do not care for intrusions, and I am sure that you are of the same mind. Am I right?'
Wayness reminded herself that she must be nice to Mr. Buffums, so that he should not feel insecure. She smiled politely. “You have had far more experience than I, Mr. Buffums; undoubtedly you know best.”
Mr. Buffums nodded. “I can see that you are a shrewd young lady, and I have no doubt but what you will be a great success.'
“Thank you, Mr. Buffums; I am glad to hear you say so, and I will be grateful for your help.'
Mr. Buffums made a large gesture. “Of course! Why not?' He went to lean against his desk. He did not seem particularly insecure, thought Wayness; was that a good or a bad sign? He was certainly a most puzzling person, definitely of a volatile temperament, one moment cantankerous, the next arch and facetious. She looked around the office. To the left a sliding partition closed off a section of the room; to the right was a desk, chairs, table, communicator, shelves, files and other office paraphernalia. Four narrow windows overlooked a garden court.
“You find me at a slack moment,' said Mr. Buffums. “I am, if I say so myself, an able administrator, which means that the work of the company proceeds without my constant guidance. This is all to the good, since it leaves me more time for my private interests. By any chance, have you studied the philosophy of aesthetics?”
“No, not at any length.”
'It happens to be one of my own interests. I specialize in one of the most profound and universal aspects of the subject, even though, for one reason or another, it commands little serious or scholarly attention. I refer, of course, to erotic art.'
“Fancy that” said Wayness. 'I wonder if you are acquainted with the Naturalist Society?'
Mr. Buffums seemed not to hear. “My collection of erotic curiosa is naturally not exhaustive, but I flatter myself that its overall quality is superb. I occasionally show it to persons with an intelligent and sympathetic attitude. What of yourself?' He watched her closely.
Wayness spoke carefully: 'I have never studied the subject and, for a fact, I know next to nothing.'
Mr. Buffums interrupted her with a wave of the hand. “No matter! We will consider you an interested amateur, with many latent potentialities.”
'I'm sure of that, but—'
“Look.' Mr. Buffums touched a switch; the partition dividing his office split, folded and disappeared, to reveal an extensive area which Mr. Buffums had converted into a sort of museum of erotic art, symbols, artifacts, adjuncts, representations, statues, statuettes, miniatures and an unclassifiable miscellaneity. Nearby stood a marble statue of a nude hero in a state of acute priapism; across the room another statue depicted a woman preoccupied with the attentions of a demon.
Wayness glanced about the collection, her viscera squirming from time to time, but her most urgent impulse was laughter. Such a reaction would surely offend Mr. Buffums, and she carefully blanked away all expression from her face, showing only what she felt to be polite interest in the exhibits.
Evidently this was not enough. Mr. Buffums was watching her through half-closed eyes and showing a frown of dissatisfaction. Wayness wondered where she had gone wrong. A new idea entered her mind: “Of course! He is an exhibitionist if I show shock or distress or so much as lick my lips, he will be stimulated.” She brooded a moment. “Naturally I want to be nice to Mr. Buffums and put him into a good mood.” But not in this particular way; it was beneath her dignity.
Mr. Buffums spoke in a rather pompous voice: “In the Great Mansion of Art there are many chambers, some large, some small, some swimming in rainbow fluxes; others which reveal themselves in colors more subtle and muted and rich; others still are revealed only to the truly discriminating. I am one of those latter and my special field is erotica. I have roamed its near and far shores; I know every permutation and extravagance. “
—
“That is impressive. In regard to my own concerns — ”
Mr. Buffums paid no heed. 'As you can see, I am cramped for space. I can give only cursory attention to the amatory musics, the postures, the provocative scents and odors.' Mr. Buffums glanced at her sidewise, brushing aside a lock of the ash-blond hair which had fallen forward over his eye, and which made so striking a contrast with his dark eyebrows. ”Still, if you like, I will anoint you with a drop of what the legendary Amuille called her ’Summons to the Hunt’.”
“I don’t think it would be convenient today,” said Wayness. She hoped that Mr. Buffums would not be put off by her evasiveness. “Perhaps some other time.”
Mr. Buffums gave a terse nod. “Perhaps. What do you think of my collection?”
Wayness spoke judiciously: From the limits of my own experience, it would seem exhaustive.”
Buffums looked at her in reproach. “No more? Nothing else? Let me show you around; persons of imagination are often fascinated, or even excited.”
Wayness smilingly shook her head. “I must not impose upon you.”
“No imposition whatever I find it hard to restrain my enthusiasm.” He went to a table. 'For instance, these articles here, so common, so ordinary, so often misunderstood.'
Wayness glanced down at the table. She searched for something to say, since Mr. Buffums clearly expected an intelligent comment. “I don’t quite see how anyone could misunderstand. They seem most assertive.”
''Yes, possibly so. They lack all subtlety and they do not dissemble. Perhaps that is there charm. Did you say something?'
'Nothing of consequence.”
“They are what best might be called 'folk art’,' said Mr. Buffums. “They pervade every era of history, and all classes of society, and serve many functions: puberty rituals, voodoo curses, fertility rites, buffoonery and pranks, and other more workaday purposes. The best are carved from wood. They come in all sizes, colors and degrees of tumescence.”
Mr. Buffums waited for Wayness comment. She said cautiously: 'I don’t think I would call such things 'folk art'.'
“Oh? What would you call them?'
Wayness hesitated. 'Now that I think about it, 'folk art' is as good a name as any.'
'Just so. These raffish little articles often do yeoman service for folk who must be considered aesthetic vulgarians. At such times thongs or straps are inserted through these holes to make them fit — “ Mr. Buffums took up one of the objects and, smiling modestly, held it against himself ' — in this fashion. What do you think of it?”
Wayness examined him critically. “It does not go well with your complexion. The pink one yonder would suit you better. It is larger and more conspicuous but is probably in better taste.'
Frowning, Mr. Buffums put the article aside and turned petulantly. Wayness saw that she had annoyed him despite all efforts to be tactful.
Mr. Buffums took a few quick steps toward his desk, then halted and swung about. “Well then, Miss Whatever-your-name.'
“I am Wayness Tamm, and I am here on behalf of the Naturalist Society.”
Mr. Buffums arched his dark eyebrows high. 'Is this a joke? To my clear understanding the Naturalist Society is defunct.'
“The local chapter is somewhat inactive,” Wayness admitted. “However, there are plans to renew the Society. For this reason we are trying to trace certain records which were consigned to Mischap and Doorn by the then Secretary, Frons Nisfit. If you could inform us about these documents, we would be most grateful.”
Mr. Buffums went to lean against his desk. “That is all very well, but for seven generations we have nurtured a reputation for confidentiality which affects each transaction, large or small. Nothing has changed. We cannot risk any conduct which might involve us in litigation.”
“But there is no reason for such concern Nisfit was authorized to dispose of Society assets and certainly no one questions Mischap and Doorn's conduct.”
“That is gratifying news,” said Mr. Buffums wryly.
“As I mentioned, we are only trying to recover some of the Society memorabilia.'
Mr. Buffums gave his head a slow shake. “These objects will now have been scattered far and wide; at least, such is my opinion.”
“That is the worst case,' said Wayness. 'It is just possible that everything is in the hands of a single collector.'
