Damon Knight - Orbit 19

“Shh ” Around them, the party noise dwindled. Carruthers whispered: “You’ll see him soon enough.” Then he was gone. Unsteadily, Dieter leaned forward to see that only the shield remained illuminated, silhouetting the ruins of the exploded toys. No one spoke.

Suddenly someone ran past Dieter, a lithe androgynous figure dressed in a pale body stocking. As it flashed into the open space, Dieter saw, blearily, that a softly pointed cap of the same material covered its head and shoulders. A young Amanita mushroom, the bubble noted.

“M. Kinchon to do the honors!”

And there he was, Kinchon, jumpsuit shimmering in the interrupted light, a long knife held in both hands above his head. Dieter reached out in the darkness toward the devastating radiance.

Slowly Kinchon walked an eccentric route about the figure, which held its position, trembling. The knife was put to use; Kinchon cut the costume around the circumference of the cap. Then, winking, he reached up and grasped its point.

“Now-”

The lights came on full as he pulled the cap away.

Galvanized, Dieter stared at a face obliterated by glossy flesh putty that concealed eyes, nose and ears. Only a slick and vivid red mouth remained to open and close slowly below the word “head” stenciled on the forehead. Spasmodically the figure arched its back to applause that began softly, then rose to a laughter-filled crescendo.

“Circumcision!” Kinchon screamed, both hands high again. The figure (a dancer, the bubble told Dieter) settled into graceful repose at Kinchon’s feet.

Kinchon! The drug ravaged Dieter’s stomach, but oh, how he wanted Kinchon. Even so, the bubble still had a voice of its own: Coe, Dieter seemed to hear, Coe, Coe, but it wasn’t right. Kinchon was there and he wanted to leave with him now.

He drifted into the circle, where Kinchon was talking to the dancer and two women. Touching Ks shoulder, he waited for him to turn and then stared with everything he felt into quizzical, then decidedly satisfied eyes.

Dieter began perspiring. “K, please. Could we go now?”

Kinchon laughed a little nervously in the direction of the women, who regarded Dieter suspiciously. “You do not like this? Dieter, you haven’t yet met Rudi—”

“Another time. Now, please.” He closed his eyes until the new drug-waves passed.

Kinchon shrugged. “Camella, excuse me please. The young man has had his first sniff of cylanite, so-o-o . . . Perhaps I will be back.”

“I doubt it.” The dancer laughed as her two companions helped her move off into the crowd.

They returned to the hopper pad in silence, Dieter unable to express his confused thoughts and emotions. Finally, when they were well away from the complex, he put his hand on Kinchon’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, K,” he said blurrily. “The entertainment—I just couldn’t-”

“No need, no need, it’s just as well, Dieter. The party was a bore. This is just fine.” He opened a compartment between their seats. There was a rattling—like the rattling of beads, said the bubble—then Kinchon busied himself with his sash for a moment. “More cylanite, Dieter?”

No . He shook his head. There was enough drug in him, more than enough desire for contact, the flowing contact toward which he knew he was moving. The pale blister of the Stockton Dome was below suddenly, and as they landed and taxied toward Dieter’s unit, he knew that something of this great artist would come to him. Shyly, Dieter leaned his head against Kinchon’s powerful shoulder. He was rewarded with a smile; then Kinchon pushed him gently away.

“Dieter, up now. Yes, move slowly, that’s it.” Dieter managed to get his other leg out of the cockpit. “Now. Let’s see where you live.”

“My doorway’s too wide, K.” He giggled helplessly as Kinchon pushed him toward it. Somehow Dieter managed to get the door open and his hall lights switched on.

And there K. Kinchon stood, fingering his choker in a way that excited Dieter intensely. Apparently Kinchon had been feeling the effects of the drug too; shiny rivulets of sweat ran down the open V of his jumpsuit. Trembling, Dieter approached, hand extended, his intention to run a single finger slowly down that slick brown chest. But Kinchon grabbed his wrist suddenly, twisting it enough to hurt as his smile flowed smoothly. His eyes shone.

“What do we say, my young friend?”

“Wha-” Very softly: “Please?”

“Ah-ha. I could not hear you.”

“Please,” Dieter said, pulling his wrist away, melting.

“Much better. You learn quickly. Here”—he pulled Dieter onto the bed beside him—”we must sit together.”

They faced each other, Dieter’s thought bubble noting with resigned amusement the extent to which sweat stains had spread under both golden arms of Kinchon’s jumpsuit.

Love, for this man? Attempting to express it, Dieter’s lips only met Kinchon’s salt palm. The man laughed and stood up, staring thoughtfully at his hand.

“Truly an eloquent invitation, J.” Wide-eyed, Dieter looked up; Kinchon had never used his diminutive before. “However, reality intrudes upon the vapors of love. I have not been near a rest room all evening. Please, Dieter, may I use yours?”

“Uh, through here.” Dieter switched on the light to the workroom and pointed to the bathroom door. As he brushed the hair on Kinchon’s forearm, the man suddenly stiffened.

Kinchon was staring at a wall covered with the sketches Dieter had made at Coe’s room. His brown face went livid.

“What is this! You bring me here to mock me! Perhaps you love me, eh, just as you love that man there!”

Coe? Not now, oh god — Dieter’s voice broke. “Please, K.”

The smile hardened, as if encased in lucite. “Please,” Kinchon mimicked. His hand fumbled with his sash for a moment, then cupped Dieter’s neck gently.

“Is this what you like, eh?” The grip tightened cruelly; suddenly Dieter was pushed back onto the bed. “Yes, moan, you idiot. You take me for a fool! Making overtures to me when you are so obviously fascinated with that lowlife who never should have been beaded in the first place.” Again he mimicked: “ ’I wish to deal with this subject in an objective manner.’ Faugh!”

The door slammed and Dieter was alone.

In bed, alone between cold sheets, he realized what was wrong. He had wanted contact, yes. But he had gone to the wrong person.

Dieter’s mind was clear and determined when he awoke. For the first time in weeks, his situation was plain. The job at the Dwalae had ended, he knew. But that was good; console spying would have destroyed him eventually, made him into another Kinchon, insulated, callous. All his life he too had been insulated, but only because he had known nothing else. Now he would leave the Condos to travel with Coe, perhaps to the city, to gather material no other transferist could ever hope to capture. Together, they could change everything.

Outside the Dome it was cool and clear, strangely silent, with little traffic between complex and compound. At 135 Av D Dieter found the stairway door unlocked. He ran eagerly up to the third floor. There was no response to his rap on Coe’s door. He knocked again. “Yeah, come in,” came low and muffled from behind the door. Dieter opened it.

Coe stood by the window, silhouetted by the indirect early morning light. Dieter greeted him; Coe said nothing.

Dieter put down his rucksack. “I’ve got to tell you about what happened last night.”

“Enjoyed it, huh?”

“Enjoyed it? Whoa, I found out everything you said was right!”

“Not what I hear, terrysuiter.”

“What?”

“Your fellow snotsucker came by last night, pig. Showed me where this was.” Coe held out the bead on an extended fingertip. “You like to sketch. You want to change things. You, an artist. Ha!” Coe reached into his jumpsuit pocket, took out a knife.