Orbit 12 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  For a second he lay in a daze before he sat up and hugged his right foot that was suddenly throbbing. A second more and pain ripped through him like a hundred hot needle pricks. He gingerly slipped off his shoe, then gulped when he saw his sock. It was soaked with blood.

  He stripped off the sock and nearly fainted when he saw the hole where his little toe had been. Blood was pumping out in little spurts. It looked as if the toe had been torn out by the roots, as if something or someone had yanked it out or bitten . . .

  He sucked in his breath. Retroaction. What the hell did it mean? It meant that things that were now affected things that were before. Or did it mean that now went backward and started all over again? Some of the stuff must still be in his body, it had a strong affinity to the bottle’s contents, and the deadly element in each was about to defy the laws of sanity.

  The ring was the size of a quarter, so small he could scarcely see it. He took the bottle from his pocket, hobbled across the intervening space and rammed the cap into the closing circle. He shoved and pushed while the circle grew smaller.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  He cursed. His thigh began to rip, just a tiny bit, and blood dripped down his leg. He doubled up his fist and beat on the end of the bottle, tried to force it through the narrowing hole.

  A hand closed upon his shoulder and attempted to pull him away. He raised his good leg and kicked backward. He felt his shoe connect with something soft.

  His thigh oozed at a faster rate and he raised his fist and smashed the bottle with all his strength. There was a loud popping noise as the bottle disappeared.

  The pain in his foot and the tearing sensation in his thigh ceased at once. A roaring wind filled his brain and he collapsed to the ground with his head in his hands.

  When at last the roaring subsided he opened one eye and peered between his fingers. He saw a purple meadow.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. This wasn’t Turner Street. This wasn’t anywhere.

  A sniffling sound made him turn his head. Six feet away sat a little brown naked man with blood on his mouth and fury in his eyes. Perched on top of his fuzzy head was a gold crown. Behind him Tom saw several other brown men dragging something across the purple grass. He squinted in order to make out what it was they were carrying toward him. It looked like a pot.

  He took off running. There was really nothing else to do. And there was really no reason for too much despair. He had saved one king’s life and almost gotten killed; now he had kicked another king in the teeth. He was bound to come out of this smelling like a rose.

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  Gene Wolfe

  CONTINUING WESTWARD

  CONTINUING westward until nearly sundown we came to a village of stone huts. Earlier it had been very hot, even with the wind from the airscrew in our faces. The upper wing had provided a certain amount of shade for me, but Sanderson, my observer, had nothing but his leather flying helmet between his head and the sun, and I believe that by the time we halted he was near delirium. Every few miles he would lean forward, tap me on the shoulder, and ask, “Suppose the landing gear goes too, eh? What then? What shall we do then?” and I would try to shout something reassuring over my shoulder as we jolted along, or swear at him.

  Both the upper and lower wings had broken about midway on the left. The ends of them and what remained of the bamboo struts and silk trailed on the ground, the focal point of the long plume of dust we raised. I was afraid the dust might be seen by Turkish horse and wanted to get out and cut the wreckage away; but Sanderson argued against it, saying that when we halted it might be possible to effect some repairs. Every few miles one or the other of us would get out and try to tie it up onto the good sections, but it always worked loose again. By the time we reached the village there wasn’t much left but rags and wires.

  The sound of our engine had frightened the people away. We stopped in front of the largest of the huts and I drew my Webley and went up and down the village street looking into doors while Sanderson covered me with the swivel-mounted Lewis gun, but no one was there. A hundred yards off, camels tethered in the scrub watched us with haughty eyes while we found the village well and drank from big, unglazed jars. It was wonderful and we slopped it, letting the water run down our faces and soak our tunics. Then we sat on the coping and smoked until the people, in timorous twos and threes, began to come back.

