Damon Knight - Orbit 17

Before going back into the kitchen, hidden now by a haze of sunlight over the french door, she pressed a button in the wall, and watched as the garden roof cleaned itself. It had been impossible to do without a garden roof for some years now, and she liked having one anyway, it completed the self-sufficient privacy of House. Before they’d had the roof fitted she’d had to spray the garden every single morning to wash the soot and dirt from the leaves of her flowers. John said that he would not have it, did not want her risking her health because of the filth spewed out by the factories (she was pleased but she’d had to tell him to moderate his language); he made some inquiries, and one day, when he was out at work, some men had come and fitted the roof. It was unpleasing, having them in her garden, and she’d locked herself in the bedroom, but when they’d gone, she had fallen in love with the expanse of plastic roof, protecting her from everything outside. It immediately became part of the known fabric of House. They only opened it now on rain days, and as they were only once a month she didn’t mind; rain was quite nice in its random way.

The last rinse spurted out over the roof, sluicing away the last traces of dirt. The plastic gleamed, sparkled brilliantly. She entered the kitchen, closing the french doors behind her, and looked at the clock—almost an hour since she’d got up, and the housework not even started. Humming to herself, she moved from room to room, pressing the Air-Revivifier buttons, setting into motion the little machines that scurried back and forth polishing and cleaning and tidying. June, her daughter, was forever nagging at her to have the cleaning system of House modernized, but she wouldn’t hear of it, gladly accepted the exasperated remonstrations of her offspring on the peculiar ways of the “old folk.” June’s own house, June never tired of telling her, was completely automatic. Before going to bed at night you pressed a single button in the hall and when you got up in the morning the house was clean. No noise, no fuss, and a facility which, according to June, the government had no hesitation in allowing on your debt. Of course, she said nothing to June, but Ann thought it sounded cold and hostile. She had always done her own housework, had always taken great pride in personally making House look beautiful. Not that much cleaning was necessary now, but the routine was so much a part of her that she felt herself incapable of breaking out of it, even if she wanted to. No, to serve House was the only thing that made her really happy these days. And besides, in spite of her chiding, it was obvious that June loved House just as much as her mother did, and would have no hesitation in leaving her modem dwelling for it.

She entered the living room and experienced a flash of annoyance as she saw John in his rocking chair before the window, rocking slowly back and forth in the sunlight. It was not that she resented him sitting there in his pajamas (after all, neither of them bothered to get dressed very often these days—nothing they did required formality), but he knew very well that she liked to get the housework done before he got in her way. However, the living room, as always, was already spotless, and she did feel so good in House this morning—oh, all right, let him stay there; after all, he didn’t have many pleasures. She closed the door quietly and finished the rooms on the top floor, not allowing the tiny germ of exasperation to spoil her good mood. From the bedroom window she saw that the walks were almost clear of commuters, and there were only half a dozen or so scattered along the monorail platform, heads in their newssheets. Beyond the station, a vista of roofs, roofs, roofs, under a spiny growth of aerials, and way beyond, only just in sight, part of the green diamond of the town square. No doubt full of empty cans and papers and dirt, she thought to herself, turning with relief from the view that always distressed her for some reason, to the perfect little map of her own garden, showing its miniature perfection all the better because seen from above, all the more private and personal because enclosed by a plastic roof. She sighed with pleasure and turned away, gently touching the heavy curtains as she did so. House required so little service, gave so much in return.

In the living room she lowered herself thankfully into the rocker next to John’s, not daring to give any sign of the weariness she felt. For he did go on so: at your age ... no necessity whatsoever . . . won’t have you endangering your health . . . why did we retire, after all? All it did was make her even more tired, and she couldn’t answer him satisfactorily, not when she knew that he was only thinking of her. Thinking of her, as he had always done. So she stifled the sigh of relief as the soft plastic received her body, and contented herself with setting the chair on automatic instead of manual. Gently she rocked in the warm sunshine, sleepily observing her garden.

John woke her only just in time. She was deep in a horrid dream of being a fish in a pool, with a cold body and cold damp thoughts. She was dying, drifting slowly to the slimy bed of the pool, thoughts flickering out of existence like bubbles bursting. Cold, colder; dark, darker; blackness, nothingness, end. His words dragged her back and she woke with a start, shivering at the thought of life ending in nothing. “. . . all right now, but I didn’t enjoy it one little bit last night, I can tell you.”

“I’m sorry, dear, what was that you said?” Without any trace of his normal annoyance when he found out that she hadn’t been listening to him, he patiently began again, not looking at her but at the garden. “I said I had another of my turns last night, the sweating and the shivering and everything. I’m all right now, but it was very nasty while it lasted.”

Silence. The chairs rocked gently. She had almost drifted off when he spoke again, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other month, you know, about the, er, doctor and the, er, whatyoucallit, and I . . . well, I can see what you mean now.” She didn’t dare speak, for he was doing something very unusual for him—admitting that he was wrong and she was right. His embarrassment was obvious: he knew very well what the process was called, yet he would say whatyoucallit, as if it was something too trivial for him to use its proper name. There was silence again for a short time. “It’s been so nice sitting here this morning watching the garden. It’s made me so calm, I . . . I have decided to comply with your wishes; there’s no point in enduring pain and unpleasantness unnecessarily, not these days, not when there’s so much progress all around us.” She laughed at his characteristic attempt at rationalization and impulsively took his hand. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “Thank you,John my dear.” He turned to her and smiled and squeezed her hand. He is still my John, she thought, tingling with happiness.

She switched the chair off and almost bounced to her feet. “So much to do,” she said, “so much—shall we make it tomorrow, if that’s all right with the company?” He nodded agreement and she started for the door. “Oh,” she said, holding the door open, impatient to get started, “what about . . . have you thought a-bout . . . ?” Without turning, he said, “I have given the matter some thought this morning, and I think—yes, I have decided on Roof.” It was a good choice; she was so pleased. Roof, protecting House, standing arms akimbo at the very top. She went over to his chair and kissed him on the cheek. He grunted. He always pretended that he hated sentimentality. “What about you?” he asked, his voice already woolly with sleep. “Oh, I,” she said carelessly, “I shall be Window.” And danced out of the room.