Orbit 8 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  The house stopped growing. The mist cleared and the sun came out. She looked through her window and saw a lake made up of many narrow branches, its surfaces covered with a phosphorescent sparkle like a skin of dirty green sequins. She saw no one—the intruders came late at night, dozens of them, judging from the sound they made.

  She lost weight. She looked in the mirror and found her hair dull, her cheeks drawn. She began to wander the house at odd hours. Her dreams were haunted by the voices outside, the splash of water, and, worst of all, the endless laughter. What would these strangers do if she suddenly appeared at the doorway in her quilted robe and demanded that they leave? If she said nothing but hammered a “No Trespass” sign to the oak tree? What if they just stood there, staring at her, laughing?

  She continued to wander. There were no new rooms, but she discovered hidden alcoves and passageways that connected bedroom to bedroom, library to kitchen. She used these passageways over and over again, avoiding the main halls.

  Now when she woke, it was with a feeling of dread. Had any of them got in during the night, in spite of her precautions? She found carpenters’ tools in a closet and nailed the windows shut. It took weeks to finish the job, and then she realized she had forgotten the windows in the basement. That part of the house frightened her and she put off going down. But when the voices at night began to sound more and more distinct, when she imagined that they were voices she recognized, she knew that she had no choice.

  The basement was dark and damp. She could find no objects to account for the shadows on the walls. There was not enough light to work by, and when she finished, she knew she had done badly. If they really wanted to come in, these crooked nails would not stop them.

  The next morning she found that the house had a new wing of three bedrooms. They were smaller than those in the rest of the house and more cheaply furnished.

  She never knew exactly when the servants moved in. She saw the first one, the cook, when she walked into the kitchen one morning. The woman, middle-aged and heavy, wearing a black uniform with white apron, was taking eggs from the refrigerator.

  “How would you like them, madam?”

  Before she could reply, the doorbell rang. A butler appeared.

  “No, don’t answer it!” He continued to walk. “Please—“

  “I beg your pardon, madam. I am partially deaf. Would you repeat your statement?”

  She screamed: “Do not answer the door.”

  “Scrambled, fried, poached?” said the cook.

  “It may be the postman,” said the butler.

  “Would madam like to see today’s menu? Does madam plan to have guests this evening?” The housekeeper was dark and wiry. She hardly moved her lips but her words were clear.

  “Some nice cinnamon toast, I think,” the cook said, and she placed two slices of bread in the toaster.

  “If you’re having twelve to dinner, madam, I would suggest the lace cloth,” said the housekeeper.

  The doorbell was still ringing. It wouldn’t stop. She ran to the stairs, toward the safety of her room.

  “Madam?” said the cook, the housekeeper, the butler.

  That night they came at sunset. She climbed into bed and drew the covers up around her, but still she could hear their laughter, rising and falling. The water made splashing sounds. She pulled the covers over her head and burrowed beneath them.

  A new sound reached her and she threw off the covers, straining to hear. They were downstairs, in the dining room. She could make out the clink of silverware against dishes, the kind of laughter and talking that came up at her from the water. The house was alive with a chattering and clattering she could not endure. She would confront them, explain that this was her house; they would have to leave. Then the servants.

  She went down the stairs slowly, rehearsing the exact words she would use. When she reached the ballroom floor she stopped for a second, then crossed it to the open doors of the dining room. She flattened herself against the wall and looked inside.

  There were twelve of them, as the housekeeper had suggested—and she knew every one.

  Her husband, bald, bold, and precise. “I told her, ‘Go ahead and jump; you’re not scaring me.’ And she jumped. The only brave thing she ever did.”

  Her mother, dry as a twig, with dead eyes: “I told her it was a sin—but she never listened to me, never.”

  A friend: “She didn’t seem to feel anything. When other people laughed she always looked serious, as if she was mulling it over to find the joke.”

  “She used to laugh when she was very small. Then she stopped.”

  “She was a bore.”

  “She was a sparrow.”

  “She was a failure. Everyone knew. When she found out for herself, she jumped.”

  “Was it from a bridge? I was always curious about that.”

  “Yes. They found her floating on the surface, staring into the sun like some would-be Ophelia.” Her husband smiled and wiped his lips with a napkin. “I don’t think I’ll recommend this place. I’ve got a stomachache.”

  The others agreed. They all had stomachaches.

  The guests returned, night after night, but each night it was a different group. Always she knew them and always she watched as they ate. When the last party left, joking about the food being poisoned, she was alone. She didn’t have to dismiss the servants; they were gone the next day. The yellow-gray mist surrounded her windows again, and for the first time she could remember, she laughed.

