The Edge of Tomorrow by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online Page A

foot of my bed. The edge of my hand was touching the golf club, and with a single motion I swept the club over and down, struck it a savage and accurate blow, and killed it. That was what I referred to before. Whatever kind of a man I am, I react as a man does. I think that any man, black, white or yellow, in China, Africa or Russia, would have done the same thing.
    First I found that I was sweating all over, and then I knew I was going to be sick. I went outside to vomit, recalling that this hadn’t happened to me since 1943, on my way to Europe on a tub of a Liberty Ship. Then I felt better and was able to go back into the shack and look at it. It was quite dead, but I had already made up my mind that I was not going to sleep alone in this shack.
    I couldn’t bear to touch it with my bare hands. With a piece of brown paper, I picked it up and dropped it into my fishing creel. That, I put into the trunk case of my car, along with what luggage I carried. Then I closed the door of the shack, got into my car and drove back to New York. I stopped once along the road, just before I reached the Thruway, to nap in the car for a little over an hour. It was almost dawn when I reached the city, and I had shaved, had a hot bath and changed my clothes before my wife awoke.
    During breakfast, I explained that I was never much of a hand at the solitary business, and since she knew that, and since driving alone all night was by no means an extraordinary procedure for me, she didn’t press me with any questions. I had two eggs, coffee and a cigarette. Then I went into my study, lit another cigarette, and contemplated my fishing creel, which sat upon my desk.
    My wife looked in, saw the creel, remarked that it had too ripe a smell, and asked me to remove it to the basement.
    â€œI’m going to dress,” she said. The kids were still at camp. “I have a date with Ann for lunch—I had no idea you were coming back. Shall I break it?”
    â€œNo, please don’t, I can find things to do that have to be done.”
    Then I sat and smoked some more, and finally I called the Museum, and asked who the curator of insects was. They told me his name was Bertram Lieberman, and I asked to talk to him. He had a pleasant voice. I told him that my name was Morgan, and that I was a writer, and he politely indicated that he had seen my name and read something that I had written. That is formal procedure when a writer introduces himself to a thoughtful person.
    I asked Lieberman if I could see him, and he said that he had a busy morning ahead of him. Could it be tomorrow?
    â€œI am afraid it has to be now,” I said firmly.
    â€œOh? Some information you require.”
    â€œNo. I have a specimen for you.”
    â€œOh?” The “oh” was a cultivated, neutral interval. It asked and answered and said nothing. You have to develop that particular “oh.”
    â€œYes. I think you will be interested.”
    â€œAn insect?” he asked mildly.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œOh? Large?”
    â€œQuite large,” I told him.
    â€œEleven o’clock? Can you be here then? On the main floor, to the right, as you enter.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” I said.
    â€œOne thing—dead?”
    â€œYes, it’s dead.”
    â€œOh?” again. “I’ll be happy to see you at eleven o’clock, Mr. Morgan.”
    My wife was dressed now. She opened the door to my study and said firmly, “Do get rid of that fishing creel. It smells.”
    â€œYes, darling. I’ll get rid of it”
    â€œI should think you’d want to take a nap after driving all night.”
    â€œFunny, but I’m not sleepy,” I said. “I think I’ll drop around to the museum.”
    My wife said that was what she liked about me, that I never tired of places like museums, police courts and third-rate night clubs.
    Anyway, aside from a racetrack, a museum is the most interesting