Killer, Come Back to Me

“It is, to the last detail!”

George Hill drew forth a signed check for ten thousand dollars. The man departed with it.

The room was silent and warm.

George sat and felt for the gun in his pocket. A lot of money. But rich men can afford the luxury of cathartic murder. The violent unviolence. The death without death. The murder without murdering. He felt better. He was suddenly calm. He watched the door. This was a thing he had anticipated for six months and now it was to be ended. In a moment the beautiful robot, the stringless marionette, would appear, and…

“Hello, George.”

“Katie!”

He whirled.

“Katie.” He let his breath out.

She stood in the doorway behind him. She was dressed in a feather-soft green gown. On her feet were woven gold-twine sandals. Her hair was bright about her throat and her eyes were blue and clear.

He did not speak for a long while. “You’re beautiful,” he said at last, shocked.

“How else could I be?”

His voice was slow and unreal. “Let me look at you.”

He put out his vague hands like a sleepwalker. His heart pounded sluggishly. He moved forward as if walking under a deep pressure of water. He walked around and around her, touching her.

“Haven’t you seen enough of me in all these years?”

“Never enough,” he said, and his eyes were filled with tears.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Give me time, please, a little time.” He sat down weakly and put his trembling hands to his chest. He blinked. “It’s incredible. Another nightmare. How did they make you?”

“We’re not allowed to talk of that; it spoils the illusion.”

“It’s magic!”

“Science.”

Her touch was warm. Her fingernails were perfect as sea-shells. There was no seam, no flaw. He looked upon her. He remembered again the words they had read so often in the good days. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks.…Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely.…Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies… there is no spot in thee.

“George?”

“What?” His eyes were cold glass.

He wanted to kiss her lips.

Honey and milk are under thy tongue.

And the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

“George.”

A vast humming. The room began to whirl.

“Yes, yes, a moment, a moment.” He shook his humming head.

How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince’s daughter! the joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman.…