By Damon Knight
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Extra info for A For Anything
True, most of the ingredients were duped to begin with, so the distinction was not crucial; but it was there. He ate hungrily but without satisfaction, pushed the remnants of the yellow-smeared whites around on his plate, crunched off another bite of toast, then gave up and threw the plate, silverware and all, into the waste chute. All the same, having eaten made a difference. Feeling gloomy but less irritable, he went out, down the corridor past the kitchens with their tantalizing odor of roast fowl and pastry, and emerged from the hillside exit.
One after another, the leading figures of all three families were sketched in—Jeremy Logan, who had fought the Morganists at Pimple Hill and Big Pocono; Fabrique deForest Dabney, the founder of the line, whom the family slobs still claimed to see on moonlit nights, riding like a domon and dressed in nothing but his famous white bread; Edward R. Jones and his single-handed conquest of Buckhill. As he listened, although he knew the story by heart, Dick grew aware as never before, not only how proud a record his family had, but how precarious a thing it was.
What wouldn’t Blashfield say to him on Monday! . But there wasn’t going to be any Monday: there, he’d forgotten again. Abruptly the sun-warmed cloth over his shoulderblades was no longer pleasant; the carbine had turned to a dead stick of metal in his hands. What was he doing here in a silly picnic shoot, when A for Anything 55 he ought to be using his last minutes at Buckhill saying good-by to the lake, or the pheasant woods, or down at the stables . .? ” said Cashel’s monitor slob, cheerfully.