Tales of the Black Widowers - By Isaac Asimov Page 0,22

of tonight's meal."

"Calories, calories," groaned Avalon softly.

Halsted's teaspoon clinked as he stirred the sugar in his coffee and elaborately ignored Rubin's flat ukase that anyone who added anything at all to good coffee was a barbarian. He said, "Do we humor Tom now and get our guest to tell us about matchbooks?"

Klein looked about the table and said with a small laugh, "I'm willing to do it, but I don't know that it's interesting-"

"I say it's interesting," said Trumbull.

"All right. I won't fight it. I started the whole thing, as a matter of fact. We were at the Cock and Bull on Fifty-third Street-"

"Jane insisted on eating there one time because of the name," said Rubin. "Not so hot."

Trumbull said, "I'll strangle you, Manny. What's all this talk about your wife today? If you miss her, go home."

"You're the only one I know, Tom, who would make any man miss any wife."

"Please go on, Mr. Klein," said Trumbull.

Klein began again. "Okay. I started it, as I said, by lighting a cigarette, while we were waiting for the menu, and then getting uncomfortable about it. I don't know how it is, but it seems there's a lot less smoking at meals these days. At this table, for instance, Mr. Drake is the only one smoking. I guess he doesn't mind-"

"I don't," muttered Drake.

"I did, though, so after a few puffs I stubbed out the cigarette. Only I was embarrassed, so I fiddled with the matchbook I had lit the cigarette with; you know, the ones restaurants always supply at every table."

"Advertising themselves," said Drake. "Yes."

"And this fellow... I have his name now-Ottiwell. I don't know his first name."

"Frederick," growled Trumbull, with glum satisfaction. "Then you do know him." "I do know him. But go on."

"I was still holding the matchbook in my hand, and Ottiwell reached for it and asked if he could see it. So I passed it to him. He looked at it and he said something like 'Moderately interesting. Not particularly imaginative in design. I've got it.' Or something like that. I don't remember the exact words."

Halsted said reflectively, "That's an interesting point, Mr. Klein. At least you know you don't remember the exact words. In all these first-person narratives, the fellow telling the story always remembers every word everyone has said, and in the right order. It never carries conviction with me."

"It's just a convention," said Avalon seriously as he sipped at his coffee, "but I admit third-person is more convenient. When you use first-person, you know that the narrator will survive all the deadly perils into which he

will be-"

"I wrote a first-person narrative once," said Rubin,

"in which the narrator dies."

"That happens in the western song, 'El Paso,' too,"

said Gonzalo.

"In 'The Murder of Roger'-" began Avalon.

And Trumbull rose and banged his fist on the table. "So help me, you bunch of idiots, I will kill the next guy who talks. Don't you believe me when I tell you this thing is important?... Go on, Mr. Klein."

Klein looked more than a little uncomfortable. "I don't see its importance myself, Mr. Trumbull. There's not even much to it. This Ottiwell took to telling us about matchbooks. Apparently, there's a whole thing about it to people who are involved in it. There are all kinds of factors that increase the value: not only beauty and rarity but also whether the matches are intact and whether the friction strip is unmarked. He talked about difference in design, in location of the friction strip, in type and quantity of printing, whether the inside of the cover is blank or not, and so on. He went on and on, and that's about it.

Except that he made it sound so interesting it captured me, as I said."

"Did he invite you to visit his place and see his collection?"

"No," said Klein, "he didn't."

"I've been there," said Trumbull, and having said that, he sat back in his chair with a look of deepest dissatisfaction covering it thickly.

There was a silence and, as Henry distributed the small brandy glasses, Avalon said, with a touch of annoyance, "If the threat of murder has been lifted, Tom, may I ask what the collector's place was like?"

Trumbull seemed to return, as from a distance. "What? Oh... It's weird. He started collecting when he was a kid. For all I know he got his first samples out of gutters and alleys like Gonzalo did, but at some point it turned serious.

"He's a bachelor. He doesn't work. He doesn't have to. He's