The Recalcitrant By Evelyn Goldstein He was proud of his shining strength and his home in the bee-loud glade. Why did men seek only his destruction? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _We're convinced that only a woman could have written this story. There is a heartbreaking quality of suspense to it--of tenderness diffused through a web of high poetry. The compassion is wholly womanly, but the breath of a fierce vitality stirs in it too. Evelyn Goldstein has captured the tragedy of the not-quite-human with a deftness extraordinary._ This golden day was pollen-scented, warmed by the mid-summer sun. Out in the garden the breeze was slight. And a great furred honeybee circled and dipped, touching the vivid azaleas, drinking the heart of the iris, and swiftly rising to the purple rhododendron cups. Dark green ivy twined the porch railing of the trim white cottage. From behind the curtains of fragile glasseen Jim Simson peered out at his garden with caution and longing. He could almost feel the moist rich soil in his fingers, could almost smell the blossoms through the tight closed windows. In all weathers, on brilliant days and blue and silver nights, he and Amelia had worked the garden. Now the hours of planting and tending were done. He raised haunted eyes to the hills beyond. Between the young pines on the sweet sloped breasts he could see the pale thread of road. Momentarily, where a curve brought it into view, the sun glinted on the metal helicar that moved purposefully toward him. _They'll be here in an hour, he thought. And then they'll take and destroy what I am. And I'll lose Amelia forever._ That was the thing he could not bear. Worse than torment it seemed, worse than destruction itself. In agony he turned. The cool comfort of his house made fantastic the knowledge within him. There in the corner stood the fine cherrywood desk he had made. Every bit of the polished dark furniture, every section had been sanded and grained and carved by his hands. And all the fabricing--rugs and pillows, delicate covers and hangings--all Amelia's handiwork. They two, starting from bare black earth had built this home, foundations and beams, studs and floorboards, shingles and shutters, outside and in, their work, their love. He thrust out his hands, and moved in blind panic to the arch of the kitchen. Amelia looked up from the work table. The soft tan of sun was deep on her cheeks, and her clear green eyes kindled at sight of him. "I'm up to the last bouquet," she smiled and indicated the straw basket that was full of neatly tied herbs ready for Jim to take to the market.