The Starcomber by Alfred Bester Page B

Translate.”
    â€œWell, sir, he’s still a young man; in his thirties and very immature. When he became so very successful, he wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t prepared for the responsibilities of his life and his career. That’s what the doctors told me. So he turned his back on everything and withdrew into childhood.”
    â€œAh? And the drawing on money?”
    â€œThey say that’s his symbol of his return to childhood, Mr. Aquila. It proves he’s too young to know what money is for.”
    â€œAh? Oui. Ja. Astute, by crackey. And my portrait?”
    â€œI can’t explain that, Mr. Aquila, unless you have met him in the past and he remembers you somehow. Or it may be a coincidence.”
    â€œHmmm. Perhaps. So. You know something, my attic of Greece? I am disappointed. Je n’oublierai jamais. I am most severely disappointed. God damn. No more Halsyons ever? Merde. My slogan. We must do something about Jeffrey Halsyon. I will not be disappointed. We must do something.”
    Mr. Solon Aquila nodded his head emphatically, took out a cigarette, took out a lighter, then paused, deep in thought. After a long moment, he nodded again, this time with decision, and did an astonishing thing. He returned the lighter to his pocket, took out another, glanced around quickly and lit it under Mr. Derelict’s nose.
    Mr. Derelict appeared not to notice. Mr. Derelict appeared, in one instant, to be frozen. Allowing the lighter to burn, Mr. Aquila placed it carefully on a ledge in front of the art dealer who stood before it without moving. The orange flame gleamed on his glassy eyeballs.
    Aquila darted out into the shop, searched and found a rare Chinese crystal globe. He took it from its case, warmed it against his heart and peered into it. He mumbled. He nodded. He returned the globe to the case, went to the cashier’s desk, took a pad and pencil and began ciphering in symbols that bore no relationship to any language or any graphology. He nodded again, tore up the sheet of paper and took out his wallet.
    From the wallet he removed a dollar bill. He placed the bill on the glass counter, took an assortment of fountain pens from his vest pocket, selected one and unscrewed it. Carefully shielding his eyes, he allowed one drop to fall from the pen point onto the bill. There was a blinding flash of light. There was a humming vibration that slowly died.
    Mr. Aquila returned the pens to his pocket, carefully picked up the bill by a corner and ran back into the picture gallery where the art dealer still stood staring glassily at the orange flame. Aquila fluttered the bill before the sightless eyes.
    â€œListen, my ancient,” Aquila whispered. “You will visit Jeffrey Halsyon this afternoon. N’est-ce pas? You will give him this very own coin of the realm when he asks for drawing materials. Eh? God damn.” He removed Mr. Derelict’s wallet from his pocket, placed the bill inside and returned the wallet.
    â€œAnd this is why you make the visit,” Aquila continued. “It is because you have had an inspiration from le Diable Boiteux. Nolens volens, the lame devil has inspired you with a plan for healing Jeffrey Halsyon. God damn. You will show him samples of his great art of the past to bring him to his senses. Memory is the all-mother. HimmelHerrGott. You hear me, big boy? You do what I say. Go today and devil take the hindmost.”
    Mr. Aquila picked up the burning lighter, lit his cigarette and permitted the flame to go out. As he did so, he said: “No, my holy of holies! Jeffrey Halsyon is too great an artist to languish in durance vile. He must be returned to this world. He must be returned to me. È sempre l’ora. I will not be disappointed. You hear me, Jimmy? I will not!”
    â€œPerhaps there’s hope, Mr. Aquila,” James Derelict said. “Something’s just occurred to me while you were talking . . . a way to bring Jeff back to