide — more deadly, surely, than Cleopatra’s asp. It was Beatrice’s intention to swallow it if ever she had to share so much as the same time zone with Malachi Constant.
For another thing, the stock market had crashed, wiping out Beatrice Rumford, among others. She had bought Galactic Spacecraft shares at prices ranging from 151½ to 169. The stock had fallen to 6 in ten trading sessions, and now lay there, trembling fractional points. Since Beatrice had bought on margin as well as for cash, she had lost everything, including her Newport home. She had nothing left but her clothes, her good name, and her finishing school education.
For another thing, Malachi Constant had thrown a party two days after returning to Hollywood — and only now, fifty-six days later, was it petering out.
For another thing, a genuinely bearded young man named Martin Koradubian had identified himself as the bearded stranger who had been invited into the Rumford estate to see a materialization. He was a repairer of solar watches in Boston, and a charming liar.
A magazine had bought his story for three thousand dollars,
Sitting in Skip’s Museum under the spiral staircase, Winston Niles Rumfoord read Koradubian’s magazine story with delight and admiration. Koradubian claimed in his story that Rumfoord had told him about the year Ten Million A.D.
In the year Ten Million, according to Koradubian, there would be a tremendous house-cleaning. All records relating to the period between the death of Christ and the year One Million A.D. would be hauled to dumps and burned. This would be done, said Koradubian, because museums and archives would be crowding the living right off the earth.
The million-year period to which the burned junk related would be summed up in history books in one sentence, according to Koradubian: Following the death of Jesus Christ, there was a period of readjustment that lasted for approximately one million years.
Winston Niles Rumfoord laughed and laid Koradubian’s article aside. Rumford loved nothing more than a thumping good fraud. “Ten Million A.D. — ” he said out loud, “a great year for fireworks and parades and world’s fairs. A merry time for cracking open cornerstones and digging up time capsules.”
Rumfoord wasn’t talking to himself. There was someone else in Skip’s Museum with him.
The other person was his wife Beatrice.
Beatrice was sitting in the facing wing chair. She had come downstairs to ask her husband’s help in a time of great need.
Rumfoord blandly changed the subject.
Beatrice, already ghostly in a white peignoir, turned the color of lead.
“What an optimistic animal man is!” said Rumfoord rosily. “Imagine expecting the species to last for ten million more years — as though people were as well-designed as turtles!” He shrugged. “Well — who knows — maybe human beings will last that long, just on the basis of pure cussedness. What’s your guess?”
“What?” said Beatrice.
“Guess how long the human race will be around,” said Rumfoord.
From between Beatrice’s clenched teeth came a frail, keen, sustained note so high as to be almost above the range of the human ear. The sound bore the same ghastly promise as the whistle of fins on a falling bomb.