Damon Knight - Orbit 17

“All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses”—but not quite as Longfellow meant it.

House was quiet this morning, peaceful in the sunlight. The beams slanted low through sparkling windows, falling in great golden squares on the walls and floor. Ann could remember the time when dust motes had danced silently in the swathes of light, but now they were empty and clean: the Automatic Dustmaid saw to that. She could remember sitting at the kitchen table for hours, chin in cupped hands, watching great galaxies of dust slowly turning, passing, colliding, finally disappearing abruptly at the sharp edge of the sunshine. Sometimes she had followed a single mote from ceiling to floor in all its intricate orbits, observing it so closely that she imagined she could even see its tiny facets reflecting the light momentarily before spinning into night. But dust, after all, was dirt, and dirt had no place in House, with its smooth plastic walls and tiled floors. And the man had spent such a long time demonstrating the Dustmaid, showing how it disposed of even dirt particles too small to be seen. So they’d added it to their debt, confident that this was money well spent. And of course she loved the Dustmaid now, just as she did everything else in House; she had a special affection for the tall narrow cabinet, featureless and white, but humming quietly as if to itself when you pressed your ear against the cool plastic. It was the same with all the other appliances: they all had a place in Ann’s heart.

Before entering the kitchen she stood, as she did every morning, appraising the room, proudly observing the blend of color in cupboards, machines, wall-decorations; admiring the harmonic arrangement of shape and structure; inwardly praising the beauty of the whole room, greater than the sum of its parts. She moved across the spotless floor, between the shining surfaces, touching a corner here, running her fingers over a handle there, feeling the intimately known and subtle pressures of the room all over her body. She sat at the table and pressed the breakfast button. The kitchen began to hum quietly, happy at the prospect of another day ahead. Since dawn it had been sunk in dumb serenity under the impact of the mellow light; now she could feel the mood change to alertness, happy acceptance of her presence, anticipation of her needs. Breakfast popped out of the table, smelling good: coffee, eggs and bacon on her beautiful Pacific Morning tableware. She began to eat, holding with care the Golden Spring cutlery.

Outside, through the long window in the garden wall, she could see the first commuters making their way to the monorail station. It was still very early, about a quarter to eleven, and so they were able to enjoy the morning in peace, without the squash and bustle of the rush hour. Some of them looked through the window, but she didn’t move, even though she was still in her nightdress: the glass was opaque from the other side, sealing House into its own little universe.

The first monorail of the morning whispered overhead on its concrete rail. There was very little noise, but House rocked slightly on its nylon gimbals. She remembered that there had been a big fuss in the neighborhood when the rail was being built. People had demonstrated in the streets, sabotaged the erecting machines. They had even come to her door asking her to sign a petition. She had been embarrassed and confused: she did not resent the monorail, for she rarely left the house, would never have occasion to travel by it, could not understand the neighbors’ objections. They told her that it would obscure her view, that the house would shake each time a train passed. But her favorite views were all inside the house, and she knew very well (John had told her) that the monorail company had agreed to mount vibration-free bearings on the houses. In the end she had signed, but only so that House would not be subjected to the insolent prying stares of these callers, inserting themselves into her hallway. The monorail had been operating now for twenty years and was accepted completely; she even enjoyed House’s little rocking motions at the passing of a train, would miss them if the line were closed. And she didn’t have to look at the great concrete pillars of the rail, for she had not stepped outside House in the last fifteen years. No, House was all the world she needed, all she loved was within its four walls. She sometimes felt that the walls and floor and windows were her real skin and eyes and body, and that she herself was a soul existing within. She loved House.

A second train passed overhead, closely followed by another. The rush hour was getting into its swing, the window in the wall now showed a solid mass of commuters moving steadily toward the station, eyes directed downward so that they could see where their feet were taking them. Ten years ago John would have been preparing to set out for work now, she would have been putting his lunch in his briefcase, checking to see that he had his season ticket (he was so absent-minded), giving a last polish to his already immaculate shoes. She had never seen him off, for the sight of the crowded and bustling street always distressed her; she had waited in the kitchen until he had gone, had stayed away from the front door at two o’clock when she knew he would be coming home. Now the door was never opened, House was all calm and quiet and peace.

She finished her breakfast and pressed the disposal button. The greasy plates disappeared into the table with a sigh, and reappeared, clean, behind the glass doors of her crockery display cupboard. She smiled, and, opening the sliding french doors, stepped into the garden. The roses were automatically opening, unfolding themselves for her. The daffodils were still stiff yellow pencils, but they too would begin to open in a few minutes: she had programmed it that way, arranged for the garden to open itself to her presence as real flowers would to the sun. She could feel the last traces of dew on her bare feet as the silky-soft grass began to raise itself to a proud green height. It made a carpet for her as she approached the tiny pool. The fish (it was a real fish, one that could die) was swimming lazily backward and forward, its tiny shadow skimming over the smooth pebbles on the bottom. She loved the way its little mouth opened and closed, opened and closed so regularly, the tail moving like a chiffon scarf waving in the water. She touched the water with her toe; every morning she touched everything that was House, as if to give assurance of her love and its continuity. A circle of ripples spread from her toe, and, because it wavered and became distorted in the tiny waves, she became aware of her face reflected on the surface. She waited until the disturbance died. Her face was old, it had wrinkles and lines. Her hair was old and limp. Her breasts were withered under the beautiful nightdress. Time had crept up on her, had somehow squeezed through the dust-impervious joints which sealed her inside House, had leeched the life slowly from her body. She looked, was sad for a moment, but then smiled, accepting age. It was time, she had known it for weeks now; she was only waiting for John.

With her foot she pressed a little plate by the pool’s edge, saw a cloud of food particles stream into the water, saw the fish that could die eagerly fin his way over to fill his cold gullet once more. As she started back to House, the breezes began, cool and sweet on her skin, gently waving the flowers in the balmy air. The breezes were the last thing they’d added to their debt, five years ago; they were well into their retirement then, and had told themselves that they could afford this small luxury. After all, they’d incurred nothing unnecessary before that, when you thought about it, nothing that could be said to be pure luxury. And they were well worth it, the breezes, well worth that last rounding up of the debt. They’d incurred nothing since and the debt had remained at its never very high level, ready for the children to take over with no fear of having to do without. Oh, yes, the children—she made a mental note to have the telegram typed out ready for when John made up his mind: at their age it would be quite easy for them to forget.