The Connoisseur
By FRANK BANTA
He said I was the biggest knuckle-head
he ever saw, but I didn't trust him.
Sooner or later I knew he'd insult me!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It is infinitely more satisfactory to purchase wives when they areyoung. They are vastly more respectful.
Twelve is a good purchasing age. Lisa was twelve when I bargained forher, and she is an illustrious argument for the system.
I recall her excellent father and I facing each other across hisgleaming synthol marble table that day. On the table were small metalshells of sweet liquor. And beside the shells were the sedulouslygathered treasures I was formally offering for Lisa: A control knob,and a folded painting of one of our Navigator's other-ship visions.
Lisa's father eagerly examined the mirror-bright, chrome surfaceof the control knob—which I had handed to him with a pretense ofcasualness—trying to still the trembling of his fingers.
"The last knob on the control board!" he said in an emotion-crackedvoice. "How could you have broken it off? We've all been tugging at itfor years."
I answered—I hope with no more than legitimate pride—"I managed toget a thin hacksaw blade between the knob and the control board. Then Isawed off the shaft."
He nodded approvingly. "With knuckle-headed men like you aboard ship wewill certainly all go to Hell."
I bowed, but I did not let his flattery relax my caution. After all, wewere bargaining for his prettiest daughter. What flattering words bearweight in the midst of a sale? He, of course, referred to the ringingsincerity of our Navigator's dying words: "If you knuckle-heads allwant to go to Hell, just keep dismantling the ship!"
Swinging adroitly to my other item of barter, I mused aloud, "OurNavigator! What a strange, frantic creature he was. Full of the wild,lovely visions which effervesced from his books of fantasy. Imploringus not only to read the books but to believe them—and, failing that,drawing immortal paintings of the fantasies for us to see."
Therewith I opened the folded painting and handed it reverently to him.It showed a large globular ship with people living on the outside ofit. The title of the painting was Planet.
Privately I had always thought the thing was wholly unnatural—acurious off-beat of the master's imagination. I was quite willing,despite its great beauty and its origin, to exchange it for somethingwhich to me was far more attractive at the moment. Namely a woman.
Lisa lay curled up on the narrow, in-wall couch, with her head proppedup by a slim arm. She chewed her synthel-gum lazily and surveyed mewith mild interest. She was a tender-featured girl, with shimmeringblack, shoulder-length hair. It was possible to forecast that she wouldsome day be a lovely and gentle-hearted woman.
Her father, notwithstanding his habitually rigid integrity, saw mylively interest in her and tried to increase my generous bid for her byan artifice of delay.
Holding the painting of the master at arm's length, he grumbledcritically, "A vision of Hell would have been more to my liking.Unhappily our Navigator did not paint one of his radiant visions ofthat ship. Now, why would he prefer Planet to Hell—particularlywhen he described Hell as warm and enclosed like our own sh