Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
No Strings Attached
By Lester del Rey
Illustrated by Kelly Freas
ommitting a perfect murder is a simple matter. Drive out some nightto a lonely road, find a single person walking along out of sight ofanyone else, offer him a ride, knife him, and go home. In such acrime, there's no reason to connect killer and victim—no motive, noclue, no suspect.
To achieve the perfect murder of a man's own wife, however, is adifferent matter. For obvious reasons, husbands are always high on thesuspect list. Who has a better reason for such a crime?
Henry Aimsworth had been pondering the problem with more than academicinterest for some time. It wasn't that he hated his wife. He simplycouldn't stand the sight or sound of her; even thinking about her madehis flesh crawl. If she had been willing to give him a divorce, he'dhave been content to wish her all the happiness she was capable ofdiscovering. But Emma, unfortunately, was fond of being his wife;perhaps she was even fond of him. Worse, she was too rigidly bound totrite morality to give him grounds to sue.
There was no hope of her straying. What had been good enough for hermother was good enough for her, and saved all need of thinking; awoman needed a husband, her place was in the home, marriage wasforever, and what would the neighbors think? Anyhow, she'd have haddifficulty being unfaithful, even if she tried. She'd been gainingsome ten pounds every year for the eleven years they had been married,and she'd long since stopped worrying about taking care of herappearance.
He looked up at her now, letting the book drop to his lap. She satwatching the television screen with a vacant look on her face, whilesome comic went through a tired routine. If she enjoyed it, there wasno sign, though she spent half her life in front of the screen. Thenthe comic went off, and dancers came on. She went back to darning apair of his socks, as seriously as if she didn't know that he hadalways refused to wear the lumpy results. Her stockings had runs, andshe still wore the faded apron in which she'd cooked supper.
He contrasted her with Shirley unconsciously, and shuddered. In theyear since Shirley Bates had come to work in his rare book store, he'ddone a lot of such shuddering, and never because of the slim blondewarmth of his assistant. Since that hot day in August when they'dclosed the shop early and he'd suggested a ride in the country to cooloff, he and Shirley....
He was interrupted in his more pleasant thoughts by the crash ofscissors onto the floor, and his eyes focussed on the deepening foldsof fat as Emma bent to retrieve them. "Company coming," she said,before he could thin