Damon Knight - Orbit 19

“Ah, now we have a complete cockpit, eh?” Kinchon said as they taxied through the hopper portal. They lifted off with barely a whisper from the air induction tubes. Kinchon said nothing until they reached cruising altitude. Then he leaned back from the controls.

“You look good tonight, Dieter. You will fit in well.” Dieter was flattered, but relieved when Kinchon excused himself to examine some papers from the briefcase. It was enough simply to be able to watch the Sierra foothills pass below as mottled pools of black/gray in the transparent moonlight. The newsfax forecast had been correct —it was a clear night in the mountains, and the sight of the Sierras, jagged and dusted with the season’s first snowfall, obliterated any trace of the strange thoughts that had disturbed him all day.

As they traveled into the mountain range, Dieter peered ahead until he was sure of the bulbous glow he saw well up the side of a large peak. It was Tahoe Complex, just as he had seen it in holo reproductions. Four kilometers of dome blistering the side of Silver Peak, the Complex dominated the entire Tahoe Basin. The mountainside had been carefully stripped and reworked so that a terracing of subcomplexes ascended to the peak, all protected by the obliquely bulging dome. Now, in the basin, Condo light competed with moonlight, a harmonious duel which cast a pale yellow on the snow. Kinchon continued studying his papers as if they were doing nothing more than driving over a dirt road. He’s used to it—he lives here. Still, Dieter was convinced that Coe’s reaction would have been at least appreciative.

“Here already?” Kinchon crammed his papers back into the briefcase, then pressed a stud on the panel. They descended slowly.

“Do you see, Dieter, there is our party.” Kinchon pointed out what appeared to be a flaw in the dome high above the rest of the subcomplexes. In it, Dieter could almost make out tiny figures, but the hopper landed before he could be sure. A valet attended to the hopper; they got out, entered a small pneumatic tube that whisked them up the mountain? through it? to the party area.

The tube ended at a round platform perhaps a hundred meters in diameter, illumined by wedge-shaped floor panels. Along the perimeter was the exhibition—various works of art interspersed with large potted plants and pieces of furniture which stood unused, possibly because they provided no good view of either art or people. Most of the guests were crowded about the bar and buffet in the middle of the platform, where the gray noise of conversation drowned out the electronic efforts of the music generators.

Such scenery! Of course, the pale mountains surrounded everything here, but they were pale indeed in comparison to the people-hundreds of them, arrayed in a dazzle of color. There were several faces Dieter recognized immediately, but when he turned to Kinchon to ask about them, he discovered that his companion had been led away by an eager group.

Left to himself, he scanned the display area for his own work, and spotted it on the opposite side of the platform. He circled toward it, avoiding the knots of guests in the center.

There it was. Not near the best mountain scenery, of course, but nicely mounted on a slab covered with black velvet. His pleasure faded, however, when he discovered that his name had been misspelled “Deiter” on the small white card below the transfer. Glumly he stood back a little to watch the guests as they drifted by.

“Tsk. My god, Jorma, look at this! How absolutely depressing!”

“Oh, I don’t know, Edith, it’s-”

“It’s not something I should have to look at. This Deiter person ought to have known better. Or at least Rudi should have, I’m going to talk to him. To even think of living this way!” She pulled her escort away.

“Condopigs,” he muttered. People like her knew nothing, could learn nothing. In his frustration he walked blindly into a crowd that had collected in front of the piece to the right of his. He pushed his way through until he could see the object of their interest.

He stared, horrified. Here was a mixed-medium oil-and-holo competently executed, but of a completely degenerate character. Two stallions were fighting in a field; the mouths of both animals were open, hideously grinning, teeth smeared with holoprojected blood.

Turning away in anger, he found himself facing Kinchon. Something was wrong with the man. His mouth was like a gaping wound; his eyes were glazed, he blinked continually. “Dieter,” he said, almost in a whisper, caressing the back of Dieter’s neck. “Here.” His other hand came around under Dieter’s nose, popped a tiny ampule, releasing a puff of lime-green dust.

Instantly Dieter’s eyes filmed over. He tried to blink the tears away, but could not. It was as if his visual field had expanded horizontally, narrowed vertically, while thoughts sped through his brain like a plaza faxstrip display. All of it was helplessly observed by a tiny bubble—for that was how it seemed—of fascinated objectivity. The discrepancy between the two thoughtforms was immediately, sickeningly funny. Dieter giggled, awash in the moist warmth of Kinchon’s hand.

“You do like cylanite, yes?”

“Oh, yes. Never, thank you, K, never had it be—”

“Good, good.” Then the touching stopped and Dieter, coasting on the dwindling sensation, realized that Kinchon was gone again. He turned, vaguely searching, until he lost his balance and fell upon a providential couch to watch the distorted movement of color and form around him. He longed, achingly, for Kinchon. But the small part of Dieter untouched by the drug picked out only one face—was it Carruthers’?—from the muddle before it.

Then, gradually, the ocean cleared, the bar and the music generators rolled silently away from the platform center, leaving a space adorned only by the inlaid shield of the complex, an ambiguous heraldry of crystal and rosewood placed (deviously placed, the bubble insisted) just off center, a nagging, incorrectable deviation from the perfect. Dieter licked his lips.

“Entertainment!” someone called; from the tube exit spilled a running stream of black-clad attendants bearing armfuls of small objects which they piled in the middle of the platform. Dizzily Dieter got up and circled the ring of spectators, his wide-band perception noting that the objects were stuffed animals of some sort, the bubble determining that they were either lemurs or tarsiers. A smaller group of attendants clad in scarlet moved to the pile, each one holding an instrument resembling a large gilded garlic press. Dieter blinked; the yellow sparkle from the animals’ eyes was almost too much.

Back to back, the attendants put their animals into the presses, then gently closed the handles until only the soft furry-brown heads were visible.

How orderly. A jarring screech startled him. Whizzing lemur eyes separated from exploded heads, saucering high overhead; screaming guests retreated from a heavy spray of red liquid which rolled, like mercury, on the floor. The bubble protested weakly, while the rest of Dieter watched the last few eyes caroming off the dome. He was jostled in the scramble for lemur souvenirs, and he wanted very badly to see Kinchon again.

A servant with a squeegee touched his arm impatiently, then, when Dieter failed to respond, pushed him aside to continue moving the remaining drops of fluid to a small glistening pool near the bar. Light from the floor panels began to fade. Suddenly Carruthers was there, frowning.

“C! Oh, ha! You’ve got some of that stuff on you.” Dieter tried, clumsily, to brush the glistening droplets off his sleeves.

“Leave it, Dieter. God, K’s done it again.”

“K. Yes, K, I must see him. C, all in gold-”