Dreaming Jewels by Theodore Sturgeon Page A

began rubbing his hands together. She closed her eyes. “Armand…”
    “Yes, my little one,” he answered, patronizingly.
    “Did you ever hurt anyone?”
    He sat up. “I? Kay, are you afraid?” He puffed his chest out a bit. “Afraid of me? Why, I won’t hurt you, baby.”
    “I’m not talking about me,” she said, a little impatiently. “I just asked you—did you ever hurt anyone?”
    “Why, of course not. Not intentionally, that is. You must remember—my business is justice.”
    “Justice.” She said it as if it tasted good. “There are two ways of hurting people, Armand—outside, where it shows, and inside, in the mind, where it scars and festers.”
    “I don’t follow you,” he said, his pomposity returning as his confusion grew. “Whom have I ever hurt?”
    “Kay Hallowell, for one,” she said detachedly, “with the kind of pressure you’ve been putting on. Not because she’s a minor; you are only a criminal on paper for that, and even that wouldn’t apply in some states.”
    “Now, look here, young lady—”
    “—but because,” she went on calmly, “you have been systematically wrecking what faith she has in humanity. If there is a basic justice, then for that you are a criminal by its standards.”
    “Kay—what’s come over you? What are you talking about? I won’t have any more of this!” He leaned back and folded his arms. She sat quietly.
    “I know,” he said, half to himself, “you’re joking. Is that it, baby?”
    In the same level, detached tone, she went on speaking. “You are guilty of hurting others in both the ways I mentioned. Physically, where it shows, and psychically. You will be punished in both those ways, Justice Bluett.”
    He blew air from his nostrils. “That is quite enough. I did not bring you here for anything like this. Perhaps I shall have to remind you, after all, that I am not a man to be trifled with. Hm. The matter of your estate—”
    “I am not trifling, Armand.” She leaned across the low table to him. He put up his hands. “What do you want?” he breathed, before he could stop himself.
    “Your handkerchief.”
    “My h -what?”
    She plucked it out of his breast pocket. “Thank you.” As she spoke she shook it out, brought up two corners and knotted them together. She slipped her left hand through the loop and settled the handkerchief high on her forearm. “I am going to punish you first in the way it doesn’t show,” she said informatively, “by reminding you, in a way you can’t forget, of how you once hurt someone else.”
    “What kind of nonsense—”
    She reached behind her with her right hand and brought out what she had been hiding—a new, sharp, heavy cleaver.
    Armand Bluett cowered away, back into the couch cushions. “Kay—no! No!” he panted. His face turned green. “I haven’t touched you, Kay! I only wanted to talk. I wanted to help you and—and your brother. Put that thing down, Kay!” He was drooling with terror. “Can’t we be friends, Kay?” he whimpered.
    “Stop it!” she hissed. She lifted the cleaver high, resting her left hand on the table and leaning toward him. Her face made, line upon plane upon carven curve, a mask of utter contempt. “I told you that your physical punishment comes later. Think about this while you wait for it.”
    The cleaver arced over and came down, with every ounce of a lithe body behind it. Armand Bluett screamed—a ridiculous, hoarse, thin sound. He closed his eyes. The cleaver crashed into the heavy top of the coffee-table. Armand twisted and scrabbled back into the cushions, crabbed sidewise and backward along the wall until he could go no farther. He stopped ludicrously, on all fours, on the couch, backed into the corner, sweat and spittle running off his chin. He opened his eyes.
    It had apparently taken him only a split second to make the hysterical move, for she still stood over the table; she still held the handle of the cleaver. Its edge had buried itself in