Free The Ultimate Egoist by Theodore Sturgeon Page A

to … thinking about—Terry! Terry, tell me! You love Ben! Don’t you? You—” Another storm of weeping was answer enough. “Terry! Snap out of it, child. Come on, imbecile; we have to talk this thing out. Good heavens; with all the men in the world, you have to pick on … and me too … oh, what a miserable, maudlin
mess!
”
    Terry quieted after a bit; rose calmly and went to the dresser, where she stood with her back to the bed, skillfully applying a new complexion. Finished, she whirled and said suddenly with utter frigidity, “Florence, I love him and I mean to have him. I’m sorry, but I can’t give him up, not even for you. I’ve
got
to do this!”
    “Do you think you can?” Florence was desperately afraid, but tried not to show it.
    Terry laughed and looked in the mirror, looked at Florence, and laughed again. “What do you think?” And she went out. She was as lovely as ever a woman could be, and they both knew it.
    For weeks after that the two of them fought each other desperately. Florence was more than a little hurt at Terry’s action; for Ben was truly Florence’s first; it hit her harder because of that. Terry had hundreds of friends. She would get over it. If Florence didn’t win this crazy battle, she’d never recover. Everything was at stake—her own peace of mind, her hopes of years of intensive work; all would be destroyed if her petulant sister got what she was after. Florence had two things on her side, however. One was a mental level on which she could meet Ben Pastene; the other was a philosophical sense of humor, which made things a bit easier for her. In spite of the agony she went through, she still found herself able to laugh at all three of them. If she thought in emotional headlines the way Terry did, she would no doubt term the conflict as one of science against beauty. An amusing thought … true, though. Now, how catch a man with a noose of light?
    Ben, poor fellow, hovered betwixt and between. True, his world was nearer that of Florence; but that was all the more reason whythe brilliant, scintillating Terry appealed. After seeing either he could think of nothing else—until he saw the other. They both knew it, and both worked the harder.
    The showdown came on a Thursday evening. Ben had two tickets to an opening night, and was to call for Terry. Terry took a good two hours dressing, and a beautiful job she did of it. Florence came to the door of the bedroom once to look. Terry had just slipped into a breathtaking gown—golden satin, with a great black sash. Terry’s cornsilk hair artfully matched it, sweeping upward just enough to follow the clinging lines of the gown. Terry glanced up at Florence and said nastily, patting the smooth lines, “Point one for the common people.” Florence made not a sound; she closed the door softly and went and stood in the middle of the living room, pulling her lower lip and thinking like mad. Then she slipped into her little laboratory, did some more thinking, and finally came back with an odd-shaped electric light bulb in her hand. She fitted it into a floor lamp, carried the lamp over to the daybed and adjusted it to throw its light left-center on the pillowed surface. Then she went to the closet and got a rich black velvet spread for the couch. When she had finished she changed the hall light for a pale blue globe, almost daylight. Then she went into her own bedroom, changed quickly into a very chic tailored tweed, and threw on a laboratory smock over it. A dab at face and lips, and she was ready.
    The doorbell buzzed. Terry emerged from her room, uttered a gasp of delight at the way the stage was set. She could no more keep away from that bath of golden light on the daybed than could any other moth keep away from the flame … the whole room shaped itself toward that artfully illuminated center stage. Terry sat just where the light would do the most good, arranged the rich fold of her dress, and called, “Open the door,