Orbit 15 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  Sometimes Willie wondered if Sam understood how much she meant to him. Willie suffered a lot of punishment because of her. She always said that it was pointless, that Willie did things for silly reasons, that he imagined things. But Willie could see what those creeps were doing. Sam couldn’t, for some reason. She always saw only the good in people.

  The opposing batter struck out on four pitches. Willie fired the ball down to the third baseman; the ball traveled around the infield, until finally Sam tossed it back to him. She looked very tired. She hated the heat and the tropical air. The game still had a few more innings; Willie wished that Jennings would put in a replacement for her. He knew that Jennings wouldn’t.

  The third batter swung on the first pitch and hit a high pop foul. The female pitcher yelled, “Sam! Sam!” Willie stayed out of the way, and Sam ran over and caught the ball, which had blown back in front of the pitcher’s mound. That was the third out. Sam smiled at Willie; he looked at his wife, then turned and watched the right fielder. His experiment would have to wait another inning. Willie walked with Sam back to the dugout. “Is that guy bothering you?” he asked.

  “What guy?” she said.

  “The right fielder. Dicky.”

  “No,” said Sam, frowning. “Are you trying to get him in trouble, too?”

  Willie watched one of his teammates walk to the plate as he removed his catcher’s gear. “I just want to know if he’s giving you a hard time. I’ll bust him up, is all.”

  “He’s not,” said Sam. “Dicky just says, ‘Way to go’ or something like that. Like anybody else would say to anybody else on the team.”

  “Anybody else ain’t my wife.”

  “You’re up next,” said Sam. “Stop worrying.”

  “I can’t help worrying, when I see what those creeps try to do. You tell that Dicky that if he don’t shut up, I’m going to bust him up.”

  Sam said nothing. She just went and sat by herself in the corner of the dugout. She looked like she was going to cry. Willie was angry, and he couldn’t understand what she was feeling bad about; she ought to be glad he was looking out for her. He let out a loud sigh, shrugged his shoulders, and went to the bat rack.

  ~ * ~

  book seven: even in this day and age we may learn from experience

  At the end of the Threeday lecture, Jennings had smiled and promised the audience a surprise on Fiveday. “I have a real treat in store for you,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “I have something so unusual, you won’t want to miss the lecture on Fiveday. I think you’ll really enjoy it. I think it’s something you’ll remember for a long time, something you’ll want to tell all your friends about. Don’t be late on Fiveday. I don’t want to say anything more about it now, but I’ll give you just one hint. It’s something that’s really worth getting up to see. Even you, Paola,” he said warmly, looking at a plain, somewhat simpleminded girl who sat about twenty ranks from the front, and who had a reputation for being consistently tardy, “even you might want to make a special effort to get here early. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it’s something you won’t likely ever see again. I guarantee you all a fascinating lecture on Fiveday. Are there any questions?” The room was silent, as it was supposed to be. Jennings’ smile had disappeared, and he looked slowly across the files, from left to right, searching hopefully for someone whispering, someone fidgeting to leave. He was disappointed. “All right,” he said at last. “Get the hell out of here.”

  That had been on Threeday. After the lecture, and for the next two days, everyone had wondered what Jennings’ surprise could be. Naturally, there were many guesses, but no one had any more information.

  On Fiveday morning, Sam woke up at the bell. The sun was up, filling the cell with weak but already warm sunlight. The day was clear, as usual for that time of day in Quintember; later, after three o’clock, the sky would cloud over quickly and there would be a brief but intense storm. Then the clouds would dissipate, and the sky would be clear through sunset, and the stars would shine down like bright specks of glass on a velvet cushion. The early-morning light made the walls seem vaguely unreal, not as formidable as usual, somehow like the sets used in movies or plays. The colors of the walls and the yard below were diluted, all mixed with grays and water. It was a pleasant feeling. Sam stretched and smiled. She remembered that Jennings had promised them a surprise at the lecture. She dressed quickly and dashed a few drops of water in her face—as a Lion, she had to limit her use of water severely—and walked to the elevators. The other women in the dorm greeted her, and they all spoke together in hushed, excited voices. Jennings’ surprise had them all helpless with anticipation.

  Sam walked across the yard to the lecture hall with some of her friends. She looked toward Willie’s building, but she couldn’t see her husband. She was hot and sweating by the time she arrived at the lecture building; the air conditioning inside felt good. Inside the lecture hall, Sam stood for a moment before going back to her seat. The podium that Jennings used had been removed. So had all the screens and maps and other equipment at the front of the hall. People came in and went to their seats. Sam looked at Willie’s place; he was there, but he was not looking toward her. She tried to attract his attention, but finally she gave up and went to her own seat. Mac came in a few minutes later and waved. She waved back, then opened her notebook. She wrote Lecture, Fiveday, Quintember 35, 0042 at the top of the page. Under that she wrote Jennings’ surprise. Still Jennings had not arrived. Sam sighed. She twisted around to look back at Willie. She couldn’t catch his eye. She thought about sending him a note; it would have to go sixteen ranks back and twenty-two files across. By the time it got to him it would be only a limp mass of pulp. Sam closed her notebook and waited. After a little while she opened the notebook again and underlined what she had written. Then she began to draw little designs in the left-hand margin, on the outside of the vertical red line.