  The children came first, dirty, very unappealing children with sad silent faces and thin or bow-bellied bodies; the smaller children naked, the larger in garments like short nightshirts, grey with perspiration and dust

  Then the women. They wore black camels-hair gowns that reached their ankles, yashmaks, and black head shawls. Between shawl and veil their eyes looked huge and very dark, but I noticed that many were blind, or blind in one eye. They didn’t touch us as the children had, or try to talk to us. They pulled the children back, whispering; and when they spoke among themselves, standing in small groups twenty yards away and gesticulating with flashing brown arms, the sound was precisely that of sparrows quarreling in the street, heard from a window several stories high.

  The men came last, all of them bearded, wearing grey or white or blue-dyed robes. They had daggers in their sashes, and although they never touched them we kept our hands on our revolvers. These men said nothing to us or to each other or the women, but stood around us in a half circle watching and, I thought, waiting. Only the children seemed really interested by our aircraft, and they were too much in awe to do more than stroke the hot cowling with the tips of their fingers. It came to me then that the scene was Old Testament biblical, and I suppose it was; people like this not changing much.

  Eventually a man older than the rest came forward and began to talk to us. His beard was almost white, and he had a deep, solemn voice like an ambassador on a state occasion. I looked at Sanderson, who claims to parley-voo wog, but he was as out of it as I. We waited until the old boy had finished, then pointed to our mouths and rubbed our bellies to show that we wanted something to eat

  It was mutton stewed in rice when we got it, everything flavored strongly with saffron and herbs. Not a dish that would have appealed under normal circumstances, but these were far from that, and for a time I dug in as heartily as Sanderson, sitting cross-legged and dipping the stuff up with my fingers.

  The chief and two of his men sat across from us, trying to pretend that this was a normal social dinner. More of the men had tried to crowd in at the beginning, but Sanderson and I had discouraged that, cocking our revolvers and shouting at them until all but these had left. It had resulted, as they say, in a strained atmosphere; but there had been no help for it. At close quarters in the hut we couldn’t have managed more than the three of them if they had decided to rush us with their knives.

  When we had eaten all we could, a sweet was brought out, a sticky pink paste neither of us wanted. Then strong unsweetened coffee in brass cups, and the chiefs daughter.

  Or perhaps his granddaughter or the daughter of one of the other men. We had no way of really knowing; at any rate a young girl in linen trousers and vest, with her fingers and toes hennaed red-pink and her eyes heavily outlined by some black cosmetic. Her hair was braided and coiled high on her head, bound and twined with copper wire and little black disks like coins, and she wore more tinkling junk, hundreds of glass things like jelly beans, around her neck and wrists and on her fingers. She danced for us, jingling and swaying, while an older woman played the flute.

  In cafés I’d seen that sort of thing done so often, and often so much better, that it was absurd that it should affect me as it did. Perhaps I can make it clear: think of a chap who’s learned to swim, and done it often, in tiled natatoriums, seeing the sort of pool a clear brook makes under a willow. Better: a dog raised on butcher’s meat feels his jaws snap the first time on his own rabbit. I glanced at Sanderson and saw that, stuffed as he was with rice and mutton (the man has eaten like a pig ever since I’ve
known him and is a joke in our mess), he felt the same way. Once she bent backward and put her head in my lap the way they do, which gave me a really good look at her; she was a choice piece right enough, but there was one thing I must say gave me a bit of a turn. The little black thingummies I’d thought were coins were really electric dohiclaes of some sort, though you could see the wires had been twisted together and nothing worked anymore. Even the glass jelly beans had wires in them. I suppose these wogs must have stolen radios or some such from the Turks and torn them up to make jewelry. Then she laid her head in Sanderson’s lap, and looking at him I knew he’d go along.

  They had pitched a tent for us near the plane, and after we had taken her out there the two of us discussed in a friendly way what was to be done. In the end we matched out for her. Sanderson won and I lay down with my Webley in my hand to watch the door of the tent.

