Damon Knight - Orbit 19

Coe lived on Av D, Number 135, easy enough to locate since the compound was laid out on a grid. As Dieter passed Av A, he was most impressed by the design and arrangement of the old buildings. It was said that the compound had been an undomed complex late in the last century, and he believed it; the wood-framed structures were covered with a patchwork of weathered pine shakes and yellowing styroflo, the result of the activities of wood scavengers during the Twenty-Year Depression. Dieter was glad of the vandalism, because the juxtaposition of natural and artificial building materials made for an interesting texture. These were narrow buildings, starkly angular, with many windows. In Dieter’s opinion they had more character than any of their successors inside the Dome field.

He reached Av D and walked slowly down to 135. There, a dirty glass door led to a staircase. Hesitantly Dieter touched the buzzer. But there was no response; then Dieter remembered that Coe would probably still be on his shift. Somewhat relieved, he sat down, pulled out his sketchpad and furtively observed the activities of the Maintenance people who passed.

For almost an hour he sketched the unit facing him across the Av, inventing different proportions and elevations. When street traffic increased, he stopped to check his watch. Four-twenty: the shift had ended and people in Maintenance uniforms were entering the buildings all around him.

Coe would be coming! The thought frightened him enough to make him think of returning to the complex. But what would he say to Kinchon, who had shown trust, however reluctantly, in his judgment? Firmly, he slid the pad back into the portfolio, feeling the tiny bulge the beads made in the inside zippered pouch.

Then he heard a voice, the voice, there was no mistaking it. Dieter forced himself to be calm. He turned in the direction of the sound and saw him, shocking in his solid, vital presence. Strangely, all of it— the beard, the blue eyes, everything Dieter had so casually sketched— was less emotionally intense than on those frightening prints. But there was more, Dieter realized, a way of moving, an odd combination of the fluid and the mechanical, a pulling stride that was directed by a bent head rocking a broad yoke of shoulders. He stepped in his heavy workshoes so close to Dieter that for a terrible instant he loomed just as he had in the heel image. Dieter drew his knees up.

Coe checked his mailbox, took a key from his jumpsuit pocket. But before he could put the key in the lock, Dieter was there behind him.

Coe turned, just as Dieter was about to tap his shoulder. “Ah, ha, excuse me. Your name is Coe, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Coe said quizzically, one hand on the doorknob. “You know me. Who’re you?”

“Dieter. I’d like to talk with you”—Dieter stared at the ground between them— “about that bead you found this week.”

Alarm hardened Coe’s impassive features. “Hey, look, if you’re Security, I know right where it gives the rules about remote surveillance—”

“No! No, I’m not Security. The farthest thing from it, in fact, I work at the Dwalae, and I was at the console when you, uh, terminated the broadcast.”

Coe relaxed, looked at him, laughed softly. He stared at Dieter again and laughed very loudly while Dieter gripped his portfolio tightly.

Then the laughter ended. “I ought to waste you, pig.”

“You won’t even find out why I want to see you?”

Impassive once again, Coe simply shrugged and turned. “Come on,” he said, starting up the narrow stairway. At the second-floor landing Dieter was startled as Coe stepped around a naked woman who was talking into a pay phone. She smiled and waved at Coe, who merely grunted, continuing to the third floor. Halfway down a dark corridor, Coe unlocked a door and suddenly they were in the room.

His room! There it was—the mattress, the closet, the littered floor. And the window, different in the evening light, of course. The door closed. Coe paced in front of it.

“All right, Condo boy, tell me why you’re here.”

“I want to explain.”

Coe nodded, continuing to pace. Where could I bead to catch that motion? Dieter realized that it was the wall that should have been beaded in the first place.

“You want to explain. Since when does a screen vamp have a conscience?”

“Since me. No, please, I’d just like you to look at what I was doing,” Dieter reached into his portfolio, pulled out the holo reproduction of “Red in Filtered Red,” and gave it to Coe. The tall man halted to peer at it.

“I watched you for a week. I got involved, and what you did was a shock. I’m still involved. That’s why I came.”

“Hm. My window.”

“Yes, your window. I did it hoping that people would see something there that would make a difference the next time they walked into their white bedrooms.”

Anxiously he watched Coe, who tilted the transfer the way Kinchon had. Suddenly he was grateful for Coe’s openmindedness; the man apparently appreciated the complexity of the situation. And Dieter smiled a little too—for the first time his theory of art had practical application, and here, in a built place, it sounded solid. More solid, in fact, than all the echoing balk of the styroflo Condo units.

“You like the window, huh? What’s your name again?”

Dieter told him. Coe’s deep laughter came, genuine, its phrasing matching the rhythm of his walk. “Yeah, it’s a nice view. Saw Stockton all summer long. You been to Stockton?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t like it.” Almost shyly, he handed the holograph back. “Let’s see something else.”

Dieter gave him some of the partial face sketches, and, sensing a warmth between them, took the opportunity to apologize for the beading.

“I didn’t do it. You see, you were my very first subject for the Dwalae, and the staff did it for me before I even came here. It’s not something I really approve of, but as I sort of said before, there’s always the possibility of working change in any artform.” He retrieved the sketchpad while Coe settled onto the mattress to look at the rest of the drawings.

“I really prefer to sketch, you understand, and there’s absolutely nothing worth drawing at the Complex.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t mind if I sketched you—?”

“That depends.” Coe slid the sketches across the carpet toward Dieter. “On the deal. Young man, are you still vamping me?” The blue eyes didn’t waver.

“Coe, this transfer will help change this rotten system—I live in there, you live here—”

“Don’t forget Stockton,” Coe said drily.

“We should all be living in the same place! Look, Coe, I think my stuff is different enough to matter. Art is a way of showing people how wrong they can be, if it’s done in the right way.”

“Okay, okay. I’ve seen beadwork before. Used to work in a component shop. Maybe you can give it to those grumbles you live with. So shit, yeah, sketch, but not now. Come back later and let me see what’s happening.” He stretched and stood up. “I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”

Without hesitation Dieter reached for a bead. He looked at the wall for a good spot, and when he was satisfied he peeled the backing off the tiny disk. He slapped it onto the stained wallpaper, then resumed his position, as if negating what he had just done.

When Coe returned, hand on zipper, Dieter obtained a vague promise to meet sometime in the future. Then he left to reenter the windless security of the force dome.

On Monday, Kinchon surprised Dieter by visiting the cubicle to remind him of the party. When he saw the new bead field on the screen, however, he scowled.

“Why place the bead in such a position? There’s not much more that you can do with such a view, is there?”