Orbit 7 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  No it wasn’t. There was something else coming down from the chimney, or from the hidden sky: pebbles, stones, indescribable bits of foul oozings, the less fastidious pieces of the sky; a light nightmare rain had begun to fall there; the chimney was apparently beginning to crumble.

  ‘It’s the damndest thing I ever heard about,’ Robert Derby growled. ‘Do you think that Magdalen really went off with Anteros?’ Derby was bitter and fumatory this morning and his face was badly clawed.

  ‘Who is Magdalen? Who is Anteros?’ Ethyl Burdock asked.

  * * * *

  Terrence Burdock was hooting from high on the mound. ‘All come up,’ he called. ‘Here is a find that will make it all worthwhile. We’ll have to photo and sketch and measure and record and witness. It’s the finest basalt head I’ve ever seen, man-sized, and I suspect that there’s a man-sized body attached to it. We’ll soon clean it and clear it. Gah! What a weird fellow he was!’

  But Howard Steinleser was studying a brightly coloured something that he held in his two hands.

  ‘What is it, Howard? What are you doing?’ Derby demanded.

  ‘Ah, I believe this is the next stone in sequence. The writing is alphabetical but deformed, there is an element missing. I believe it is in modern English, and I will solve the deformity and see it true in a minute. The text of it seems to be —’

  Rocks and stones were coming down from the chimney, and fog, amnesic and wit-stealing fog.

  ‘Steinleser, are you all right?’ Robert Derby asked with compassion. ‘That isn’t a stone that you hold in your hand.’

  ‘It isn’t a stone. I thought it was. What is it then?’

  ‘It is the fruit of the Osage orange tree, the American Meraceous. It isn’t a stone, Howard.’ And the thing was a tough, woody, wrinkled mock-orange, as big as a small melon.

  ‘You have to admit that the wrinkles look a little bit like writing, Robert.’

  ‘Yes, they look a little like writing, Howard. Let us go up where Terrence is bawling for us. You’ve read too many stones. And it isn’t safe here.’

  ‘Why go up, Howard? The other thing is coming down.’

  It was the bristled-boar earth reaching up with a rumble. It was a lightning bolt struck upward out of the earth, and it got its prey. There was explosion and roar. The dark capping rock was jerked from the top of the chimney and slammed with terrible force to the earth, shattering with a great shock. And something else that had been on that capping rock. And the whole chimney collapsed about them.

  She was broken by the encounter. She was shattered in every bone and member of her. And she was dead.

  ‘Who – who is she?’ Howard Steinleser stuttered.

  ‘Oh God! Magdalen, of course!’ Robert Derby cried.

  ‘I remember her a little bit. Didn’t understand her. She put out like an evoking moth but she wouldn’t be had. Near clawed the face off me the other night when I misunderstood the signals. She believed there was a sky-bridge. It’s in a lot of the mythologies. But there isn’t one, you know. Oh well.’

  ‘The girl is dead! Damnation! What are you doing grubbing in those stones?’

  ‘Maybe she isn’t dead in them yet, Robert. I’m going to read what’s here before something happens to them. This capping rock that fell and broke, it’s impossible, of course. It’s a stratum that hasn’t been laid down yet. I always did want to read the future and I may never get another chance.’

  ‘You fool! The girl’s dead! Does nobody care? Terrence, stop bellowing about your find. Come down. The girl’s dead.’

  ‘Come up, Robert and Howard,’ Terrence insisted. ‘Leave that broken stuff down there. It’s worthless. But nobody ever saw anything like this.’

  ‘Do come up, men,’ Ethyl sang. ‘Oh, it’s a wonderful piece! I never saw anything like it in my life.’

  ‘Ethyl, is the whole morning mad?’ Robert Derby demanded as he came up to her. ‘She’s dead. Don’t you really remember her? Don’t you remember Magdalen?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Is she the girl down there? Isn’t she the same girl who’s been hanging around here a couple days? She shouldn’t have been playing on that high rock. I’m sorry she’s dead. But just look what we’re uncovering here!’

  ‘Terrence. Don’t you remember Magdalen?’

  ‘The girl down there? She’s a little bit like the girl that clawed the hell out of me the other night. Next time someone goes to town they might mention to the sheriff that there’s a dead girl here. Robert, did you ever see a face like this one? And it digs away to reveal the shoulders. I believe there’s a whole man-sized figure here. Wonderful, wonderful!’

  ‘Terrence, you’re off your head. Well, do you remember Anteros?’

  ‘Certainly, the twin of Eros, but nobody ever made much of the symbol of unsuccessful love. Thunder! That’s the name for him! It fits him perfectly. We’ll call him Anteros.’

  Well, it was Anteros, lifelike in basalt stone. His face was contorted. He was sobbing soundlessly and frozenly and his shoulders were hunched with emotion. The carving was fascinating in its miserable passion, his stony love unrequited. Perhaps he was more impressive now than he would be when he was cleaned. He was earth, he was earth itself. Whatever period the carving belonged to, it was outstanding in its power.

  ‘The live Anteros, Terrence. Don’t you remember our digging man, Anteros Manypenny?’