  In a way I was glad to be second—happy, you know, for a bit of a rest first. It had been bloody early in the morning when we’d landed to dynamite the Turkish power line, and I kept recalling how the whole great thing had flashed up in our faces while we were still setting the charge. It seemed such a devil of a long time ago, and after that taxiing across the desert dragging the smashed wings while mirages flitted about—a good half million years of that, if the time inside one’s head means anything . . .

  Mustn’t sleep, though. Sit up. Now her.

  She had taken off her veil when we had brought her in. I kept remembering that, knowing that no act however rash or lewd performed by an Englishwoman could have quite the same meaning that that did for her. She had reached up with a kind of last-gasp panache and unfastened one side of it like a man before a firing squad throwing aside his blindfold—a girl of perhaps fifteen with a high-bridged nose and high cheekbones.

  I had thought then that she would merely submit unless (or until) something broke through that hawk-face reserve. Sitting there listening to her with Sanderson, I knew I had been wrong. They were whispering endearments though neither could understand the other, and there was a sensuous sound to the jingle of the glass beans and little disks that made it easy to imagine her hands stroking an accompaniment to words she scarcely breathed. It seemed incredible that Sanderson had not removed the rubbish when he undressed her but he had not. After a time I felt I could distinguish the locations from which those tiny chimings came: the fingers and wrists, the ankles, the belt over the hips loudest of all.

  It reached a crescendo, a steady ringing urgent as a cry for help, and over it I could hear Sanderson’s harsh breathing. Then it was over and I waited for her to come to me, but she did not.

  Just as I was about to call out or go over and take hold of her they began again. I couldn’t make out what Sanderson was saying —something about loving forever—but I could hear his voice and hers, and I heard the ringing begin again. Outside, the moon rose and sent cold white light through the door.

  They were longer this time; and the pause, too, was longer; but at last they began the third. I tried to stare through the blackness in the tent, but I could see nothing except when a wire or one of the glass beans flashed in the inky shadow. Then there was the insistent jingling again, louder and louder. At last Sanderson gave a sort of gasp, and I heard a rustle as he rolled away from her.

  Half a minute and the jingling began again as she stood up; her feet made soft noises on the matting walking over to where I lay. She spoke, and although I could not understand the words the meaning was clear enough: “Now you.” I holstered my revolver and pulled her down to me. She came willingly enough, sinking to a sitting posture and then, gradually it seemed to me, though I could not see her, lying at full length.

  I ran my hands over her. In the half minute between Sanderson’s gasp and the present I had come to understand what had happened; the only question that remained was the hiding place of her weapon. I stroked her, pretending to make love to her. Under the arms—no. Strapped to the calf—no. She hissed with pleasure, a soft exhalation.

  Then it came to me. There is almost no place where a man will not put his hands when he takes a woman; but there is one, and thus this girl had been able to kill Sanderson after lying with him half the night

  A man will touch a woman’s legs and arms everywhere, caress her body, kiss her lips and eyes and cheeks and ears. But he will not, if she is elaborately coifed, put his hands in her hair. And if he attempts to, she may stop him without arousing his suspicions.

  She cried out, then bit my hand, as I tore away the disk-threaded wires, but I found it—a knife not much larger than a penknife yet big enough to open the jugular. I knew what I was going to do.

  I threw the knife aside and used the wires to tie her, first stuffing my handkerchief in her mouth as a gag. Then with my revolver in my hand I stepped out into the village street, looking around in the moonlight. I could see no one, but I knew they were there, watching and waiting for her signal. They would be too late.

  Back in the tent I picked her up in my arms, drew a deep breath, then burst out sprinting for the aircraft. Even with her arms and legs bound she fought as best she could, but I stuffed her into Sanderson’s place. They would be after us in moments, but I squandered a few seconds on the compass, striking a lucifer to look at it though it was hopelessly dotty as usual, having crawled thirty degrees at least away from the north star. The engine coughed, then caught, as I spun the airscrew; and before the aircraft could build up speed I had jumped onto the wing and vaulted into the cockpit. The roar of the exhaust shook the little village now. We rolled forward faster and faster and I felt the tail come up.

