He set the lighter down and noticed yet another strange property—the ruby egg was smoothly rounded at the bottom, yet it sat upright, with no tendency to topple over. His magnifier showed an ornate letter P engraved in the base, but provided no clue as to how the balancing act was achieved.
Connor gulped the remainder of his drink and, with eyes suddenly sober and watchful, took a fresh look around the room. He discovered a beautiful clock, apparently carved from solid onyx. As he had half-expected, there was no way to open it, and the same elaborate P was engraved on the underside.
There was also a television set which had a superficial resemblance to an expensive commercial model but which bore no maker’s name plaque. He checked it over and found the now-familiar P inscribed on one side where it would never be noticed except by a person making a purposeful search. When he switched the set on, the image of a newscaster which appeared was so perfect that he might have been looking through a plate glass window into the man’s face. Connor studied the picture from a distance of only a few inches and could not resolve it into lines or dots. His magnifier achieved no better results.
He switched the television off and returned to the armchair, filled with a strange and powerful emotion. Although it was in his nature to be sharp and acquisitive—those were attributes without which he could never had entered his chosen profession—it had always remained uppermost in his mind that the world’s supply of money was unlimited, whereas his own allocation of years was hopelessly inadequate. He could have trebled his income by working longer and pushing harder but had always chosen another course simply because his desire for possessions had never taken control.
That, however, had been before he discovered the sort of possessions real money could buy. He knew he was particularly susceptible to gadgets and toys, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the harsh raw hunger he now felt.
There was no way that anybody was going to stop him from joining the ranks of those who could afford future-technology artifacts. He would prefer to do it by marrying Angela, because he loved her and would enjoy sharing the experiences, but if she refused to have him back, he would do it by making the necessary millions himself.
A phrase which had been part of his train of thought isolated itself in his mind. Future technology. He weighed the implications for a moment, then shrugged them off—he had lost enough mental equilibrium without entertaining fantasies about time travel.
The idea, though, was an intriguing one. And it answered certain questions. The lighters he coveted, partly for their perfection and partly because they could earn him a fortune, were technically far in advance of anything on the world’s markets, yet it was within the realm of possibility that a furtive genius was producing them in a back room somewhere. But that impossibly good television set could not have been manufactured without the R D facilities of a powerful electronics concern. The notion that they were being made in the future and shipped back in time was only slightly less ridiculous than the idea of a secret industry catering exclusively for the superrich…
Connor picked up the cigar and lit it, childishly pleased at having a reason to put the ruby egg to work. His first draw on the cool smoke gave him the feeling that he had been searching for something all his life and suddenly had found it. Cautiously at first and then with intense pleasure he filled his lungs with the unexpected fragrance.
He luxuriated. This was smoking as portrayed by tobacco company commercials—not the shallow, disappointing experience commonly known to smokers everywhere. He had often wondered why the leaf which smelled so beguiling before it was lit, or when someone nearby was smoking, promising sensual delights and heart’s ease, never yielded anything more than virtually tasteless smoke.
They promise you “a long cool smoke to soothe a troubled world,” Connor thought, and this is it. He took the cigar from his mouth and examined the band. It was of unembellished gold and bore a single ornate P.
“I might have known,” he announced to the empty room. He looked around through a filigree of smoke, wondering if everything in the room was different from the norm, superior, better than the best. Perhaps the ultra-rich scorned to use anything that was available to the man in the street or advertised on television or…
“Philip!” Angela stood in the doorway, pale of face, shocked and angry. “What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the best cigar I’ve ever had.” Connor got to his feet, smiling. “I presume you keep them for the benefit of guests—I mean, a cigar is hardly your style.”
“Where’s Gilbert?” she snapped. “You’re leaving right now.”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s what you think.” Angela turned with an angry flail of blonde hair and cerise skirts.
Connor realized he had to find inspiration and get in fast. “It’s too late, Angela. I’ve smoked your cigar; I lit it with your lighter; I have checked the time with your clock; and I’ve watched your television.”
He had been hoping for a noticeable reaction and was not disappointed—Angela burst into tears. “You bastard! You had no right!”
She ran to the table, picked up the lighter, and tried to make it work. Nothing happened. She went to the clock, which had stopped; and to the television set, which remained lifeless when she switched it on. Connor followed her circuit of the room, feeling guilty and baffled. Angela dropped into a chair and sat with her face in her hands, huddled and trembling like a sick bird. The sight of her distress produced a painful churning in his chest. He knelt in front of Angela.
“Listen, Angie,” he said. “Don’t cry like that. I only wanted to see you again—I haven’t done anything.”
“You touched my stuff and made it change. They told me it would change if anybody but a client used it… and it has.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Who said what would change?”
“The suppliers.” She looked at him with tear-brimmed eyes, and all at once he became aware of a perfume so exquisite that he wanted to fall toward its source like a suffocating man striving toward air.
“What did you…? I don’t…”
“They said it would all be spoiled.”
Connor tried to fight off the effects of the witch-magic he had breathed. “Nothing has been spoiled, Angie. There’s been a power failure… or something…” His words trailed away uncertainly. The clock and the television set were cordless. He took a nervous drag on the half-smoked cigar and almost gagged on the flat, acrid taste of it. The sharp sense of loss he experienced while stubbing it out seemed to obliterate all traces of his scepticism.
He returned to Angela’s chair and knelt again. “They said this stuff would stop working if anybody but you touched it?”
“Yes.”
“But how could that be arranged?”
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “How would I know? When Mr. Smith came over from Trenton, he said something about all his goods having an… essence field, and he said I had a molecular thumbprint. Does that make sense?”
“It almost does,” Connor whispered. “A perfect security system. Even if you lost your lighter at the theatre, when somebody else picked it up it would cease to be what it was.”
“Or when somebody breaks into your home.”
“Believe me, it was only because I had to see you again, Angie. You know that I love you.”
“Do you, Philip?”
“Yes, darling.” He was thrilled to hear the special softness return to her voice. “Look, you have to let me pay for a new lighter and television and…”