Damon Knight - Orbit 17

I spotted the back of the red head in the middle of the mass, so I waded in. There’s no way to move through something like that. No one can move out of your way; they’re just as trapped as you are. You just wait and move with the current because the pack is in constant eddy as they move from one body to the next, trying to touch everything.

It was no more than thirty seconds before I felt feathery touches on my ass. I thought about my wallet, but I knew that wasn’t what they were after. I pushed away the first hand that closed on my crotch and saw a pout of disappointment flicker across a face in front of mine. I put my wallet in my shirt pocket anyway.

After five minutes and fifty gropes, I finally reached the redhead but he was turned the other way. I was pressed against him and could feel his hard body. By pushing with determination, I managed to get to the side of him. He was standing face to face with another guy. Both of them had their eyes closed and their mouths slightly open, occasionally coming together in a lazy kiss. Their hands were out of sight but I could feel the movement.

It wasn’t him.

This was one of the pretty ones. I might even have said beautiful if I hadn’t seen the other one. But, like Cunningham, he was ordinary in comparison.

He opened his eyes and saw me watching him and he smiled dreamily. I felt a hand massaging my crotch but I couldn’t tell for sure if it was him. I was so disappointed I didn’t push it away. Then my zipper went down and fingers expertly scooped everything out. The press was so tight I couldn’t even get my arms down, much less move away. Whoever was working on me was very good and I couldn’t help getting it up.

Jesus Christ!

I had a wild urge to take out my badge and shove it in every face in sight. I enjoyed my mental image of the panic it would create. But I didn’t do it. I forced my arms down, pushed the clutching hands away, closed my pants, and got the hell out of there.

When I went into the locker room about eleven thirty, Carne-han already had his uniform on, sitting there reading a copy of the Advocate and eating an apple. He looked up when I rattled my locker.

“Hey, Lou! You missed a great dinner.”

“It couldn’t be helped, Carnehan.”

“Don’t forget about Wednesday.”

“I won’t.”

I took off my shirt and remembered my wallet was still in the pocket. I put it on the shelf and took off my pants. I grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. I felt clammy. I must have sweated off a pound in that damn bar. Those groping bodies can generate a lot of heat.

Carnehan laughed out loud. He came toward me waving the newspaper. “Hey, Lou! Did you see this cartoon in the Advocate?"

“Why in hell would I be reading the Advocate?”

“Look, there’s these two cops standing before a judge with a handcuffed fag and a hooker. One of the cops is saying, ‘But Your Honor, you can get hurt chasing robbers and murderers.’ Isn’t that a scream?”

“Ha ha,” I said and went on to the showers. He started rushing around the room showing it to everyone else.

I was almost finished when Cunningham came in. He turned on the water and stood under it leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and a sappy grin on his face.

“You look like the cat that swallowed the aviary,” I said.

He sighed. “I am exhausted!"

“Let me guess from what.”

“I met the most fan to tic girl! A waitress at the Hamburger Hamlet on the Strip. I’m gonna give it two weeks and, if I’m still alive, I’m gonna propose.” He rubbed his hand between his legs. “I tell you, Rankin, I didn’t know I had it in me. Boy, I’d like to see Wharton try to convince her I’m a repressed homosexual.”

I laughed dutifully. He began soaping and glanced down at me.

“You look a little shriveled up yourself. Have a big night?” He grinned goodnaturedly, wanting to share his sexual excitement.

“Yeah. Some women are just as happy with size as they are with technique.”

He looked a little wistful for a moment, then the grin returned. “Shit! If I had your size and my technique, I’d quit the force, put an ad in the Free Press, and open a screwing service!”

And I wondered about him again. With that face and that body, did he worry about size and technique? How did women react to him? Were they intimidated by his beauty? Was he as beautiful in bed?

I saw him going into the Vogue Record Shop on the Boulevard. This time there was no mistake. I told Carnehan to park the car and meet me at the entrance. When I went through the turnstiles, I saw him leaning against the end of the counter. I walked into the book department and watched him from behind a rack of paperbacks.

He had his back to me and it took me a moment to figure out what he was doing. The cashier was playing the Symphonie Fantas-tique— it was the passage where the two shepherds are calling to each other on their flutes and, at the end, one doesn’t answer— and he was standing there listening to the music. Then he turned slightly and I could see his face.

I could feel the skin crawling on the back of my neck.

It wasn’t the same one!

It was all there: the red hair, the magnificent body, the neutral beauty of the bland face. But the features were different. He had to be the other one’s brother, they were so alike.

The lights in the store were very bright. No one else was in the place but the cashier and she had her nose in a paperback volume of Toynbee. His clothes were clean and neatly pressed but they were old and hadn’t cost much when they were new. His hair was neat and not very long. His face was so smooth I doubted that he shaved. And his eyes were gray—-just as beautiful and as neutral as the rest of him.

Finally the record ended and he left. I glanced at the book I had been holding. The cover was a photograph of Burt Reynolds standing with his back to the camera looking over his shoulder. He was wearing nothing but a football jersey, with his bare ass hanging out. I closed the book, put it back on the rack, and for some reason thought of Betty Grable.

The cashier never even looked up when he went out. Came-han, standing on the sidewalk looking confused, never glanced at him as he walked by. The girl was watching me. She smiled but her eyes were guarded.

“Did you know the man who just went out?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She glanced out the door, but he had turned left toward Las Palmas. She looked back at me. “I don’t think so, officer. Did he do something?”

“No. I just thought I’d seen him before. Maybe in the movies or on television.”

She shrugged. “Movie stars come in here all the time. Joanne Worley was in yesterday. Wendell Burton comes in every once in a while.”

“Thanks.” I left before she could give me a complete catalogue of the celebrities she’d seen. She raised her voice as I went out the door.

“Chad Everett was in a couple of weeks ago but I was off that day.”

I looked down the Boulevard but didn’t see him. I told Camehan to wait for me and went after him. At Las Palmas I looked in every direction but there was no sign of him. The hustlers standing around the Gold Cup pretended to ignore me, but a couple of drag queens gave me defiant looks.

There was another bad one that night on the off-ramp at Western. Four cars were scattered half a block. There were seven dead and two others who probably wouldn’t see morning. And there were two of them in the crowd. Two different ones.

I motioned Camehan over.

“Yeah, Lou?”

“Camehan. See those two guys over there, the ones with red hair?”

He looked confused. “Where?”