Robert A. Heinlein by The unpleasant profession of Jonathan Hoag

Author:The unpleasant profession of Jonathan Hoag
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-07-08T18:16:26+00:00

VII

Sunlight in his face woke him up; he focused one eye on the clock on the dressing table and saw that it was past nine o’clock, whereupon he got out of bed hastily. It was, he found, not quite a bright thing to do — his right side gave him fits. Then he saw the brown stain under the radiator and recalled his accident.

Cautiously he turned his head and took a look at his wife. She was still sleeping quietly, showing no disposition to stir. That suited him; it would be better, he thought, to tell her what had happened after he had dosed her with orange juice. No point in scaring the kid.

He groped on his slippers, then hung his bathrobe around him, as his bare shoulders felt cold and the muscles were sore. His mouth tasted better after he had brushed his teeth; breakfast began to seem like a good idea.

His mind dwelt absent-mindedly on the past night, fingering his recollections rather than grasping them. These nightmares, he thought as he squeezed the oranges —

not so good. Maybe not crazy, but definitely not so good, neurotic. Got to put a stop to

‘em. Man couldn’t work if he spent the night chasing butterflies, even if he didn’t fall over his feet and break his neck. Man had to have sleep — definitely.

He drank his own glass of juice, then carried the other into the bedroom. “Come on, bright eyes — reveille!” When she did not stir at once he began to sing. “Up with the buttercup, come on, get up, get up! Here comes the sun!”

Still she did not budge. He set the glass down carefully on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulder. “Wake up, kid! They’re movin’ hell — two loads have gone by already!”

She did not move. Her shoulder was cold.

“Cyn!” he yelled. “Cyn! Cyn!” he shook her violently.

She flopped lifelessly. He shook her arm. “Cyn darling — Oh, God!”

Presently the shock itself steadied him; he blew his fuses, so to speak, and was ready, with a sort of ashy dead calmness to do whatever might be necessary. He was convinced without knowing why, nor yet fully appreciating it, that she was dead. He could not find her pulse — perhaps he was too clumsy, he told himself, or perhaps it was too weak; all the while a chorus in the back of his mind shouted, “She’s dead…dead…dead

— and you let her die!”

He placed an ear over her heart. It seemed that he could hear her heart beat, but he could not be sure; it might have been only the pounding of his own. He gave up presently and looked around for a small mirror.

He found what he wanted in Cynthia’s handbag, a little makeup glass. He polished it carefully on the sleeve of his robe and held it to her half-opened mouth.

It fogged faintly.

He took it away in a bemused fashion, not letting himself hope, polished it again, and put it back to her mouth.

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