  “Good morning, good morning, my little wonders,” cried Jennings. Sam looked up, startled. Jennings rarely spoke like that. “Ladies and gentlemen, today is the day you’ve all been waiting for. Today is the day I promised that I’d show you something spectacular. Well, I hope you’ve rubbed the sleep from your eyes, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’re ready to take adequate notes. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to remind you that, as unique as today’s presentation may be, it will still be material for your examination. I’m sure that you do not want to fail your examination, ladies and gentlemen. Though your eyes may be amazed, I hope your note-taking faculties will remain unimpaired. Let us begin.” The audience waited in utter silence, thousands of ballpoint pens poised expectantly.

  “Fine,” said Jennings. “All right, Sigurd. Tell the boys to roll in the first one.” A helper went through the black drapes behind Jennings. A short time later he returned, pulling a rope. On the end of the rope was the tail wheel of a Messerschmitt Bf 109E single-engine fighter plane. Three other men helped push the aircraft into the open space at the front of the lecture hall. It filled most of the area, and with the low ceiling and dim lights, the plane looked grotesquely out of place, like a beached whale in the cloisters of an Austrian monastery.

  The helpers disappeared through the drapes, and Jennings walked slowly in front of the airplane. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is your what you call regular Messerschmitt Bravo Foxtrot One Zero Niner Echo. Good old plane. German. Used in World War Two. Good old plane.” Jennings patted the low, swept-up wing of the aircraft. His voice had become strangely emotional. He stared at the propeller, gave it a little push with one hand, dragged the hand back along the plane’s fuselage, ducked under the wing. He turned again and spoke to the audience. “You have to love this baby. For a while, there wasn’t anything that could knock it out of the clouds. It was a good old plane. Now look. Here it is. A relic, if you please, ladies and gentlemen. A relic from the past. We’re studying. We’re not hiding from it. You can sit ther
e, ladies and gentlemen, take your notes calmly, coldly, without the least trace of passion. I don’t give a damn.” He was near hysteria. Sam was frightened. No one made a sound.

  Jennings raised his head, shook it. “Ah, hell,” he said. “Jorge, open the drapes. I’m not going to drag these babies out one at a time. That’s stupid. Open the drapes.” The helpers opened the drapes, and there were three other airplanes in a row. Sam stared; the planes were beautiful, in an odd way. Their smooth lines, their look of efficient design impressed her, even though she didn’t understand what she was seeing. The bombs and the rifles that Jennings introduced on regular lecture days held little fascination. Sam noted their names and numbers, tried to learn their individual characteristics, only because not to was an invitation to punishment. But the planes were beautiful.

  “What we have here, first, behind and to the left of the Messerschmitt, is another German World War Two bird. You have your regular Junkers Juliet Uniform Eight Seven dive bomber, the Stuka. An early model, a little ungainly perhaps, but unstoppable until somebody tried. I had a lot of trouble getting one of these. I just hope you appreciate it.” Sam was curious; this wasn’t like Jennings’ usual lectures at all. Surely there was more to learn about the history and characteristics of these planes than their names. Perhaps Jennings was waiting for someone to show initiative. Maybe he was waiting for someone to ask a sincere and interested question. Sam wondered if anyone would.

  “And this,” said Jennings, pointing to the plane directly behind the Bf 109E, “is your regular North American Papa Five One Mustang fighter-bomber. A good old plane. Looks great, doesn’t it? They don’t make them like that anymore. The last one is the justly famous Royal Air Force Hawker Hurricane, what you call your fighter-interceptor. They used these babies with Spitfires. The Hurricanes tackled the German bombers while the Spitfires took out the German fighters, often those very same Bravo Foxtrot One, and so on. You don’t care, do you? I mean, none of this means anything to you, does it? These could all be made out of flour and water, and you’d react the same way. As long as you don’t get punishment on Sevenday, right? Well, look. Nobody will be punished Sevenday. Nobody. No matter what you do between now and then. I don’t care. Get the hell out of here.”

  Sam felt an unpleasant chill run through her. Everyone sat still for a few moments. There was no talking. Jennings hurried from the lecture hall; the helpers struggled to get the airplanes through the doors of the freight elevator. At last Sam stood up. She waited for Willie to meet her. “What’s going on?” asked her husband.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam. For some reason she was crying.

  “Well, don’t cry,” said Willie. “I don’t like it when you cry. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look,” said Willie. He held out his notebook. “I took notes, like I always do. And they’re gone already. Just like always.”

  “Of course,” said Sam. “Mine too.”

  “I wonder why he bothers,” said Willie, looking at the door through which Jennings had left. Hundreds of others were leaving now, hurrying back to their dorms.

  Sam was very unhappy. She wondered why Jennings had behaved the way he did; she felt that in some way the audience had let Jennings down. She didn’t know what to do. “I feel sorry for him,” she said.