  ‘Sure. He didn’t show up for work this morning, did he? Tell him he’s fired.’

  ‘Magdalen is dead! She was one of us! Dammit, she was the main one of us!’ Robert Derby cried. Terrence and Ethyl Burdock were earless to his outburst. They were busy uncovering the rest of the carving.

  And down below, Howard Steinleser was studying dark broken rocks before they would disappear, studying a stratum that hadn’t been laid down yet, reading a foggy future.

  <>

  * * * *

  To Sport with Amaryllis

  by Richard Hill

  The neon lights of Fuzzy Lipschits’ Tit City Topless Taco Parlor and Ye Olde Donut Shoppe blinked expensively and seductively through the smog. A neon girl’s breasts became donuts, then tacos, then donuts again, as Harley Mode tooled his 74 dress bike smoothly into the parking lot, pleasantly aware of the soft pressure of his wife, Amaryllis, on the seat behind him. He found a space and cut the engine, set the stand and turned to her. “Honey, we’re here.”

  She was beautiful like this, he thought, her eyes closed in pleasure and her plump, dungaree-encased thighs unaware that the vibration had stopped. God, she loved to ride that bike. He kissed her on an eyelid, darkened either by cosmetics or soot, and hefted a soft breast under her T-shirt. “Amaryllis, this is it. We’re here. Remember Andy Warhol, maybe Andy Warhol will be here tonight.”

  Amaryllis moved slowly on the seat and opened her eyes. “Jesus, Harley, that was a good ride. That was a gooood ride.”

  “I know,” said Harley fondly, helping her off the bike. Amaryllis was still walking tenderly when the doorman smiled and admitted them.

  It was clear immediately that Andy Warhol was not there, at least not yet, though there was a gigantic photograph of him hanging from the ceiling, in which he appeared to be accepting a taco and a Margarita from one of Fuzzy’s topless waitresses. The photo nagged at Harley. He didn’t like to think about it but he had the suspicion it might be doctored; it looked too much like an Esquire cover. But he put that from his mind, as a waitress showed them to a booth. After all, there was the Early American furniture, a nice eclectic touch, he thought, and the Visi-Box which showed underground movies, and the Chem-Sac sound system, and, of course, the waitresses, not a minus 37 in the lot. He noticed a pudgy man in a sharkskin suit and wondered if it might be Lipschits himself. The man was standing in a corner, looking worried, and that did not improve Harley’s mood.

  Amaryllis and Harley had really wanted to see Andy Warhol, especially Amaryllis, who had visions of herself as a star, but this hardly seemed the right crowd for
it. Tourists occupied a few booths, blushing and elbowing one another when a waitress walked by. A dark man in a turban sat alone near the bar and shot frame after frame with his 35-millimeter camera. Some high-school kids were getting juiced on $2.50 Margaritas near the front door. And a very obviously stoned Negro hummed “Bernie’s Tune” in a booth behind them. Altogether a drag.

  Harley tried to soften the blow. “Hey, dig, they’ve got Chem-Sac here,” he said with false enthusiasm. Amaryllis was unmoved. But Harley read from the sampler on the wall anyway, hoping something would cheer her: Chem-Sac is a dramatic innovation in the world of popular as well as serious music. The sound you hear comes from strings of various lengths and tensions being parted by the action of a powerful space-age acid. The musician pours from a vial in each hand on the string or strings of his choice, and the sound of the string parting is amplified by the most sophisticated equipment money can buy. The music is taped and played continuously for your listening pleasure.

  “Bullshit,” said Amaryllis, and they sat silently for a while as the various sized and tensioned strings made a variety of boings and pyoings and pings. “The squares are here and you know it,” she said finally. “He’s not coming.”

  “Maybe not,” Harley said softly. “You wanta split?”

  “I’m too uptight. Let’s have a drink first. Get me a Margarita . . . and a donut.”

  Harley sensed the order was a form of protest and signaled quickly for a waitress. The one who came was Wanda, whom they knew from the days when she and Amaryllis had worked together in the Lace Spittoon as Israeli belly dancers. When the topless craze came, Amaryllis, who had beautiful but almost nippleless breasts, had bitterly gone back to work as a masseuse while Wanda, amply nippled, went topless. They realized with some surprise that she was also bottomless.

  “Wanda, what’s happening?” asked Amaryllis, brightening at the prospect of a raid.

  “Fuzzy just gave the word to go bottomless,” said Wanda, nervously shielding herself with her order book. “Figures a raid will hypo business until he thinks of something else. It was either that or let some of us go.”

  So that was Lipschits he saw, thought Harley with some excitement. It was a name of some consequence in the avant-garde. At least they had seen him.

  “But what’s the shyness routine?” asked Amaryllis, who opposed any form of repression.

  “This damn appendix scar,” said Wanda. “Fuzzy almost didn’t let me come on with the others, until I convinced him the leather crowd might dig it. I gotta keep it covered from the straights.”

  “Like us?” asked Amaryllis, delighted with the irony. They all laughed at this, and Harley flushed with pleasure at seeing his wife happy again.

