Orbit 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  Now the director went to a two-shot. Beside the announcer sat one of the network’s better-known commentators. They said good morning and the announcer explained that the commentator had been called from his home in the suburbs. “Do you think there’s an explanation for all this, Frank?”

  The commentator looked as if he had not had his breakfast. “Oh, it’s difficult to say, Jim,” he said unctuously. “We have a pattern of violence that seems to be sweeping around the world—”

  Johnny Loughlin rose. “I’m going to get dressed, Cyn. It would be a good idea to get the kids out and playing.”

  She stared at him.

  “All right, Jodi,” he said. “Johnny. Outside. I don’t want you watching television on a Saturday.”

  “Stay close to the house,” their mother said to them.

  “I think you’re overdoing it,” he said when the door closed.

  “Well, I don’t! Something’s happening. You know it, I know it. I’m worried, honey.”

  He went upstairs. It was possible to reason with her, but he didn’t feel up to it.

  When he returned to the living room the announcer was telling the commentator, “I think that the most fantastic theory offered is that something has happened to the sun. As the earth revolves and exposes itself, something is aroused in people in varying degrees.”

  “It doesn’t stand up, Jim,” the commentator replied. “First, we have what happened to Senator Clinton in California last night. We have the trouble in China, which must have begun some hours back—that is, to have reached the proportions the reports we’ve been getting indicate—”

  From the kitchen came Cynthia’s voice as she shouted through the window, “Stop it, you children! Stop it, do you hear me?”

  Then, from outside, perhaps from the road fifty feet from the house, a boy’s voice, older than Jodi’s or little Johnny’s: “Oh, be quiet, you crazy old witch!”

  Johnny Loughlin was on his feet at once, heading for the kitchen. Cynthia stood rigidly at the window over the sink, her fair skin blanched. Outside, two boys ran away from the fence, where Johnny, Jr.’s, tricycle lay overturned.

  “Did you hear that?” Cynthia cried. “Where did they get that. They call me crazy!”

  “Easy, Cynthia, I—”

  “Don’t ‘easy, Cynthia’ me! Where did they get that?”

  “Probably from their parents. You’ve never made a secret of what you want to call your ‘nervous condition’—”

  “Don’t get on me, Johnny! Aren’t you going to do anything about those boys?”

  “What am I going to do, drag them to their parents?”

  She ran out of the room. He didn’t go after her, angry first with her, then with himself. He had jumped on her, if only because he had felt impatient with everything. He took up preparing his breakfast where she had left off.

  While he ate, he heard another squabble in the yard, this time between his own children, and it made him wonder if there were not something really different about this day. Everyone, including himself, was at his limit. Johnny Loughlin took his coffee into the living room where the television set still played, waiting for company.

  “—Just been handed a bulletin. Tempers apparently have flared in Grand Central Station, where a pitched battle has begun on the upper level platforms. Police are still trying to get through the crowds in the main concourse. So far there has been no panic, but there seems to be a grave danger of it. Thousands of people have been jammed inside the station for hours. There is no way to determine the extent of the fighting on the platforms, and we’ll just have to wait for further word.”

  The camera zoomed back to include the commentator, who read, “Two-way communication has been established with the rebels in Johannesburg. There have been major uprisings in that city and in Durban. An army garrison was overrun in Durban just before dawn and the rebels, armed with artillery and at least five tanks, are advancing on an airfield seven miles northwest of the city. So far there has been no use of air power by the government, a move that has all observers baffled.” He took another paper from the desk. “Here’s more on Hong Kong. First, there’s an unconfirmed report of an army revolt inside China. Refugees report that, in some areas, the army is fighting itself. Now second, a major fire has broken out in a crowded slum district of Hong Kong. Five square blocks of ramshackle structures are in flames. The fire started in a cafe.”

  “Johnny! Johnny, come upstairs, quick!”

  He was on his feet before she finished speaking. There was something in his stomach, a solid warning. His nerves were fully attuned now; he dared not ignore them.

  She was at the window of their bedroom. “Come here, quick! Look at that!” She jabbed her finger at an upstairs window across the road. There, in full view, sat Mary Ellen Phillips, tending a bloody nose. “I saw him hit her,” Cynthia said. “I heard them yelling all the way over here. She hit him first and then he punched her.”

  “What were they yelling about?”

  “Some woman and him. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I know him. It’s not true. Look, I’m going down to the village. I’ll send the kids in. I want you to keep them in the house.”

  “What are you going to the village for?”

  “Your medicine, the newspapers. I’m going to snoop around and see if anything else has happened around here.”

  “Hurry back. Call me if something happens, Johnny. Don’t leave me worrying.” She held him tightly for a moment. She was trembling.

  “You take it easy, too, sweetheart,” he said.

  He had no other reason for going into the village than her medicine. He knew that he was acting irrationally. She did not need her medicine and, in any case, he could telephone for it. He had wanted to get out of the house, do something—almost anything.

