Damon Knight - Orbit 15

I shook my head. “I’m going back to Venusport as soon as I have the money and find a nice, quiet bar in need of a nice, quiet bartender. How about you?”

“This job’s going to last a year. I figure I’ll try to stick it out and save all the money I can. Next time I’m out of work, I want something in the bank. I’m getting tired of poverty. It’s okay when you’re young, but I’m starting to feel old.” He grinned. “Of course, I say that now. Two, three months, and I’ll probably think there’s nothing worse than working.”

The drinks came, and we ordered serpent-fish stew, then ice cream flavored with the fruit of the nettle tree, coffee and Venusian brandy. After dinner we walked along the wharf. The waves sloshed around the pilings below us, and a boat came up the inlet, a big yacht, aglitter with light. The air smelled of seaweed and fish. There were streetlights shining here and there. I looked at Ace’s face. He was right, he was getting old. I could see lines around his mouth and eyes. Soon that magnificent red hair would start fading. Well, I was getting old too. And what did either of us have to show for all that time except wrinkles? The world is too much with us, I thought. Late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: little we see in nature that is ours; we have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

I’d forgotten the next few lines, but I remembered, looking out at the dark inlet and the lights shining on the other side, how the poem ended:

The most anxious man in a prison is the governor.

It was the second week in December; the weather was actually fairly mild, bright, clear, temperature in the high fifties. The yard was brown and grassless. Where rain had made mud a few days before, there were hard, dry ridges of a lighter buff color. The high gray walls around the yard were close and cold.

Mac was playing middle linebacker, as usual. He was of medium height but very thin, with an ascetic face, narrow shoulders, and small hands. On his right was Willie, as complete an opposite for Mac as one could hope to find: tall, heavy, well-muscled. On Mac’s other side was Sam, Willie’s wife. She was the shortest of the three, though she was built as solidly as her husband. They stared ahead at the other team. The opponents were coming up to the line of scrimmage; their quarterback flicked his eyes across Mac’s team, examining the defensive alignments. Mac looked past him, at the fullback who was Mac’s responsibility. Willie watched the halfback, Sam watched the tight end.

“I will observe their fingertips,” thought Mac. He had been taught that the fingertips of the other team’s linemen could give the impending play away. If the play was a pass, an inexperienced lineman might have his weight on the balls of his feet, as he prepared to pull out of position and drop back to protect the quarterback. On the other hand, if the play was a run, and the lineman would be blocking forward, his weight might be supported by that hand and his fingernails would show white. Mac glanced at the appropriate fingertips, but he picked up no clues.

It was fourth down and four yards to go for the opponents’ first down. There was less than a minute to play, and the other team was behind by six points. They were going for the first down.

The center snapped the ball. The other team’s quarterback faked a hand-off to the halfback, who ran toward the sideline; Willie followed. The quarterback faded back with the football and faked a pass; meanwhile, the tight end ran a square-out to the other sideline, and Sam followed. Mac was going for the quarterback. He saw the man hand the ball to the fullback. “Watch the draw!” shouted Mac. “Draw! Draw!” The running back took the ball and ran through the vacated middle of the line. Sam recovered and came back to help on the tackle. Mac hit the runner low, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. At the same time, Sam hit the runner again, higher, and the other team was stopped short of its first down. Willie jogged over and helped Sam up, then gave a hand to Mac. The three defensive players left the field, happy and tired. For all practical purposes, the game was over.

On the sidelines, Mac saw Jennings staring at the defensive team. Jennings said nothing, gave them not even a smile by way of congratulations. In his eyes, the defense had merely done its job. Mac looked away. One of the assistant coaches said something and laughed. Mac nodded wearily. The assistant coach slapped Mac on the back of his helmet.

“I have always thought that invigoration was one of the worst of impositions,” thought Mac. “I have always thought that invigoration was one of the worst of impositions.” He repeated the line to himself again and again, hoping that he would remember it the next day. He took a deep breath, and his chest ached and was sore. He took another deep breath.

The room was wide and long; the low ceiling made the room seem like a slot in a desk or an empty drawer. The walls were gray, the same color as the ceiling, a little lighter than the floor, which showed the marks of years of traffic. The lights were dim, and the large windows let in little additional illumination. Willie looked around the hall, waiting for the lecture to begin. Through the windows all he could see were the immense walls. The chairs in the room were filled; Sam sat in her place sixteen ranks ahead of Willie, twenty-two files to his left. Mac was nine ranks behind Willie, and forty-one files to his right. Willie opened his notebook. The page on which he had made his notes at the previous lecture was gone. There was no writing at all in the notebook. Willie clicked his ballpoint pen and wrote Lecture at the top of the first page. Then he sat back uneasily and waited for Jennings.

After a few minutes Jennings came in and went to his podium on the short platform at the front of the room. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jennings. “Today we have some bombs to look at. I hope you take adequate notes. I do not want any failures on the examination. I’m sure that you do not want to fail, either. Take adequate notes.”

Willie noticed for the first time that there were, indeed, three large objects on one side of Jennings’ platform. They must be bombs, Willie decided.

“What we have here, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jennings, “is what you call your regular AN/M65A1 general-purpose bomb.” Jennings walked over to the tallest of the bombs, which was almost exactly as tall as he was, which was almost exactly six feet tall. “That is, again, your what you call your Alpha November slash Mike Six Five Alpha One. I called this beauty a general-purpose bomb. Can anyone recall from our previous discussions how this beauty is delivered? Come, come, ladies and gentlemen.” Jennings waited a moment, smiling coldly. “From aircraft, ladies and gentlemen. From your so-called aircraft. It is a thousand-pound bomb, ladies and gentlemen. Much too heavy for a man to carry on his back, I’m sure you will agree. Perhaps a few of you could imagine it buried in the ground like a mine, with only its detonator sticking up in the air. But, consider. What a job, ladies and gentlemen, to dig the hole, to lift it down into the hole. Ah, ladies and gentlemen, perhaps a jeep runs over this beauty! Like killing a mosquito with a howitzer. Make a note, my lovely intelligences. We drop these beauties from aircraft.”