Damon Knight - Orbit 21

“Oh, well,” said the fat man, putting his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn, “please yourself. Not important. Probably a woman. Or anything else.”

He became quite suddenly businesslike and, going over to a large mahogany desk, began rummaging in its drawers while continuing to talk.

“Payment will be made if you wish it. The rate is a hundred pounds and the money will be paid to a nominee of your choice when your act is completed. You will sign this contract ninety minutes before your appearance and will from that moment be legally bound to fulfill your obligation. In order to ensure that you do not break your contract once signed, you will be guarded, and should you show unwillingness to participate in our spectacle, the guards will forcibly ensure your appearance on stage. It’s of no importance, really; many audiences prefer a little, er, coercion—but some actors have a great regard for such things as dignity and pride. . . . Oh, yes, and I’m obliged to tell you that individual funeral requests cannot be met—the Greater London Council insists that all waste biological material from the shows be reserved for the recycling vats.” He smiled and gently laid the contract on Frank’s knee. “You are due to sign in two minutes. Please use my pen.”

Frank had not been impressed by the obviously prepared speech. He was familiar with the use of sadism from a position of power, was in fact quite adept at the practice himself, and he saw the cold description of impersonal death as a weapon hurled at him by the fat man in a battle of personalities, rather than as a factual account of his own impending demise. He signed, and, unwilling to perform for nothing, entered Julia’s name and address in the nominee box.

The fat man took the contract and the pen from him. “Oh, in case you’re wondering,” he said, with the air of someone imparting interesting but not essential information, “about the significance of the ninety minutes? . . . er, that is the minimum time in which we could find another actor for your part.. . less time than that would not make the task impossible, but it would certainly be more difficult,” He smiled. “You see . . . men like you are very rare . . . very rare indeed . . . after all, we only use one a night. Admittedly, that is every night of the week, and the show has been running for thirteen months . . . but what is that compared to...say, the population of India? ... a drop, a mere drop in the ocean ...”

He smiled.

Frank was fitted with white stockings, black breeches that buckled at the knee, and a loose-fitting white shirt with frills on the chest. Black shoes with large silver buckles completed the outfit. It was the costume of his fantasies, it was what he had seen himself wearing on the nights when he had stood opposite the Thrill Palace, hands in pockets, staring at the posters and the crowds and the gibbet and noose and dummy body swinging high above the street. It was as if he were being clothed in his dreams. And the costume helped him to approximate his dream-self, for his back stiffened, his shoulders straightened and his determination not to soil himself with speech increased.

As he entered the big dressing room, the raucous opening music of the show blared out. Even filtered by distance it was strident and harsh. The hunchback jerked his head up at the sound. Then he returned, after a brief, embarrassed glance at Frank, to the rapid speech he was making into the microphone of his tape recorder.

An attendant followed Frank to his seat. He adjusted his truncheon in its leather holster and said, “You taking a fee, mate?”

Frank meant to ignore him, but nodded when he saw the small cold eyes.

“Assigned it?”

Frank nodded again. The attendant stared at him a moment, twisting the thong at the top of his truncheon between his fingers, then he grunted and turned to face the room.

“Numbers one to twelve, stir yourselves, numbers one to twelve.” He grinned as eight men and four women stood up and looked at him nervously.

“Your big moment has come,” he said, “this way, if you please . . . ladies and gentlemen . . .”

He led them out. At the door he said something to the second attendant, who looked over at Frank and shrugged.

Frank had just realized that he had nodded only twice in answer to the guard’s questions. Two was not a complete number. He nodded once more to make three. Then he nodded in two more sets of three just to make sure. Three threes was unbeatable.

“Opening’s a demonstration mass-beating number, I believe.”

Frank looked up and saw the little man with the bruised face.

“They always get the run-of-the-mill stuff out of the way first.” He smiled at Frank and tried to look into his eyes. “You and me, now—we’re novelties—we’re what the public comes to see. We’re something special.”

Frank stared straight ahead, expressionless.

“Be about an hour before I’m on,” said the little man. “Got a tableau part all to myself, costume too . . .” He indicated the badly-fitting cloth leggings he was wearing and the shapeless peasant’s jerkin with its big front pocket. “Even got a line ... I have to say, ‘Nay, Lord, I am no thief.’ “ He beamed. “Yes, that’s it: ‘Nay, Lord, I am no thief.’ “ He looked down. “But they don’t believe me, of course, and I, er, I get punished.”

Frank did not speak or move. The little man coughed. “Of course, the only reason I do this is for the money,” he said, “wouldn’t do it otherwise.” He coughed again. “I suppose you’ve, er, nominated someone? . . . for your fee, I mean? . . .”

Frank turned slowly and stared at him. The little man blushed bright red and hurried on: “Yes, of course you have, of course . . . don’t worry, I’ll pass it around, you won’t be bothered.”

Frank turned away, enjoying the control he was exercising.

The little man looked doleful. “Be nearly an hour before I’m on...” he said. He moved slowly away, massaging his right wrist with his left hand.

What would Julia do when she received the check for a hundred pounds? Without allowing himself to indulge in the humiliation of hope, he decided that the fee would be sent with a brochure for Punishment Follies and an offer for cut-rate seats. His name would be prominent on the note attached to the check. There would be no doubt in her mind as to what he had done. How would she feel then?

His fantasy faded into darkness. So what? What did her feelings matter? He knew now that she was not important. Four days ago, when he had risen from his desk in the middle of Monday morning, cleared his papers neatly away, put on his coat and picked up his briefcase; four days ago, when he had ignored the puzzled questions of his colleagues, walked calmly out of the room, held the door open politely for Mr. Whittaker as he left; four days ago, when he had quietly waited for the doorkeeper to draw back the great bolts, ignoring his exasperated mutterings, and finally stepped out into the vast shining street; four days ago ... he had thought he was doing it because of her. For an hour or two he had walked the streets in a vision of golden crucifixion, each grimace of pain mirrored in Julia’s repentant face, looking up at him from the foot of the bloody cross.

But he soon forgot about her. She slipped his mind. No, she was not important; he was not doing this for her. It was more as if she were the last insignificant piece of a jigsaw puzzle it had taken him all his life to solve.

“Hello,” said the hunchback, delicately perching on the bench next to Frank. “I’m a reporter for Yellow Sheet . Do you mind if I talk to you?” He had been fitted with a specially tailored jacket which emphasised his hump, and subtle makeup made his thin sharp features even sharper.