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The Unicorn Trade
His books reminded him that he had wanted to re-read a few favorite passages, and for a moment the wish was so great (he could put the B Minor Mass on at the same time) that he almost cancelled his project. But no, he thought, I’m too tired to get the best out of anything.
A small jag of pain went through his chest.
The doorbell buzzed. Only a short walk separated this house from Homer’s flat. Benrud opened. His partner stood framed in a warm night, a few cars passing in the street behind, other houses and then a downward swoop to the glittering cities below, to the Bay and the bridges to San Francisco.
“Hi,” said Horner. He came in and closed the door behind him. I wonder if he already thinks of this house as his? thought Benrud. “Did you say something about a drink?”
“Over there.” Benrud nodded toward the table.
The big man crossed the room with the muscular gait that identified him two blocks away. Benrud worried that he might see the knife by the couch, but he didn’t. I worry too much, Benrud told himself, that was always my weakness; I have done more planning than doing. Though my plans have therefore come to grief less often than Jim’s. But then, he would say he got more fun out of life, even out of the collapses.
Horner sat down, the chair creaked comfortably under him, and lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said. One-handed, he got out a cigarette and flipped a paper match into flame.
Benrud took the couch. He drank his own whisky fast, no longer needing courage, but wish-
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ing for consolation. Horner rested eyes upon him with the steadiness of a big game hunter.
“What’d you call me over for?” he asked.
“Oh .. . miscellaneous.” Benrud pointed to the knife on the phone table. “I borrowed this when I was over at your place the other day.”
“Well . .. Horner was startled. “Why, that’s my pet. You didn’t ask me?”
“Sorry. I haven’t been feeling well. It slipped my mind.”
“You’re not a well man, Harry,” said Horner. He paused, then, slowly: “Why don’t you tell me what the doctor told you?”
“I’ve explained”
“Guff. It’s okay to keep Moira from worrying, but I’m your partner. Remember? We founded the Metallurgical Research Laboratory together. I’ve got a vested interest in your health, Harry.”
Benrud thought back across two decades of acquaintanceship. They had been good years, his and Jim’s; Moira’s never-quite-explainable choice of him had not come between them; the lab, started right after the war, had prospered; and more important, the work had been one long happy hunting trip through Crystal Land, the comradeship of steaks fried over a Bunsen burner at three in the morning when a hoped-for reaction had just completed itself . .. Whatever came afterward, he had had that much.
“You could get along without me,” he said.
“Oh, sure, by now, with things running smoothly and a bright young staff. Go ahead and take that vacation, as long a one as you need.” Horner tapped the ash from his cigarette and gazed out
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The Unicom Trade
of narrowed eyes. “But I still wish you’d tell me what’s really the matter with you.”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Benrud, “that’s what I called you over for tonight.”
Homer waited.
“Beryllium poisoning,” said Benrud.
“What?” Homer barked it out, straightening with a jerk that almost upset the ash tray.
“Lethal dose,” said Benrud. “Lungs shot full of granulomata, and the ulceration spreading, faster than any previous case on record, I’m told.”
“Oh, no/’ whispered Horner.
“Evidently I breathed one hell of a lot of beryllium dust, several months back,” said Benrud.
He finished his drink, got up and went to the liquor cabinet and made himself another. For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the clink, splash, and gurgle; and from outside, where the Bay gleamed, the somehow lonesome noise of passing automobiles.
“Butfor God’s sake, man!”
“Naturally, the doctor wants me to go to the hospital,” said Benrud. “I can’t see that. Can you, Jim? There isn’t any cure. It’ll just be to lie there, coughing, and spending thousands of dollars.”