  Wanda brought their order and hurried off to serve a growing crowd. It was amazing how quickly word spread along the freeways. Harley entertained briefly the idea of Warhol coming after all, but didn’t want to raise Amaryllis’ hopes. There were still a lot of tourists around, and another crowd of teenies from the Strip. The turbaned man had a movie camera now and was zooming madly over his untouched tequila. The stoned spade was still behind them, still humming softly to himself Cannonball’s solo on “Milestones” or an occasional June Christy tune. But there was still hope. They ordered again, and again, until Harley began to get jumpy from caffeine and switched to tequila and Amaryllis began to get drunk and switched to coffee. (Wouldn’t do to be gassed if he did come.)

  But as the evening wore on, the crowd thinned and hope began to wane. Harley had been afraid to speak for over an hour, not wanting to give Amaryllis a focus for her despair. But when a cop walked in, had a cup of coffee, and walked out, he knew it was over.

  “Harley,” she said, “we’ve got to talk about our life.”

  “Sure, baby, anything you want.”

  “Harley, I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I think I know what’s wrong. You may not understand it at first, but I think I’m right.”

  “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Harley, you’re square.”

  He could tell she was serious, and he didn’t know what to say.

  “Harley, who did you vote for for governor?”

  “Honey, you know—”

  “No bullshit now, Harley, did you vote for Reagan?”

  “Amaryllis! How could you—”

  “Harley, you voted for him. I knew it at the time. When you came out of the booth I could feel—”

  “But it was a protest vote,” offered Harley lamely.

  “Against who, Harley?”

  “Against Jane Wyman. Did you see her in Johnny Belinda? It was—”

  “Very funny, Harley, but it won’t work . . . Harley, something drastic has to happen.”

  “Christ, baby, how unsquare can I be? I mean I slipped that once, but how about the other things? We’ve swapped with half the kinky couples in L.A. county. I even joined that computerized swap club and got you a coded bumper sticker for the bike so the guys who liked what they saw could get in touch. I’ve put up with some weird chicks for your sake, sweetheart.”

  “Hugh Hefner says—”

  “I know what he says. I read his advice to you along with the other millions of people. And you couldn’t even use initials, for Christ sake. I almost lost my job over that little caper. Really, baby, what else can I do?”

  While Harley’s question hung in the air over the booth, the stoned spade, whose name was really Lamont Cranston, turned slowly in his booth, rose to peer over Harley’s shoulder, and said, “Split.”

  Lamont’s mother had been greatly impressed with the powers of her son’s radio namesake, and had been in those days unaware of any pejorative connotations attached to Cranston’s alias. Lamont Cranston the younger, seated behind the Modes, rarely used the other name anyway, though he was, as they would learn, a shadowy character.

  “What did you say?” asked Amaryllis, somewhat recovered from the shock.

  “I said split,” said Cranston. “Cut. Make it.”

  “We haven’t met,” said Harley, trying to twist his neck in order to see Cranston.

  “Your wife is right. You are a square,” said Lamont, moving slowly around into their booth. “But I feel sorry for you both and so I am going to lay the word on you in the following manner: Frisco.”

  “Frisco?” said Harley and Amaryllis together.

  “San Francisco to you, my man,” said Lamont. “It is the only place where you are going to lose those bourgeois hangups which so obviously are contributing toward putting you down. I must go now.”

  “Wait,” said Amaryllis, sensing Cranston had something for them. “How will that change anything?”

  “You will have split this scene of crassness for a life of grooving, growing your own, and like that,” said Cranston with an edge of impatience.

  “But why are you here?” asked Amaryllis, smelling a contradiction.

  “My mission is a secret. You might say I am a kind of wigging travel agent. Or you might say I am something else. Who knows what evil lurks, man. Dig?”

  “But we heard you humming ‘Bernie’s Tune.’ I mean how square is that?” said Amaryllis.

  “Which is only toward indicating that my disguise is a success, my dear. Besides which you are not ready to hear the real music I could lay on you humming or otherwise, making this acid string shit sound like Strauss waltzes. I have told you what you must do and I must cut.” And Lamont left, humming “Work Song” and making weird faces at the turbaned cameraman.

  “Well, what do you make of that?” asked Harley.

  “We’re packing tonight,” said Amaryllis, with a dreamy look as though she too heard a different kind of music now.

  Harley knew he couldn’t fight it. He resigned his position in the Median Strip Division of the Highway Maintenance Department and turned in his keys to the lawnmower barn. Amaryllis told Igor at Rub-a-Rama to stick the massage business. They called a realtor at nine a.m. and sold their split level with pool at ten for five gr
and more than they paid for it. They decided, for Amaryllis’ sake, to take the bike to Frisco, then get a car more suitable to their new way of life. Amaryllis called and canceled at the Swap Agency, and by noon they were on the road.

  The long trip was uneventful for Harley (except for losing the way to San Jose), ecstatic for Amaryllis. Harley began to hope that the ten or more orgasms she had on the way up would take the edge off her San Francisco obsession. But she was just as firm when they arrived as when they left.