Crompton Divided Read Online Free

in a semicircle, were six armchairs in which were seated the six members of the Board. In the center of the semicircle, in an armchair one-third bigger than the others, and raised upon a dais, was the legendary John Blount. Founder of the Firm and Chairman of the Board of Directors.
    ‘It’s Crompton is it?’ Blount said in his cracked and quavering voice. ‘Come forward, Crompton, let’s take a look at you.’
    John Blount was old, considering him as a single personality. But from the viewpoint of the average age of his various parts, Blount was not even middle-aged. Over the years, most of Blount’s vital organs had been repaired or replaced. Even his skin (shining with obscene pinkness) was no more than ten years old. His brain was original issue, however, as were his ancient and unfathomable eyes that gleamed incongruously in his firm-fleshed young man’s face like the eyes of a gila monster poking through a vat of orange jello.
    ‘Well, Crompton, and how have you been?’ Blount said, the old man’s quavering voice issuing strangely from the strong young body. (Blount refused to have his voice changed; his hands, too, were original issue. Blount perversely maintained that he enjoyed being old and had no desire to achieve a spurious youthfulness. He wanted to be old, but alive, and did what was necessary to maintain that state.)
    ‘I’ve been fine, sir,’ Crompton said.
    ‘Glad to hear it, Crompton, glad to hear it. I have followed your career with interest. You have done fine work for this company, my boy, hee hee hee! And now you have favored me with another sample of your talents?’
    ‘I hope it will please you, sir,’ Crompton said, resisting the sudden irrational urge to throw himself at Blount’s feet and grovel abjectly; for this was how the man’s presence affected everyone, including Blount’s wife, who had calluses half an inch thick on her knees from following her impulses.
    ‘Well, then, let’s get on with it, hee, hee, hee,’ Blount said, and extended a hand as dry and hard-fleshed as the talons of a Nigerian vulture.
    Crompton put the quartz bottle in Blount’s hands and stepped back.
    The Founder unstoppered it and delicately sniffed (with his original-issue nose – for it was a matter of pride and discretion with him not to tamper with the organ that had made him rich beyond the dreams of avarice).
    ‘Now what have we here?’ he mused aloud, his nostrils flexing strongly to allow the fragrance to distribute itself evenly across his old, leathery, but still sensitive olfactory center.
    Blount was silent for a time, head thrown back, nostrils working like tiny twin bellows. Crompton knew that the Founder was analyzing the concoction in terms of its primary olfactory qualities, separating and judging the mixture of flowery, fruity, putrid, spicy, burned and resinous odors. After that, Blount could be counted upon to estimate the intensity of the various components, measuring them in olfacties, the unit of smell-intensity. Only after his analysis was complete would Blount relax and permit himself to experience the effect of the substance.
    ‘First impressions – seaside at Point Pleasance, a rosewood bower, desert winds, a child’s haunted face, the smell of north wind … Pretty indeed, Crompton! And now the initial rebound effect – intensification – sun on salt water – windrows of kelp – silver cliffs, an iron mountain – and the girl, the girl!’
    The Directors stirred uneasily to hear that vibrant cry torn from the throat of the differentially juvenescent Founder. Had Crompton slipped up, perhaps not calculated rotating radical?
    ‘The girl,’ the Founder cried, ‘the girl in her white lace mantilla! Oh, Nieves, how could I have forgotten you! I see before me now the black waters of Lake Titicaca lapping at the ironwood pilings. That great bird of ill omen, the condor, soars low overhead, and the sun comes but from behind massed clouds of purple and pink. You hold