Damon Knight - Orbit 21

Glaser never seemed to tire. He talked endlessly. “I hear they’re gonna plow down some of the old cities and put up some new projects. Looks like we’re gonna be back on our feet soon.”

“What if they start another war and wreck it all over again?” Underwood said.

“We got to take care of things one day at a time, Max. We get back on our feet, and we handle whatever comes next. It’ll be a hell of a long while before things get back to where it was when the war started. The government’s got to get back on its feet; the economy’s got to get back on its feet—you’re talking years from now.”

“All right, years from now. Somebody’s going to have to carry the load, like we’re doing now.”

“Like I said, man: one day at a time.”

“Coming back from the slaughterhouse, eh, son?”

Underwood hit the counter.

The Chinese food was spread out on the table between them, releasing steam and exotic aromas. Underwood emptied a block of rice on his plate.

“Why is it that you don’t like frivolities like having a place to live, or knowing where your next meal’s gonna come from?” he asked his father.

“Look, it ain’t that I don’t appreciate good living, but I’ve spent too much of my life eking out what morsels of existence I could for the both of us, out there in the death zone. I’m not going to suddenly go for all this airy-fairy bullshit about the ‘new civilization’ the government is hyping. They could damn well do it all over again.”

“What’s your alternative: living out in the ruined cities again? Where the plague is?”

“Most people didn’t get the plague. It’s only a few, that you’re knocking off so you can have clean hands.”

Underwood put down the fork.

“You never liked my being a trashman anyway, so what’s the point?”

“The point is responsibility. The powers-that-was were stupid enough and irresponsible enough to foul their own nests; now they hire a bunch of shits to clean up the poor motherfuckers they caused to go crazy. It’s bad.”

Underwood stared at J. P. His father looked down, bit into an eggroll.

“Yeee-hahh—” Glaser disappeared under the crystal-blue water. He had been at the center of everything, hands on hips, ruddy-skinned and paunchy. Underwood chuckled, holding a cocktail, wearing a multicolored shirt, white slacks and dark glasses. It was a million miles from the green coveralls, the combat boots, the caps of the trashmen. The sky was clear, deep blue and sun-bright. He lifted the dark glasses to observe the tall, tawny young woman who stood at the other side of the pool, holding a drink, talking to a tanned middle-aged woman. His eyes trailed from the long, straight hair that fell down her back, the skin-tightness of the white swimsuit, and the curve of her round hips, down to the long, shapely legs. Nice.

J. P. stood next to him, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, black pants and a black beret. He leaned closer, said, “So this is modern man. Tell me more pretty stories.”

“Why don’t you relax, get a beer, a hot dog, and enjoy it?”

“While you’re off chasing tail.”

“There you go.” The man is equipped with radar, Underwood thought, as he walked around the pool.

Night came, and the guests lounged around the lighted pool area, laughing and drinking. It had been quite a while since Underwood had been friends with a woman. He and Kane were casual acquaintances, but it was mainly business.

The tall woman’s name was Carter, and she worked on the Health Department committee that tried to unearth plague-bearers within the new settlements. She looked like a teenager, and although there was a certain low-pitched seriousness in her personality—like someone who was taking a brief vacation from a charnel house—Underwood could see her arousal at meeting someone she could get into interesting conversation with. When he raised the drink to his lips, he glanced at her small breasts. It was going to be an interesting night, yes it was.

Then he noticed J. P. having a fairly loud argument with Glaser. He looked like a white-bearded gadfly buzzing around the tall, relaxed, probably high, bare-chested Glaser.

“Come on , Mr. Underwood, you can’t be serious. Let them live in a colony? They’d be at each other’s throats—they’d kill each other in a week.”

“Then leave it up to them. You’re starting out on the same double-handed mentality as you did before. The same disregard for human life.”

J. P. can’t relax anywhere, Underwood thought, turning back. He caught the observant expression on Carter’s face.

“Your father could get in trouble talking like that,” she said. “I wouldn’t report him, but somebody here is bound to.”

The maniac had a tight grip around his throat with a strand of wire, pulling back as if he had a grip on the devil. Underwood’s head felt like a swelling red balloon; the sun shone in his eyes, isolated in a dark blue sky. Rough animal noises squeezed through his throat. He cursed himself for keeping the knife in his boot. The second maniac, scaly, fish-grey in the tattered remains of a suit, waved the iron-smelling bar under his nose. Living in the death zone, Underwood had never learned fear. J. P. had taught him how to be tough.

He drew the last moisture from his throat and spat it on the bug-eyed scaly face before him. The maniac’s mouth rose in a grin; he swung the bar into Underwood’s groin.

That was it. The ropes were cut and Underwood slid down into a red place where pain filled everything. The grip loosened and he felt himself dropping, his legs sagging under him. He balanced himself with one hand on the stony ground as he clutched at the knife; he jerked it up and plunged it into the thigh behind him as deep as he could. He felt it hit bone.

The grip broke and the ground hit his shoulder as a long, agonized tenor chewed raggedly at the air above. He heard scuttling footsteps, then something fell into a pile of junk. The other one kicked him in the ribs, raising the bar for a smash. His silver head exploded, showering Underwood’s coveralls with red paste. Small hands and big hands helped him up, but he had trouble finding his feet. Kane and Glaser, at that moment resembling angels, helped him to the van. Fireflies buzzed behind his eyes but he could make out Kane’s worried squinty grimace; he felt himself being lifted back into the darkness of the van.

“Just come back from the slaughterhouse, eh, son?”

“And I damn near got slaughtered.”

“You’ll live.”

The doorbell rang. Underwood opened the door to two men in dark blue suits and hats.

“Mr. Maxwell Underwood?”

“Yes.”

“We’re from the Health Department,” said the one with a small, neat mustache. “We have to see your father, Julius Underwood.”

“Come in.”

“Thank you.” The two men faced J. P. when they entered the living room. The other man, tall, with a loose necktie, said, “Julius Underwood?”

“That’s right.”

“You are requested to appear at the Plague Center for routine analysis and psychiatric tests this evening.”

“Hear that, Max? Word travels fast. Well, I don’t have the plague, so you’re wasting your time.”

“We’re not asking you for your diagnosis, sir,” said the tall one. “You are requested to come with us.”

“To hell with you and your request,” J. P. said, turning away. Underwood took him by the elbow, whispering angrily, “I want to talk to you,” then, back to the men, “We’ll be just a minute.”