The Connoisseur
By FRANK BANTA
He said I was the biggest knuckle-head
he ever saw, but I didn't trust him.
Sooner or later I knew he'd insult me!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It is infinitely more satisfactory to purchase wives when they are young. They are vastly more respectful.
Twelve is a good purchasing age. Lisa was twelve when I bargained for her, and she is an illustrious argument for the system.
I recall her excellent father and I facing each other across his gleaming synthol marble table that day. On the table were small metal shells of sweet liquor. And beside the shells were the sedulously gathered treasures I was formally offering for Lisa: A control knob, and a folded painting of one of our Navigator's other-ship visions.
Lisa's father eagerly examined the mirror-bright, chrome surface of the control knob—which I had handed to him with a pretense of casualness—trying to still the trembling of his fingers.