Transcribe
Translate
Acolyte, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 9, Winter 1945
Page 9a
More information
digital collection
archival collection guide
transcription tips
TOY CASSOWARY ANTHONY BOUCHER "No, Judge," Martin was saying, "you are wrong in principle. You are still acting on the outworn theory that the life of the individual is important." Judge Maxwell was a trifle irritated. "It's all very well to talk big," he answered, "but you know as well as I do, Lamb, that there is a basic human feeling in us that doesn't like death, even the death of other people." "Excepting when it furthers some idealistic plan--such as, say, the increase of mass production." The Judge smiled in tolerant amusement. "Keep away from economics, Lamb. It's not your field." "No more is the occult yours, Judge. Daniel Legrand was no charlatan, no cheap witchdoctor compounding 'love potions' out of house-dust. Have you read his book on voodoo?" The Judge shook his head. "I thought it might have helped you in reaching a verdict. It's really a masterpiece of intelligent, dispassionate reasoning. When you've read it, you feel that its author must have...powers." The Judge was unimpressed. "'Powers' don't make murder any the less murder, old man." "Murder? Say euthanesia. We shoot mad dogs and nurture human imbeciles. To that halfwitted negress, death was as welcome as life. The whole business was indifferent to her. Legrand knew that she had no claim on life; perhaps he did have a claim on what he might have attained through her death." "whatever he wanted to attain," Judge Maxwell persisted. "I'm glad the police broke in first. It was unnatural, it was repulsive to every fiber of American manhood." "Legrand knew that." Martin was insistent. "That's why he rejected jury trial, and preferred the judgement of one (he hoped) intelligent man." But the Judge was becoming bored. "It's done with now, Lamb; at least, it will be ad midnight. And all your bad logic and false emotion can't keep Legrand from being executed tonight." Martin walked over to the window. "I wasn't trying to save him, you know. I just wanted to make you see that..." "...'there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatius,'" the Judge concluded. He always believed in a bit of the Bard to round off a dictum, and a certain of his textual variants would have amazed scholars. "All right, old fellow, I'll take your word for it. And now it's time for us to stop in on Dick's birthday party. Come on." He was silent as they left the library. "There was just one thing I would never forgive him," he confided to Martin while they walked down the hall. "That was the way they gouged out her eyes before they killed her." The tablecloth could be most simply described as a mess. Bits of pink icing and crumbs of cake--some dry, some soggy with spilled fruit juice--mingled with the fragments of eight wax candles. The remnants of bonbons and tattered paper hats lay about the outskirts of the deserted field. In the center of the table reigned an impressive monarch, a stuffed toy bird, who balanced precariously on two legs and surveyed the surroundings with a cynical and slightly disgusted air. As his eminent father entered the room, Dick Maxwell broke off the joyous wrestling match in which he was engaged with one of the -- 9 --
Saving...
prev
next
TOY CASSOWARY ANTHONY BOUCHER "No, Judge," Martin was saying, "you are wrong in principle. You are still acting on the outworn theory that the life of the individual is important." Judge Maxwell was a trifle irritated. "It's all very well to talk big," he answered, "but you know as well as I do, Lamb, that there is a basic human feeling in us that doesn't like death, even the death of other people." "Excepting when it furthers some idealistic plan--such as, say, the increase of mass production." The Judge smiled in tolerant amusement. "Keep away from economics, Lamb. It's not your field." "No more is the occult yours, Judge. Daniel Legrand was no charlatan, no cheap witchdoctor compounding 'love potions' out of house-dust. Have you read his book on voodoo?" The Judge shook his head. "I thought it might have helped you in reaching a verdict. It's really a masterpiece of intelligent, dispassionate reasoning. When you've read it, you feel that its author must have...powers." The Judge was unimpressed. "'Powers' don't make murder any the less murder, old man." "Murder? Say euthanesia. We shoot mad dogs and nurture human imbeciles. To that halfwitted negress, death was as welcome as life. The whole business was indifferent to her. Legrand knew that she had no claim on life; perhaps he did have a claim on what he might have attained through her death." "whatever he wanted to attain," Judge Maxwell persisted. "I'm glad the police broke in first. It was unnatural, it was repulsive to every fiber of American manhood." "Legrand knew that." Martin was insistent. "That's why he rejected jury trial, and preferred the judgement of one (he hoped) intelligent man." But the Judge was becoming bored. "It's done with now, Lamb; at least, it will be ad midnight. And all your bad logic and false emotion can't keep Legrand from being executed tonight." Martin walked over to the window. "I wasn't trying to save him, you know. I just wanted to make you see that..." "...'there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatius,'" the Judge concluded. He always believed in a bit of the Bard to round off a dictum, and a certain of his textual variants would have amazed scholars. "All right, old fellow, I'll take your word for it. And now it's time for us to stop in on Dick's birthday party. Come on." He was silent as they left the library. "There was just one thing I would never forgive him," he confided to Martin while they walked down the hall. "That was the way they gouged out her eyes before they killed her." The tablecloth could be most simply described as a mess. Bits of pink icing and crumbs of cake--some dry, some soggy with spilled fruit juice--mingled with the fragments of eight wax candles. The remnants of bonbons and tattered paper hats lay about the outskirts of the deserted field. In the center of the table reigned an impressive monarch, a stuffed toy bird, who balanced precariously on two legs and surveyed the surroundings with a cynical and slightly disgusted air. As his eminent father entered the room, Dick Maxwell broke off the joyous wrestling match in which he was engaged with one of the -- 9 --
Hevelin Fanzines
sidebar