  <>

  * * * *

  PIP WINN

  RIGHT OFF THE MAP

  It was Mayson, my bunkmate at the Ministry, who insisted on the guns, I must make that clear. But I anticipate,

  I was dozing on my bunk when he came in, hot, flushed and untidy, and carrying a long, thin cylinder. I recognized the material as paper.

  “A close shave,” he remarked. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.” They had been tightening up the travel regulations, and a confiscated walking permit was a serious matter.

  “What is it this time?” I stretched and climbed down to his bunk.

  “An old map.”

  I looked pointedly at the regulation plastic map of the World Union which hogged most of the wall space. Not that I ever complained. We were better off than most of the couples with apartment rooms Outside; the tap and the heating worked, and we were spared the trouble of applying for Workers’ Travel Disks.

  “This is different. It’s an antique,” said Mayson, unrolling it. “Mid-twentieth century.”

  With the single men’s shopping ration recently reduced to one hour weekly, most of us had time only to fight our way to the queue outside the nearest store, if we bothered at all. But Mayson had a theory about “first things first” and usually returned with something useless, offbeat and space-wasting.

  I had to admit that the tattered old map was esthetically pleasing. It showed, in various colors, the political divisions which existed in the twentieth century, with mountain ranges in brown and the landmasses offset by pale-blue sea.

  “Well, keep it rolled up, or stick it on the ceiling,” I said acidly. “You’ve got half my storage space already.” But I couldn’t resist a few comparisons with the modern map. The Department of London, then called “England,” was still quite sparsely populated in the west and north. The Department of Khartoum was colored yellow and marked “Sahara Desert,” showing that in those days there was still some land actually left barren.

  “There’s something I want to check.” Mayson’s finger moved from the old to the new and back again. “Yes, by God! I thought so. Tell me what you see here.” He pointed to a place which is now part of the border between the departments of Karachi and Delhi.

  I looked. “Two lines of hills, parallel, but converging at both ends. An offshoot of the Himalayas, apparently.”

  “Good. And the space between?”

  “A long, narrow valley, green with black spots.” I consulted the index at the
foot of the map. “Forest land.”

  “Right. Now find the place on the standard map.”

  “It isn’t— Yes. Here. But there’s only one line of hills. Well, I suppose, with their primitive instruments—”

  “No!” I had never seen Mayson so excited. “Cartography was dead accurate by the nineteenth century. Don’t you see what this means?”

  “You’re the historian. I’m only a biologist.”

  “I’m a sociologist. But never mind that. Suppose it’s the modern map that’s wrong. There may be lebensraum there—the first to be found in over a century. We’re going to see the Boss. If we handle him right, we’ll get an Orange Disk for this.”

  For an Orange Disk, anything was worth trying. I followed Mayson along the crowded corridor.

  * * * *

  Phillips was a harassed man. His title, Chief Surveyor, wasa concession to tradition, and he was really a glorified house matron, pessimistically grappling with the problems of housing five thousand people in a fifty-year-old building designed for two thousand. He was placating the telephone as we entered. “Sorry, Stevens, not a square inch at the moment. Yes, of course, at once, if anything turns up.”

  He compared the map carefully with the one on his wall.

  “Too good to be true,” he said. “But I suppose it is just possible that Karachi and Delhi both thought they had stopped developing on opposite sides of the same range of hills. The place is well off the air routes, and the valley, if it’s there, is narrow and completely enclosed. Would you two like to go and find out?”

  “Us?” If I hadn’t known his thoughts, I’d have sworn Mayson was genuinely surprised.

  “Why not? I could do with your bunks for a while. Computers are expecting two girls from the Department of Paris, and we’re a bit stuck. Send Stores a list of the things you’ll need, and I’ll recommend you for Orange Disks.” I caught Mayson’s triumphant glance. “But you won’t get any transport off the regular routes, so travel light.”

  He waved us away and picked up the phone. “Computers? About those two girls, Stevens—”

  * * * *

  A week later, hung over and sore from our injections, we plunged into the inferno of the morning shopping ration. The long-delayed One-Way (Streets) Bill was expected to be passed at the next reading. And not before time.

  The shoppers who, struggling and cursing, filled the wide streets were nearly all women, wearing Yellow Disks marked “Housewife. Wed. Shift 1.”

  Mayson had done some homework, and we were in period costume: trousers, shirts, socks and hooded jackets, all of natural cotton, and leather shoes. The trousers would protect our legs against thorns, insects or snakes, he said, and the natural materials would be better than synthetics in a hot, humid atmosphere. On our backs were knapsacks containing water, food and other necessities—these were anybody’s guess—and the guns hung from our shoulders by straps. On our chests were the Orange Disks, bearing our photographs and the legend “Urgent Priority at All Times.” They were valid for a year and were literally priceless.

