The Wrong Venus Read Online Free Page A

there, kid.
    Only ten now between them and the desk. Eight. The song cut off, and there was a short announcement in French. Colby held his breath. Music blared again. He sighed. Five more to go . . . four . . . two. . . .
    Martine was tendering her passport to the man in the window. Colby had his out and ready. The music stopped, and a voice was speaking French. Colby, his nerves pulled tight, and only half listening to it, was vaguely aware it was a report on food prices at Les Halles.
    Whack! Martine’s passport was stamped and handed back to her. Colby passed his in. He was squarely in front of the officer now.
    “. . . entrecôte vingt-deux francs le kilo. . . .”
    One of the watches began to chime— ding . . . ding. . . .
    “Zut!” the boy said, and clicked off the radio. Ding! In the sudden and horrifying silence, it sounded like Big Ben.
    “No—wait!” Colby whirled, plucked the radio from him, and snapped on the switch. The officer looked up curiously from his routine glance at the passport photograph. The radio came on, blaring. “This could be it!” Colby snapped.
    “. . . haricots verts un franc dix le kilo, aubergine deux francs vingt le kilo . . .”
    He listened, eyes narrowed, tense, modern man living in the shadow of the Bomb. “Everything could depend on this—!”
    “On the price of eggplant?” the officer asked.
    So they had to get one that spoke French. “I’m in the produce business,” he said.
    “Odd. . . . Your passport says you’re a writer.”
    “That’s right. I cover the European produce markets for the Wall Street Journal.”
    “Oh.” The officer shrugged and reached for his stamp. Always joking, these chaps. The watch stopped chiming. Colby sighed.
    “Rendez la moi!” The boy grabbed the radio, turned it off, and kicked him in the shin. “Salaud!”
    Whack! The officer stamped Colby’s passport and was handing it back.
    One of the alarms cut loose. Bzzzzzzzz!
    “Darling!” Martine shrieked. “The Westrays! Over there!” She clutched his arm and waved toward the crowds beyond the barrier.
    “Where?” Colby whirled, waved a frantic greeting, and roared, “Bill! You old sidewinder, you old polecat—!”
    “Marge! . , . Yoo-hoo, Marge, darling—!”
    He had the passport now, and they were hurrying on, still shouting.
    “Alors . . . les anglais!”
    “Américains, madame,” the officer said.
    * * *
    In Customs, Colby stood well back on rubbery legs while she claimed the bags, told the officer there was nothing in them to declare, and that she'd brought in no gifts. She called a porter and turned them over to him.
    “There remained only the guard at the door. She grinned at Colby. “Let’s go.”
    They started out. When they were ten feet short of the doorway, too late to turn back without looking suspicious, one of the watches began to chime and another went off with a strident buzz, but she was between him and the guard, shouting:
    “I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU BOUGHT THE STUPID HEARING AID IN THE FIRST PLACE IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO WEAR IT. DON’T BE SUCH AN IDIOT! LOTS OF YOUNG MEN ARE DEAF! YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE THROWN THE THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS DOWN A WELL FOR ALL THE GOOD IT DOES YOU!”
    They were past.
    His right eardrum might be permanently paralyzed, but they’d made it. He went on out of earshot of the guard and collapsed against a wall. With trembling fingers he lighted a cigarette, and when he looked around she was laughing. He began to laugh too.
    “I’ll never be able to thank you,” he said.
    “Forget it. It was fun.”
    “I’m taking a taxi into town. Could I give you a lift?”
    Thanks awfully, but somebody’s meeting me.”
    “Well, how about dinner tonight?”
    “I wish I could,” she replied. “But I have some business to attend to—”
    “Martine! Martine!”
    They looked around. A man was hurrying toward them through the crowd, a tall, rail-thin man apparently in a state of great agitation. He was bareheaded, but wore a