favored me with a flash of white teeth. “We can’t do that, for two very good reasons. The inventor is dead; and so is Carlo Moolman.”
It was not difficult to spot a certain weakness in Imre’s argument. “Two men with an immortality serum,” I began, “and both are dead—”
“But not of natural causes, Mr. Carver. I don’t know about the fellow back on Oberon, but I saw Moolman’s body. Somebody blew a hole in his belly, big enough to put your whole head through.”
A less appealing course of action was difficult to imagine. I suggested as much.
“And of course,” Munsen went on, as though he had not heard me, “there was no sign of the immortality serum on his body.”
“Might he have drunk it himself, or hidden it somewhere on or in his body?”
“Not according to the autopsy. No.” Munsen stood up and began to pace around the office. “I think that if it existed at all, he hid it. But where? There must be a clue, somewhere. We’re looking, you can be sure of that. Meanwhile, his funeral is the day after tomorrow. And of course, his enemies may attend—the people who killed him. They’re as keen to get their hands on the serum as we are. It’s important for us to know what they are up to.”
“So you and your men will be there,” I said slowly. I didn’t know what was doing it, but I felt an uneasy creepy sensation up my back, as though a Hidalgan centipede was ascending under my shirt.
“Me and my crew can’t do that.” Munsen shook his head firmly. “We’re too well known; we’d be recognized in a minute. Anyway, we’d have to more or less force our way in. What we need is someone who can be invited to the funeral in a natural way. Someone like Mr. Burmeister—whose uncle, as I understand it, is a big wheel in mortician circles and could get him invited into almost anything connected with funerals.”
I felt a giddy sense of relief. The Angel of Death, dive-bombing in on me, had suddenly veered aside and picked the next man in line.
“Of course,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Waldo.
“Actually, Mr. Burmeister is correct,” Munsen agreed. “He won’t quite do. He is—with all due respect, Mr. Burmeister—rather too conspicuous because of his size. We need someone less noticeable, someone who can keep a low profile, blend into the background. Someone like—”
“I don’t know Uncle Mortimer. I’d never get invited to the funeral.”
“Mr. Burmeister could invite you to dinner at his home.”
“I don’t have the right clothes for a funeral.”
“They will be provided. Black top hat, dark cutaway coat, black polished shoes, everything.”
“And if you just let Uncle Mort talk corpses to you for an hour or so, Henry,” Waldo said cheerfully, “he’ll be so tickled he’ll get you invited to any funeral on the Moon. He’s been trying to drag me to one for days. What a pity, as Mr. Munsen says, that I’m too conspicuous.” Waldo stared down happily at his ample belly, and hugged his fat to him like a protective shield.
I wondered, in a hopeless sort of way, how much fat a human being could put on in a couple of days. Not enough, I felt sure, to save me.
* * *
Waldo had described the family dinners to me, but I had discounted much of what he said. Having seen Waldo’s own prowess with a knife and fork, I deemed it remotely improbable that anyone at a meal table could deprive him of his rightful share of sustenance.
That, of course, was before I met the Potter and Wilberforce wives.
I arrived a few minutes late. Waldo was busy in the kitchen, and at my first sight of his living room when I entered, it seemed totally filled with aunts. A second look revealed just one massive pair, trampling and trumpeting like angry mastodons over the mangled ruins of trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Ruth and Ruby were a year apart in age, and perhaps two kilos apart in bulk. There was less difference between them than the mass of any one of their many chins.
I used
It was not difficult to spot a certain weakness in Imre’s argument. “Two men with an immortality serum,” I began, “and both are dead—”
“But not of natural causes, Mr. Carver. I don’t know about the fellow back on Oberon, but I saw Moolman’s body. Somebody blew a hole in his belly, big enough to put your whole head through.”
A less appealing course of action was difficult to imagine. I suggested as much.
“And of course,” Munsen went on, as though he had not heard me, “there was no sign of the immortality serum on his body.”
“Might he have drunk it himself, or hidden it somewhere on or in his body?”
“Not according to the autopsy. No.” Munsen stood up and began to pace around the office. “I think that if it existed at all, he hid it. But where? There must be a clue, somewhere. We’re looking, you can be sure of that. Meanwhile, his funeral is the day after tomorrow. And of course, his enemies may attend—the people who killed him. They’re as keen to get their hands on the serum as we are. It’s important for us to know what they are up to.”
“So you and your men will be there,” I said slowly. I didn’t know what was doing it, but I felt an uneasy creepy sensation up my back, as though a Hidalgan centipede was ascending under my shirt.
“Me and my crew can’t do that.” Munsen shook his head firmly. “We’re too well known; we’d be recognized in a minute. Anyway, we’d have to more or less force our way in. What we need is someone who can be invited to the funeral in a natural way. Someone like Mr. Burmeister—whose uncle, as I understand it, is a big wheel in mortician circles and could get him invited into almost anything connected with funerals.”
I felt a giddy sense of relief. The Angel of Death, dive-bombing in on me, had suddenly veered aside and picked the next man in line.
“Of course,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Waldo.
“Actually, Mr. Burmeister is correct,” Munsen agreed. “He won’t quite do. He is—with all due respect, Mr. Burmeister—rather too conspicuous because of his size. We need someone less noticeable, someone who can keep a low profile, blend into the background. Someone like—”
“I don’t know Uncle Mortimer. I’d never get invited to the funeral.”
“Mr. Burmeister could invite you to dinner at his home.”
“I don’t have the right clothes for a funeral.”
“They will be provided. Black top hat, dark cutaway coat, black polished shoes, everything.”
“And if you just let Uncle Mort talk corpses to you for an hour or so, Henry,” Waldo said cheerfully, “he’ll be so tickled he’ll get you invited to any funeral on the Moon. He’s been trying to drag me to one for days. What a pity, as Mr. Munsen says, that I’m too conspicuous.” Waldo stared down happily at his ample belly, and hugged his fat to him like a protective shield.
I wondered, in a hopeless sort of way, how much fat a human being could put on in a couple of days. Not enough, I felt sure, to save me.
* * *
Waldo had described the family dinners to me, but I had discounted much of what he said. Having seen Waldo’s own prowess with a knife and fork, I deemed it remotely improbable that anyone at a meal table could deprive him of his rightful share of sustenance.
That, of course, was before I met the Potter and Wilberforce wives.
I arrived a few minutes late. Waldo was busy in the kitchen, and at my first sight of his living room when I entered, it seemed totally filled with aunts. A second look revealed just one massive pair, trampling and trumpeting like angry mastodons over the mangled ruins of trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Ruth and Ruby were a year apart in age, and perhaps two kilos apart in bulk. There was less difference between them than the mass of any one of their many chins.
I used
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