  Thanks to the Disks, we made good speed. They took us through, instead of around, the Parks, and to the front of every queue at both Airstrips, and enabled us to stand by the windows for the whole of the two-hour flight. We saved at least a week by simply ignoring the customs queue, and nobody dared challenge us.

  At the other end the driver of an orange garbage-wagon spotted our Disks and picked us up. He used his siren to good advantage and was able to speed up during the comparative lulls between the Workers’ and Shoppers’ travel shifts. He dropped us within sight of the hills, having saved us many days of battle.

  Less than a month after leaving the Ministry we flourished our Disks at the gate in the wall behind the last housing block. The guard saluted and let us through.

  At last we sat resting on the cold hilltop, exhausted from the climb and uneasily aware of the unfamiliar space and quietness. Below us lay the valley, its treetops shimmering in the sunshine. I realized that we need no longer stay so close together, and self-consciously moved away, suddenly irritated by Mayson, who was already busy calculating the area of the valley.

  * * * *

  I think it was here that I lost the camera. I remember photographing the contrasting views before andbehind, and the next day it was missing. The loss seemed trivial at the time. We had the packets of old-fashioned paper notebooks and pencils which Stores had dug out of the Ministry basement (the fewer gadgets, the fewer technical hitches), and these would be adequate for collecting the notes and diagrams which would be of more interest to Phillips than the scenery, when translated into potential bunk space.

  We followed a spring which cascaded down to a small lake, emerging as a stream that, ignorant of its destiny when it should pass beneath the Wall of Civilization into an underground reservoir, meandered peacefully along the valley, overhung by trees. We should not be able to wander far from its banks at first, because the floor of the forest was covered by dense undergrowth, and we had brought no hatchets. In time, the bulldozers would make short work of this problem.

  When we came to a break in the trees we cleared a small area, using knives and branches, and camped for the night. After supper, Mayson worked by torchlight for an hour or so and then, with a muttered “Good night,” turned in.

  But I sat with my back to a tree, far into the hot, damp night, idly waving the insects away, and savoring for the first time in my life the peace, and the sounds and scents of the wild: bird calls, the chattering of monkeys, the scuffling of small night creatures, the smell of foliage and moist earth. No doubt there would be snakes—perhaps dangerous. I had once been allotted a Zoo Disk, and an indescribable emotion possessed me as I contrasted this solitude and freedom with the plight of the animals crouching mournfully in their three-tiered cages at home. It occurred to me that the whole world must have been like this before man had destroyed it with the spread of his teeming millions. Suddenly lonely, and frightened by the unquiet forest, I huddled into my blanket and slept.

  * * * *

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mayson’s voice shattered the peace of the dawn. He grabbed his water flask (replenished by courtesy of the Orange Disks at the last block before we reached the Wall) and cuddled it as though it were his only child.

  I continued to empty mine over a bush and nodded toward the stream. “That’s fresher.”

  “You’re nuts. It hasn’t been purified.”

  “It’s never been polluted. And in a few days we shan’t need these anymore.” I indicated the plastic containers full of synthetic food concentrate. “We’ll make some paths, find edible plants. And we can catch animals for meat.”

  It’s funny, but I never thought of using the guns for hunting. My mind was set on the idea that they were for whatever unimaginable emergencies Mayson had envisaged when he insisted on bringing them.

  He stowed his food and water into his knapsack, and closed it elaborately. “Oh well, if you want to poison yourself with natural food, stinking with bacteria—”

  I grabbed his arm. “Sh! Look! Over there.”

  I must have been looking at it through the trees for some time without seeing it, so perfect was its camouflage. Elegantly draped over a low branch thirty yards or so from the stream was the most glorious creature I had ever seen: a huge cat, as big as a lion, but colored in black and gold stripes which blended harmoniously with the shafts of morning sunlight slanting into the forest. Its underparts were a vivid white. It lay relaxed, eyes half-closed, a poem of grace, dignity and serenity.

  “A tiger! A living tiger!” I breathed. I would have sent the whole civilized world to perdition for the camera.

  It is not generally known that there were at one time many species of cat. The only surviving members of this once numerous family were the so-called domestic cat, formerly a popular pet, now a pest, which had successfully defied all attempts at extermination, and the lion, which, being gregarious, lazy and friendly
to man, is easily tamed and thrives in captivity. The others, solitary and independent, failed to adapt to close confinement and ceased to breed. Though the leopard was the fiercest, the most beautiful of the wild cats was the tiger, the last of which died in London Zoo early in the twenty-first century.

  Nevertheless, a tiger this undoubtedly was—a “living fossil.” You may have seen films, or museum exhibits, of tigers, but these could give you no idea of the shining glory and awe-inspiring presence of the living animal.