Theodore Sturgeon - The Sex Opposite

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The Sex Opposite

Theodore Sturgeon

Budgie slid into the laboratory without knocking, as usual.

She was flushed and breathless, her eyes bright with speed and eagerness. "Whatcha got, Muley?"

Muhlenberg kicked the morgue door shut before Budgie could get in line with it. "Nothing," he said flatly, "and

of all the people I don't want to see—and at the moment that means all the people there are—you head the list. Go

away."

Budgie pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into an oversized shoulder bag, which she hurled across the

laboratory onto a work surface. "Come on, Muley. I saw the meat-wagon outside. I know what it brought, too. That

double murder in the park. Al told me."

"Al's jaw is one that needs more tying up than any of the stiffs he taxis around," said Muhlenberg bitterly.

"Well, you're not getting near this pair."

She came over to him, stood very close. In spite of his annoyance, he couldn't help noticing how soft and full

her lips were just then. Just then—and the sudden realization added to the annoyance. He had known for a long time

that Budgie could turn on mechanisms that made every one of a man's ductless glands purse up its lips and blow like

a trumpet. Every time he felt it he hated himself. "Get away from me," he growled. "It won't work."

"What won't, Muley?" she murmured.

Muhlenberg looked her straight in the eye and said something about his preference for raw liver over Budgie-

times-twelve.

The softness went out of her lips, to be replaced by no particular hardness. She simply laughed good-naturedly.

"All right, you're immune. I'll try logic."

"Nothing will work," he said. "You will not get in there to see those two, and you'll get no details from me for

any of that couche-con-carne stew you call a newspaper story."

"Okay," she said surprisingly. She crossed the lab and picked up her handbag. She found a glove and began to

pull it on. "Sorry I interrupted you, Muley. I do get the idea. You want to be alone."

His jaw was too slack to enunciate an answer. He watched her go out, watched the door close, watched it open

again, heard her say in a very hurt tone, "But I do think you could tell me why you won't say anything about this

murder."

He scratched his head. "As long as you behave yourself, I guess I do owe you that." He thought for a moment.

"It's not your kind of a story. That's about the best way to put it."

"Not my kind of a story? A double murder in Lover's Lane? The maudlin mystery of the mugger, or mayhem in

Maytime? No kidding, Muley—you're not serious!"

"Budgie, this one isn't for fun. It's ugly. Very damn ugly. And it's serious. It's mysterious for a number of other

reasons than the ones you want to siphon into your readers."

"What other reasons?"

"Medically. Biologically. Sociologically."

"My stories got biology. Sociology they got likewise; stodgy truisms about social trends is the way I dish up

sex in the public prints, or didn't you know? So—that leaves medical. What's so strange medically about this case?"

"Good night, Budgie."

"Come on, Muley. You can't horrify me."

"That I know. You've trod more primrose pathology in your research than Krafft-Ebing plus eleven comic

books. No, Budgie. No more."

*******

"Dr. F.L. Muhlenberg, brilliant young biologist and special medical consultant to the City and State Police, intimated

that these aspects of the case—the brutal murder and disfigurement of the embarrassed couple—were superficial

compared with the unspeakable facts behind them. 'Medically mysterious,' he was quoted as saying." She twinkled at

him. "How's that sound?" She looked at her watch. "And I can make the early editions, too, with a head. Something

like DOC SHOCKED SPEECHLESS—and a subhead: Lab Sleuth Suppresses Medical Details of Double Park

Killing. Yeah, and your picture."

"If you dare to print anything of the sort," he raged, "I'll—"

"All right, all right," she said conciliatingly. "I won't. I really won't."

"Promise me?"

"I promise, Muley...if—"

"Why should I bargain?" he demanded suddenly. "Get out of here."

He began to close the door. "And something for the editorial page," she said. "Is a doctor within his rights in

suppressing information concerning a murderous maniac and his methods?" She closed the door.

Muhlenberg bit his lower lip so hard he all but yelped. He ran to the door and snatched it open. "Wait!"

Budgie was leaning against the doorpost lighting a cigarette. "I was waiting," she said reasonably.

"Come in here," he grated. He snatched her arm and whirled her inside, slamming the door.

"You're a brute," she said rubbing her arm and smiling dazzlingly.

"The only way to muzzle you is to tell the whole story. Right?"

"Right. If I get an exclusive when you're ready to break the story."

"There's probably a kicker in that, too," he said morosely. He glared at her. Then, "Sit down," he said.

She did. "I'm all yours."

"Don't change the subject," he said with a ghost of his natural humor. He lit a thoughtful cigarette. "What do

you know about this case so far?"

"Too little," she said. "This couple were having a conversation without words in the park when some muggers

jumped them and killed them, a little more gruesomely than usual. But instead of being delivered to the city morgue,

they were brought straight to you on the orders of the ambulance intern after one quick look."

"How did you know about it?"

"Well, if you must know, I was in the park. There's a shortcut over by the museum, and I was about a hundred

yards down the path when I..."

Muhlenberg waited as long as tact demanded, and a little longer. Her face was still, her gaze detached. "Go on."

"...when I heard a scream," she said in the precise tone of voice which she had been using. Then she began to

cry.

"Hey," he said. He knelt beside her, put a hand on her shoulder. She shoved it away angrily, and covered her

face with a damp towel. When she took it down again she seemed to be laughing. She was doing it so badly that he

turned away in very real embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said in a very shaken whisper. "It...was that kind of a scream. I've never heard anything like it. It

did something to me. It had more agony in it than a single sound should be able to have." She closed her eyes.

"Man or woman?"

She shook her head.

"So," he said matter-of-factly, "what did you do then?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all, for I don't know how long." She slammed a small fist down on the table. "I'm

supposed to be a reporter!" she flared. "And there I stand like a dummy, like a wharf rat in concussion-shock!" She

wet her lips. "When I came around I was standing by a rock wall with one hand on it." She showed him. "Broke two

perfectly good fingernails, I was holding on so tight. I ran toward where I'd heard the sound. Just trampled brush,

nothing else. I heard a crowd milling around on the avenue. I went up there. The meat-wagon was there, Al and that

young sawbones Regal—Ruggles—"

"Regalio."

"Yeah, him. They'd just put those two bodies into the ambulance. They were covered with blankets. I asked

what was up. Regalio waved a finger and said 'Not for schoolgirls' and gave me a real death-mask grin. He climbed

aboard. I grabbed Al and asked him what was what. He said muggers had killed this couple, and it was pretty rugged.

Said Regalio had told him to bring them here, even before he made a police report. They were both about as upset as

they could get."

"I don't wonder," said Muhlenberg.

"Then I asked if I could ride and they said no and took off. I grabbed a cab when I found one to grab, which

was all of fifteen minutes later, and here I am. Here I am," she repeated, "getting a story out of you in the damnedest

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