  I knew she couldn’t understand me, but I turned back to the girl shouting, “We’ll do it! We’ll find something tomorrow, bamboo or something, and repair the wing! We’ll get back!”

  Sanderson was running after us in his underclothes, so I had been wrong, but I didn’t care. I had her and the aircraft, racing across the desert while meteors miles ahead shot upward into the sky. “We’ll do it,” I called back. “Well fly!” Her eyes said she understood.

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  ARCS & SECANTS

  Edward Bryant (“Shark” and “Pinup”) once won a red ribbon at a Wyoming State Fair for a table lamp made from the smokestack of a John Deere tractor. Among his more recent distinctions is a tie for first place in the NAL awards for the best stories from the 1971 Clarion Writers’ Workshop. He is thirty-three, a soft-spoken Westerner who wears a Wyatt Earp mustache. He has sold twenty-nine stories to original anthology series. This is probably a record.

  Avram Davidson, author of “The Roads, the Roads, the Beautiful Roads” (Orbit 5), “Goslin Day” (Orbit 6), and “Rite of Spring” (Orbit 8), informed us that having been engaged in abstracting and transcribing from a work entitled Egyptian Mummies, by Dawson and Smith, in aid of his incessant and unending labor on the matrix of the Vergil Magus legends, he could not refrain from passing on the information that “‘the mummy of the ivth Ramesses (sic), an elderly man, probably about fifty years of age (and) well-preserved,’ contains two features which must strike one as slightly curious. Or three. The anus is plugged with a ball of resin, and Tor artificial eyes small onions are used.’ They give, say the authors, ‘a surprisingly realistic effect.’“ A month or so later, Mr. Davidson sent us a dinosaur coprolite. We asked him if he had ever thought of going into the manufacturing end.

  Ursula K. Le Guin (“Direction of the Road”) writes about herself: “I grew up in a city and a family both of which might be characterized by saying that they combined a great deal of freedom with a great deal of order. Both provided plenty of intellectual stimulation, without social overhomogeneity or emotional aridity. Berkeley was very beautiful then, and was (and is) full of both strange and interesting people. Summers we went to the Napa Valley, where an intensive and individualistic kind of agriculture (vineyards) coexists with real wilderness and solitude. I had three older brothers, and mostly ran around after them. My father was a scient
ist, in the most humane of the fields where the scientific method really functions, anthropology; we absorbed his attitudes, and perhaps some of his joie de vivre; and the idea of science as antagonistic to esthetic, social, and spiritual concerns therefore seems merely a misunderstanding to me. As a child I wanted to be a poet and biologist. In college (where again my experience was of self-imposed discipline as a way towards personal and intellectual freedom) I studied French literature because I liked foreign languages, and specialized in the early French and Italian Renaissance, because I liked the 15th century. I had dropped the biology ambition because I could not do math, either through poor teaching or innate stupidity; I have no science now except what is available to the interested layman. I always wrote, and finished a first novel at twenty-one. In graduate school the imperative to write grew stronger, and though I liked research enormously it became all too clear that, for a woman, a Ph.D. in Romance literature was likely to mean at least twenty years of teaching freshman English and not much else, a dreary prospect. A Fulbright grant to France put off the problem for a year, and marriage to another Fulbright student while in Paris changed its terms altogether. It is very difficult for one person to undertake two lifetime jobs and do both well, but two people in partnership can handle three lifetime jobs. My husband is an historian, I am a novelist, and we are both householder/parents. It’s Kropotlan’s principle of Mutual Aid, It works beautifully if you don’t mind working. I kept writing some while the children were litde, but did not get anything published until I was over thirty. It did not worry me desperately because I knew I had a great deal to learn, and a lifetime job is very likely to take a lifetime. My life itself has been bourgeois and uneventful; the events are there, but they’re not the kind you can say much about. I have always written science fiction and fantasy, I suppose because life has always seemed a very strange business to me, and you can communicate that best by using what Darko Suvin calls the devices of ‘estrangement.’”