Winter 1878 – Every Devil Has A Mailing Address

 

“Why would you give me this, Pudovkin?” I asked. I looked again at the notebook. The addresses were written in the alchemist’s clear, tight cursive. 

“Would you believe that my conscience drove me to it? The men listed on those pages are poor scientists. They are driven more by their ambitions and the empty hungers of their intellect than by beneficent curiosity.” He gave me a tight and wholly unconvincing smile. None of his teeth showed between his lips. 

“No, Pudovkin, I do not believe that your conscience could rise you out of your chair if your house were on fire. Do you have a more convincing lie to tell me?”