  The village was empty, more like a Sunday than a Saturday. Johnny Loughlin parked in front of the drugstore and, after another unbelieving look around, went inside.

  “Where’s the boss?” he asked the clerk.

  “He went home. Are you going to wait for these pills? Come on in the back. Nobody’s come in for more than twenty minutes. I’ve been reading the paper.” Behind the counter, he went to the binders of prescriptions. “You know the boss? He’s one of those intuitively smart men. When we opened up, he said that he had a feeling about today. Usually he’s right, but a thing like this—who could believe him?”

  “A thing like what?”

  “No customers. On a Saturday. I’ll never understand it.” As he talked, Johnny Loughlin looked at the dateline on the newspaper. It was yesterday’s. The clerk had not heard the radio. “Murray said that he didn’t even want to come in this morning. That’s what he told me. What do you think could make him know a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Just listening to him made Johnny Loughlin nervous. He got up and walked out to the front of the store and looked out the window. There was still no one on the street. The air seemed too still—the trees were not moving. Johnny Loughlin caught himself rocking on the balls of his feet, clenching his teeth.

  “Ready,” the clerk announced. “That’s eight dollars.”

  “I know, I know. Listen, can I buy these over-the-counter?”

  “Oh, no, not without a prescription,” the clerk said. “These are dangerous tablets.”

  “Still, they’d cost only half as much without a prescription.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what we pay for these.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I would,” Johnny Loughlin said.

  At last the clerk got the drift, and his face masked over. Johnny Loughlin pocketed the vial and turned for the door. He went through as the telephone began to ring.

  He had backed the car out of the parking space when the clerk came running to the sidewalk. “Hey! Telephone for you!”

  Johnny Loughlin nodded. He was not going to say thank you. The clerk had not called him by name. He preceded the clerk to the back of the store. “Hel
lo?”

  “Johnny? Are you coming home?”

  “I was. Is anything wrong, Cyn?”

  “Senator Clinton is dead. They don’t know why yet. He seemed to be resting and then he just closed his eyes. I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I scared the children.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “There was shooting in Grand Central, too. It’s terrible, Johnny, I mean it.”

  “Well, make sure that the kids know you’re all right.”

  “You can’t tie up that telephone for your own use,” the clerk said.

  “Who was that?” Cynthia asked.

  He didn’t answer her. He turned to the clerk. “Am I going to have trouble with you?”

  “That depends on you,” the clerk said frightenedly. Johnny Loughlin turned away from him again.

  “I’ll be right home, Cyn. Turn off the television set. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  “No longer, Johnny, please.”

  He hung up, glanced back once at the clerk, and walked out of the store. In the car, he hesitated, then drove down to the other end of the village. He parked outside the post office, still not knowing why. There was no one in sight. All he could hear was the soft churning of the car motor. The knot tightened in his stomach. He was afraid, very afraid, without knowing why. Almost in a panic, he turned on the radio.

  “. . . crowd is smashing windows and overturning cars as it moves down Forty-Third Street. It seems to be growing in size, picking up people as it moves along. The police and fire departments have determined to set up barricades at Sixth Avenue. To repeat the earlier reports, gunfire in Grand Central Station created a panic that sent thousands of already angry people stampeding into the streets. A series of seemingly unrelated incidents in and about the station forged the crowd into a mob. Hundreds have been injured . . .”

  Johnny Loughlin pushed the button to change the station. He had to get home, but he couldn’t get going.

  “Rebels in South Africa have gained control of the Durban airfield and have put at least five prop-driven fighter planes into the air. Indiscriminate strafing runs have been made over all quarters of the city. A gas tank has exploded and fires have . . .”

  He punched another button. His hand was shaking furiously.

  “. . . It’s as if tempers around the world have all snapped at once. People woke up this morning deciding they had had enough of the Cold War, oppression, arrogance and abuse. For nearly twenty years people have lived under an unbearable pressure. It’s amazing that this hasn’t happened before. Astronomers tell us that a star will generate tremendous pressure inside itself without visible effect, but then suddenly, without warning, it will burst . . “

  With that, Johnny Loughlin turned the radio off. His teeth were clenched so tightly together that his jaws ached. He put the car into reverse and backed it out to face toward home. From the other end of the square another car came at him. Instinctively Johnny Loughlin wheeled far to the right. Almost at once the other car flew past, throttle open wide, making better than seventy miles an hour. Johnny Loughlin did not watch. He had had only a glimpse of the driver’s face, twisted with desperation.

