The Starcomber by Alfred Bester Page A

preferably. A small Jeffrey Halsyon for Aquila, bitte. Wrap her up.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have believed it,” Derelict muttered.
    â€œAh! Ah-ha? This is not 100 proof guaranteed Ming,” Mr. Aquila exclaimed brandishing an exquisite vase. “Caveat emptor, by damn. Well, Jimmy? I snap my fingers. No Halsyons in stock, old faithful?”
    â€œIt’s extremely odd, Mr. Aquila,” Derelict seemed to struggle with himself. “Your coming in like this. A Halsyon monochrome arrived not five minutes ago.”
    â€œYou see? Tempo ist Richtung. Well?”
    â€œI’d rather not show it to you. For personal reasons, Mr. Aquila.”
    â€œHimmelHerrGott! Pourquoi? She’s bespoke?”
    â€œN-no, sir. Not for my personal reasons. For your personal reasons.”
    â€œOh? God damn. Explain myself to me.”
    â€œAnyway, it isn’t for sale, Mr. Aquila. It can’t be sold.”
    â€œFor why not? Speak, old fish and chips.”
    â€œI can’t say, Mr. Aquila.”
    â€œZut alors! Must I judo your arm, Jimmy? You can’t show. You can’t sell. Me, internally, I have pressurized myself for a Jeffrey Halsyon. My favorite. God damn. Show me the Halsyon or sic transit gloria mundi. You hear me, Jimmy?”
    Derelict hesitated, then shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Aquila. I’ll show you.”
    Derelict led Aquila past cases of china and silver, past lacquer and bronzes and suits of shimmering armor to the gallery in the rear of the shop where dozens of paintings hung on the gray velour walls, glowing under warm spotlights. He opened a drawer in a Goddard breakfront and took out an envelope. On the envelope was printed BABYLON INSTITUTE. From the envelope Derelict withdrew a dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Aquila.
    â€œJeffrey Halsyon’s latest,” he said.
    With a fine pen and carbon ink, a cunning hand had drawn another portrait over the face of George Washington on the dollar bill. It was a hateful, diabolic face set in a hellish background. It was a face to strike terror, in a scene to inspire loathing. The face was a portrait of Mr. Aquila.
    â€œGod damn,” Mr. Aquila said.
    â€œYou see, sir? I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
    â€œNow I must own him, big boy.” Mr. Aquila appeared to be fascinated by the portrait. “Is she accident or for purpose? Does Halsyon know myself? Ergo sum.”
    â€œNot to my knowledge, Mr. Aquila. But in any event I can’t sell the drawing. It’s evidence of a felony . . . mutilating United States currency. It must be destroyed.”
    â€œNever!” Mr. Aquila returned the drawing as though he feared the dealer would instantly set fire to it. “Never, Jimmy. Nevermore quoth the raven. God damn. Why does he draw on money, Halsyon? My picture, pfui. Criminal libels but n’importe. But pictures on money? Wasteful. Joci causa.”
    â€œHe’s insane, Mr. Aquila.”
    â€œNo! Yes? Insane?” Aquila was shocked.
    â€œQuite insane, sir. It’s very sad. They’ve had to put him away. He spends his time drawing these pictures on money.”
    â€œGod damn, mon ami. Who gives him money?”
    â€œI do, Mr. Aquila; and his friends. Whenever we visit him he begs for money for his drawings.”
    â€œLe jour viendra, by Jeez! Why you don’t give him paper for drawings, eh, my ancient of days?”
    Derelict smiled sadly. “We tried that, sir. When we gave Jeff paper, he drew pictures of money.”
    â€œHimmelHerrGott! My favorite artist. In the looney bin. Eh bien. How in the holy hell am I to buy paintings from same if such be the case?”
    â€œYou won’t, Mr. Aquila. I’m afraid no one will ever buy a Halsyon again. He’s quite hopeless.”
    â€œWhy does he jump his tracks, Jimmy?”
    â€œThey say it’s a withdrawal, Mr. Aquila. His success did it to him.”
    â€œAh? Q.E.D. me, big boy,