Meddler's Moon

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science-Fiction, September 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Peter Hedgerly heard the door open and close and he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He turned partly and called out through the semi-closed bedroom door.

"Sit down, honey. I'll be right out."

Joan Willson was early, he thought, but it made no matter. It merely gave them more time togeth--

"I'll sit down," came a deep, pleasant masculine rumble, "but I'm not your honey!"

Peter hit the door and skidded into the living room, his loose shirttail flying out behind him. "Who're you?" he demanded sharply.

"Please do not be disturbed. Finish dressing," said the stranger. Peter measured him. A few pounds heavier than Peter's one hundred and sixty; an inch taller than Peter's five feet eleven. About the same sandy blond complexion. The face was wreathed in a beatific smile that in no way matched Peter's exasperation.

"I'm expecting a guest," snapped Peter. "The door was open for ... the guest. Not for stray strangers seeking company or whatever."

"I know. My presence will make no difference."

"No difference?" exploded Peter angrily. "Look, sport, three's a crowd. Technically, you're trespassing. Shall I prove it by calling the police?"

"You may if you wish," replied the stranger. "But I happen to know for certain that you will not."

"No?" snapped Peter. He headed toward the telephone with all of the determination in the world. The stranger watched him tolerantly. Peter reached the table beside the door and reached for the phone. As his hand touched it, the door opened and Joan Willson came in. She gulped at Peter and said: "Oh!"

Peter became aware of the fact that his nether raiment consisted of shoes, socks, paisley-print shorts and a curtailed-shirttailed WPB model shirt.

He echoed Joan's "Oh!"

His ejaculation died like the diminishing wail of a retreating fire siren. That was because the duration of the monosyllabic diphthong exceeded the time necessary for Peter to gain the security of the bedroom where he donned his trousers and wished there were something he could do to cover the blush of embarrassment on his face. His ears especially.