Unicorn Trade by Anderson, Poul. Part four

Who was his next pest? He stalked to the instrument, snatched it up, barked, “Yes?” while his free hand made a fist. “Leo—” Una’s voice.

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. “Leo, I thought I’d wait more, but it’s been too lonesome.”

Triumph kindled. “Well, you want back, do you? I suppose we can talk that over.”

Silence hummed, until (he could practically see the fair head rise): “Talk. Yes, naturally we will. We must. I see no sense in staying on in limbo, do you?”

“Where are you?”

“Why do you care?” She lost her defense. The tone blurred. “Did I call too soon? Do you need more time to, to cool off? .. . Should I take more time to think what we can do? .. . I’m sorry if I seem pushy, I’ll wait if you prefer. I’m sorry, Leo.”

“I asked where I can reach you,” he said, word by bitten-off word.

“I—well, I don’t like this room where I am. I’m moving out tomorrow morning, not sure where. I’d hoped I could move home. But not for a while, if ever, is that right?”

“Call back, then,” he snapped “at your convenience,” and banged the receiver down.

There! Make her come crawling.

Tronen noticed he was shaky. Tension. How about the eggnog he’d decided on? He took a brandy bottle from the liquor cabinet and marched to the kitchen.

As he entered, he barely heard at the door, “Weep, weep.”

The bottle fell from his grasp. For an instant that stretched, he stood alone with the pleading from the night.

Then his wrath flared and screamed, “No more

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persecution, you hear? No more persecution!” Like a soldier charging a machine gun, he sprang across the floor. He almost tore the doorknob loose.

Light leaked outward, cold and darkness seeped in. The kitten lay at the end of a thin trail of blood. Except for rapid, shallow breaths, he saw no motion. But when he grabbed it, his hand felt how the heartbeat shivered the broken ribs.

He fought down vomit. Quick, quick, end this vile thing, once and forever. He ran back to the living room. His fire still lacked a proper bed of coals, but the flames whirled high, loud, many-colored. He knocked the screen down in his haste. “Go!” he yelled, and threw the kitten in.

It wailed, rolled around, tried to crawl free, though fur was instantly ablaze. Tronen seized the poker. With his whole strength, he thrust and held, pinning the animal in place. “Die,” he chanted, “die, won’t you, die, die, die!” Bared skin blistered, reddened, blackened, split. Eyeballs bubbled. That which had been a kitten grew silent, grew still. The fire, damped by its body, sputtered toward extinction. Smells of char and roast sent Tronen gagging backward. He held the poker as though it were a sword.

The thing was dead, dead at last. But would he be stunk out of his house? He retreated toward the kitchen. When yonder barbecue had finished, he’d open windows and doors. Meanwhile, here was the brandy bottle he’d dropped.

After several long gulps, safe amidst the kitchen’s chrome and plastic, he supposed he

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should eat. The idea of food nauseated. He wasn’t sure why. True, he hadn’t enjoyed disposing of this … intolerable nuisance. But that was something he flat-out had to do. Should he not be glad the episode was over?

He took another mouthful. His gullet savored its heat. Would he have been wrong, anyway, to enjoy? Oh, he was no sadist. However, he’d been given more provocation than most men would have suffered before taking action. If the kitten had been an innocent dumb brutelet, so was a rattlesnake or a plague-bearing rat, right? You were allowed to enjoy killing those, weren’t you? In war movies on TV, the GI’s gloried and joked as they bombed, shot, burned Nazis. Unwritten law said it was no crime, no occasion for remorse, if a man killed his wife’s rapist.

Or her lover.

Quarters …

Where had Una phoned from? Direct dialing gave no clue, as she’d be aware. Their fight Monday had originated, as well as he could remember, when he characterized Quarters for her. No, wait, earlier he’d grumbled about neglected housework, neglected because she was off discussing her stupid thesis with her pet teacher. But she didn’t flare back, and thus detonate his final response, until he called Quarters a few well-chosen names, like moocher, mooncalf, failure who was dragging her down alongside him, therefore stone around Tronen’s neck too … Why did she care what her husband said? What really was between them?

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