  “Sorry?” said Willie, snorting contemptuously. “For Jennings? Well, I don’t. Just so long as we don’t get punishment this week. I’m glad about that.”

  “Want to look at the planes?”

  “No,” said Willie, looking around, noticing the other men who were taking furtive looks at Sam. “Let’s go to lunch.”

  ~ * ~

  book eight: even the gifts of god come wrapped

  Mac stood with the rest of the Soldiers in the immense ritual chamber. Jennings had promised them all that there would be no punishment that week; even so, Mac had risen before the alarm bell and hurried to the assembly hall. Delgado, the trustie in the white uniform, had shouted into Mac’s cell, but Mac had already showered and shaved, and was walking back from the lavatory. “I’m not in there, Mr. Delgado,” said Mac cheerfully.

  “I see that, Mac,” said Delgado sullenly. “And if I could think of a good reason for you to be awake so early, I might not put you on report.”

  “It’s Sevenday, that’s all. I just don’t want to be late.”

  “I can see that you’re very devout,” said Delgado. “Just watch it, that’s all.”

  “Sure, Mr. Delgado.” Mac finished dressing and walked slowly to the assembly hall; he was one of the first to arrive, and he chatted in a low voice with some of the other Soldiers. They all wondered whether Jennings would act as oddly during the ritual as he had in the Fiveday lecture.

  “I was sorely tempted not to come this morning,” said one of the Soldiers.

  “Me too,” said another. “If we’re not going to be punished, well, to tell you the truth, these rituals get to be a little thick after a while.”

  “I watch them like movies,” said Mac. “It’s kind of an interesting thing, if you approach it the right way.”

  “You’re nuts,” said the first Soldier. Mac only smiled.

  Jennings arrived early. Not all the worshipers had assembled, but Jennings nevertheless ordered the great doors to be closed. “It’s a good thing he said no punishment,” thought Mac. Jennings greeted the various orders, and was saluted in return. The ritual continued in its prescribed formula. Mac looked toward the Lions, but couldn’t make out Sam; he looked toward the Ravens and thought he saw Willie, but he wasn’t sure.

  “I want to say something,” said Jennings, at the beginning of his sermon. His tone was conversational, a sudden contrast to the deep, stilted tone he had used during the rest of the ritual. “Be honest. How many of you would attend these rituals if they weren’t mandatory? Just clap your hands.” There was a loud roar of applause. “Now how many would stay in their cells, or visit with friends?” The applause was somewhat softer. “Now,” said Jennings, sitting on one of the steps leading to the altar, “we’ll try again. How many of you would come here on Sevenday mornings voluntarily?” This time the applause was much quieter. “All right. That’s good enough. We’ll stop there. Nama, Nama Sebesio.”

  The congregation called back, “Nama, Nama Sebesio.”

  Jennings stood up, shaking one fist. “You damn fools! You just told me you damn well wouldn’t come here if I didn’t make you do it, yet you keep on muttering your responses. Don’t you feel a little crazy, doing that?”

  “No,” thought Mac, “I don’t feel dumb at all. You’re making us come here. You’re still making us give the responses.”

  Some of the people in the vast hall began to whisper. Near Mac, some people, men and women, began to weep. There was a sudden rustle of noise. Jennings looked around angrily. “Get out. Get the hell out of here,” he said loudly. The assembly hall was so huge that Jennings could not possibly see the people lined against the walls; they could not hear him, but a wave of motion began from the center of the hall and moved toward the exits. Mac smiled sadly. He walked along, his head bowed in the dim light.

  “It’s a very interesting psychological experiment,” thought Mac. “He’s given us such a rigid life, and now he’s removing the laws we’ve always used as props. It’s pathetic, when you realize how simple he is. And these poor people! They’re helpless. Their granite idol is wobbling on its legs. But you can’t tell them anything. You can’t prove that there’s no danger, that Jennings won’t fall and crush them. The only thing left is to sit back and enjoy it.”

  Mac looked back over his shoulder. Hordes of people followed him toward the doors. Thin beams of spotlights still outlined the crooked form of Jennings, who waited alone in the center of the assembly hall. Mac sighed. He seemed to be alone in understanding the power of Jennings, and
the man’s arbitrary cruelty. “Good-bye, Pater palratus,” thought Mac. “Maybe really goodbye.”

  ~ * ~

  book nine: the tiny imperfections make it valuable

  Willie went to Mac’s dorm and rode up the elevator to Mac’s eighty-fifth-floor cell. Mac stood by the transparent wall. Willie sat on the cot. “I don’t like it,” he said. “It made me feel nervous. I don’t like it at all.”

  “You’re not supposed to like it,” said Mac, not turning around. “Jennings is doing it on purpose. He’s trying to shake us up, for some reason. Don’t pay any attention to his act. It’s as phony as everything else he does. It’s just that now he’s being more obvious about it.”

  “Well, then, that’s what I don’t like,” said Willie. “I’ll go along with it all, as long as I know what’s happening. But, God, if Jennings is going to change all of a sudden . . .”