Selected Stories [S.S. Col.] by Sturgeon Theodore

Author:Sturgeon, Theodore [Sturgeon, Theodore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, Horror, Modern Classics, Sci-fi, Short Stories
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9547-2
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-04-30T03:00:00+00:00

THE SEX OPPOSITE

BUDGIE SLID INTO THE laboratory without knocking, as usual.

She was flushed and breathless, her eyes bright with speed and eagerness. “Whatcha got, Muley?”

Muhlenberg kicked the morgue door shut before Budgie could get in line with it. “Nothing,” he said flatly, “and of all the people I don’t want to see—and at the moment that means all the people there are—you head the list. Go away.”

Budgie pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into an oversized shoulder-bag, which she hurled across the laboratory onto a work-surface. “Come on, Muley. I saw the meat-wagon outside. I know what it brought, too. That double murder in the park. Al told me.”

“Al’s jaw is one that needs more tying up than any of the stiffs he taxis around,” said Muhlenberg bitterly. “Well, you’re not getting near this pair.”

She came over to him, stood very close. In spite of his annoyance, he couldn’t help noticing how soft and full her lips were just then. Just then—and the sudden realization added to the annoyance. He had known for a long time that Budgie could turn on mechanisms that made every one of a man’s ductless glands purse up its lips and blow like a trumpet. Every time he felt it he hated himself. “Get away from me,” he growled. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t, Muley?” she murmured.

Muhlenberg looked her straight in the eye and said something about his preference for raw liver over Budgie-times-twelve.

The softness went out of her lips, to be replaced by no particular hardness. She simply laughed good-naturedly. “All right, you’re immune. I’ll try logic.”

“Nothing will work,” he said. “You will not get in there to see those two, and you’ll get no details from me for any of that couche-con-carne stew you call a newspaper story.”

“Okay,” she said surprisingly. She crossed the lab and picked up her handbag. She found a glove and began to pull it on. “Sorry I interrupted you, Muley. I do get the idea. You want to be alone.”

His jaw was too slack to enunciate an answer. He watched her go out, watched the door close, watched it open again, heard her say in a very hurt tone, “But I do think you could tell me why you won’t say anything about this murder.”

He scratched his head. “As long as you behave yourself, I guess I do owe you that.” He thought for a moment. “It’s not your kind of a story. That’s about the best way to put it.”

“Not my kind of a story? A double murder in Lover’s Lane? The maudlin mystery of the mugger, or mayhem in Maytime? No kidding, Muley—you’re not serious!”

“Budgie, this one isn’t for fun. It’s ugly. Very damn ugly. And it’s serious. It’s mysterious for a number of other reasons than the ones you want to siphon into your readers.”

“What other reasons?”

“Medically. Biologically. Sociologically.”

“My stories got biology. Sociology they got likewise; stodgy truisms about social trends is the way I dish up sex in the public prints, or didn’t you know? So—that leaves medical.

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