  Now there was a squeal of tires as the car went into the turn outside of town. Johnny Loughlin lit a cigarette. He felt ill. The other car would have ploughed into him— possibly. As he drove slowly out of the square he felt his stomach continuing to ache. Again on impulse, he turned the radio on. All news, all bulletins. There were bulletins from Berlin now. It was only a matter of time. He felt a crushing presentiment of grief at the prospect of the war. Only a small corner of his mind was still reasoning, still saying that it all could pass, that what he felt would overcome everyone else. Yet the rest of him was still caught up in it, giddy at the chance to settle old scores. He did not even know where he would begin. It was as if a part of him was in every mob, running wild everywhere in the world. While he drove, he could see it, feel it, hear it, bursting in a shower of splintered glass.

  Three blocks from his home he saw a car on fire, where it had smashed into a fence. People were throwing sand at it.

  It was different on his own street. He could hear the shouting from around the corner. As he turned in he saw them running toward the center of the block, the people he knew. He stopped the car and got out and ran with them.

  “Johnny! Is that you, Johnny?”

  It was Marty Phillips, who had punched his wife less than an hour before. Now he was calm. He shoved through the crowd and grabbed Johnny Loughlin by the arms. “Johnny, listen to me! Stay away from your house! Listen to me!”

  “What are you talking about?” Somebody grabbed him from behind; he tried to wrench free. Now he heard: a woman’s screams.

  “Easy, fella! Take it easy!”

  “She’s coming out!” someone cried from inside his own house.

  The crowd backed up. The arms bound him tighter. A woman near him began to scream hysterically.

  Cynthia ran out onto the front steps and stopped. Her housecoat, her hands, even her face, were covered with blood. In her hand was a pair of sewing shears. She shouted again, at no one, not even a word, as if she were lost in a forest and had really quit shouting.

  A man appeared behind her, afraid to grab her. There was no color in him. Johnny Loughlin stopped struggling. In the momentary quiet the man’s voice carried on the soft morning air.

  “They’re dead. She’s killed them both.”

  There was a surge of strength from somewhere in Johnny Laughlin’s body, then it passed. He went slack, falling, while the voices close by rose in a groan, almost a howl, of anguish, acceptance and defeat.

  <>

  * * * *

  The Creation of Bennie Good

  by James Sallis

  “Do you like my foot,” putting it on the table. There, between the chipped saucer and candle; you have noticed how carefully I avoid the marmalade, the box of salty butter. “Will you accept it as a token of my affection? For you? It is, as they say, a good foot.” Earlier, I have deftly undone the laces with my toes, grasped the sock between piano-key toes and foot and slowly drawn it off, like peeling a willow wand. “The arch is long and graceful, with the springy delicacy of a light man. The toes curl in as though to embrace the foot; the nails are flecked with color. And pink is the color of this foot.” Pink, with the bright red crescent at the top of the curve: pimple on one side, in the curve, and dimpled on the other. “I am offering this, should you want it, my dear. It is all I have.”

  Her attention is arrested by my foot. This is true of most. At parties my friends will group together talking, and glancing occasionally with great expectation toward the corner chair where I sit calm, unmoved, unmoving. As the evening advances, their glances are more frequent and begin to form a rhythm; then finally, beginning as a low moan among the women, gradually swelling up through the groups until it becomes a steady, hard, syncopated shout, and bursting at last out of the crowds, the call comes: Foot! Foot! Then slowly I lift it to the level of their eyes and one of them, a woman, the chosen, comes forward out of the group wearing shyness like a belt and starts softly to undo the pale pink shoe, dropping it to the floor, where it lies on its side in the carpet pile. You have seen the way a snake is skinned—first the skin is slit away from the mouth, then rolled gently down along the body: this is how my sock is removed—then thrown to them. A few are unable to stand the pressure and must be sent away. Others on the edge near me remove their own shoes and socks and sit staring sadly at the pale uncovered feet. I tell her all this.

  “It’s all I have, it’s yours.” But this one, this Sally, is more moved than the rest. Already the tight black circles around her eyes are smearing, becoming less distinct; eyelids covered in green sequins are flashing like tiny chandeliers. Her little hands are perched on the rim of the cup and soon one will creep out across the ceramic dishes to shyly, lightly touch my foot. She is overwhelmed at the size of the occasion, the depth of my offer.

&n
bsp; Perhaps I will make conversation; I’ve found this sometimes helps, especially in the initial slight embarrassment. I will discuss various projects.

  Such as . . .

  Last year I had a large number of foam-rubber genitalia prepared for me by an advertising firm. These were bright pink and varied in size from two feet to six in length, and from a few inches to several yards in circumference. The order was placed on a Monday after a weekend of planning and sketching; on Thursday the genitalia were ready; and on Friday I set out for Niagara Falls with them packed away in my trunk. When I opened the trunk later, at the hotel, the genitalia expanded—virtually exploded—out into my room, filling it. Some had got tangled together, like fingers in doughnuts. That evening I fought my way through the foam to go out and walk among the people, talking to many and asking questions. And the next morning, when the sun was gleaming on the water, I walked with my trunk to the top of the Falls and floated my collection of vast foam genitals down toward all the people below: they bobbed and raged on the water.