Henry Meets His Match

“I don’t read science fiction”, said Henry.

“But you love who-done-it detective stories”, I said, “and this is quite a good one, a series of them in fact.” Henry’s demeanour changed. “Those are different”, he sniffed, “you can’t compare the adventures of Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot to a crime-solving tart in a space-suit.” The room had suddenly gotten very stuffy. “I see”, I said. A self-satisfied, yet subdued “Harumph” issued forth from Henry.

I leaned toward him. “I see that you have already decided that the protagonist is a ‘tart’.” Tell me, how exactly does she accomplish this while wearing a bulky pressure suit? Which she rarely does, by the way.” Henry opened his mouth to protest but I cut him off. “Never mind”, I said dismissively, “obviously you consider these books beneath you”, and I resumed reading the news. Henry went quiet and I let the silence hang in the air, looking up from my reading just as he was about to speak in his defence. “Does that make you a literary bigot?”, I asked.

The look on Henry’s face was precious. “Of course not!” he spluttered, “I’ve just never liked science fiction. Couldn’t get into it, people prancing around in metallic skin-tight jumpers brandishing ray guns and travelling about in flying saucers. It’s only “literature” because it’s written down. Can’t stomach the stuff.” His airs had returned, his nose rising above it all.

“What if I told you that those things are not in this series?” Henry shot me a dubious yet still haughty look. I pressed on. “What if I told you the guns, when there are guns, fire bullets just as they do here. That flying saucers are nowhere to be seen, and the only jumpsuits present are of the kind that a construction worker wears. His attitude changed ever so slightly, a somewhat dubious expression creeping across his face.

“So why is it science fiction then?” he asked. “Well”, I replied, “it does take place on a space station in orbit around Saturn, I think that still qualifies as science fiction. The story isn’t about all that though, although it does play a role; it is first and foremost a murder mystery, of the sort that’s right up your alley.” I could see he was beginning to warm to the idea, yet still doubtful.

“No sci-fi silliness?” he asked. “None whatsoever”, I replied. “Of course there is going to be a reference or two to ships, the work being done there, and how life is in that kind of an environment, but no silliness.” There was a pause in the conversation.

“Can I borrow your tablet?” I said. Henry started to hand the device to me and stopped midway. “What are you going to do with it?” he asked. “Oh come now Henry, we’ve known each other what, 20 years? ” “Twenty- one,” he muttered. “Twenty-one then. I’m not going to do anything that will cause harm or get you into trouble.” His tablet resumed its journey toward me.

“There”, I said, completing my task. “I put the free sample in your e-book reader. Give it a read, you’ve got nothing to lose and might be pleasantly surprised? He took the device from me somewhat gingerly, as if it might at any moment somehow bring him to harm.

A week later I was once again sat in the cafe sipping my favourite latte when Henry arrived. He was late, as usual, and gave me a quick nod as he proceeded to the sales counter to place his order. I resumed reading, looking up when Henry plonked himself down opposite me, a steaming cup of tea and an enormous croissant in front of him.

“Hmmm, you’ve never ordered a croissant in the past”, I said, “they’re quite good.” “Somewhat more than edible?” he asked. I recognized that bit, it was from the book I had put on his tablet, although not in the free sample. “Henry? Have you been reading sci-fi?” I queried, “specifically Andorra Pett and the Oort Cloud Cafe?” He grinned a sheepish grin. “Yes”, he said, quickly adding “but it’s science fiction only because it’s set on a space station orbiting Saturn. Other than that it’s a murder mystery; right up my alley.” We both broke up laughing at ourselves from the week before.

Taking a bite of the croissant Henry stared at the busy city street on the other side of the glass. “Imagine”, he said, “looking out of the window at a view of the rings of Saturn while munching on your favourite comestibles”. He snapped out of it. “Oh, I’m a big enough man to admit it, you were right. But I’m not a sci-fi fan!” he hastily added.

“I never said you were Henry, I never said you were.”