Free And Now the News by Theodore Sturgeon Page A

turning back, Brunhilde found herself in the direct gaze of both her companions.
    â€œMy poor brother met his ancestors there,” said Yem, sorrowfully, “as he was replacing the money, and the other things.”
    â€œOther things?”
    Yem shrugged. “Things of little value, except to us. Some carved jade, and a little golden casket containing a scrap of rice paper. It was supposed to be an original poem by Sun Yü,” he added regretfully. “The money was nothing. Money is only the substance of living—stuff of the bones and the belly. The craftsmanship of two thousand years ago is important only to that part of a man which is not an animal.”
    â€œI understand,” said Brunhilde. “And of course it was a man who was all animal who stole the things. Have you found nothing that would indicate who the criminal was?”
    Yem Foong shrugged tiredly. “How can one know for certain? The shop was not yet locked. It was just at dusk, which is a rapid thing in the tropics. I was in Kingston, buying yard goods, and the servants were in their quarters. And during that time when everything is shadowed, someone slipped in and did—what was done.
    â€œIt could have been from inside or outside; it could have been some wanderer on the road outside, a stranger; or it could have been a neighbor, or even someone here—who knows? The promise of riches draws many kinds of men.”
    A servant entered, a dark brown youth with sharply slanted brows and woolly hair which grew into a widow’s peak. Brunhilde watched him upward through her lashes as he catfooted around the table, setting out the appetizer.
    When the boy left, Cotrell said, “That is Stanley?” as if for Brunhilde’s benefit.
    â€œYes,” said Yem. “A strange boy, but a good one.”
    â€œHe looks like Mephisto himself,” murmured Brunhilde to the dish before her. It was one she had not seen before—half a starapple, an exotic fruit with a five-pointed star of red-purple in its center, and delectable flesh which shaded off through red and pink to snow-white on the outside.
    â€œMephisto. Interesting you should say that,” said Cotrell. “Eh, Foong?”
    â€œYes,” said the oriental. “Stanley’s father was an
obeah
man—a wizard, up in the mountains near Gimme-Me-Bit. Stanley is the only native I have ever known who watches a sunset for the beauty he finds there. He collects colored stones, too, and has done some remarkable things in landscapes made with moth’s wings.”
    Stanley returned with the soup—black bean soup, piping hot, freshened with a touch of limejuice and containing chilled spears of avocado. Again Brunhilde’s thoughtful gaze was on the boy.
    â€œYou seem very quiet,” said Cotrell halfway through the course.
    â€œWhat else?” smiled Brunhilde Moot. “The soup—it has quite left me speechless! Delicious, Mr. Yem.”
    â€œI delight in your enjoyment,” said Yem.
    â€œI wonder,” said Cotrell, “how you’ll enjoy
this
,” and, reaching under the table, he scooped up something and dropped it in front of her with a thump. It was an old, earth-stained, leather-bound satchel.
    â€œWh—” It was barely a sound at all which Brunhilde Moot uttered. “Why should I enjoy a thing like this?” she asked steadily.
    â€œYour sense of the dramatic,” said Cotrell.
    She looked at him with a new roundness to her eyes. There was obviously a kind of subtlety which she had considered quite beyond this sallow, patient, tropical man. She looked at the satchel.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s the bag that was buried in the corner there.”
    â€œWhere on earth did it come from?”
    â€œRight across the road. It’d been thrown into the canefield,” said Cotrell. He busied himself with the straps. Almost defiantly, Brunhilde ate