Damon Knight - Orbit 15

“I think it was all a mistake,” said Willie.

“It couldn’t have been real,” said Sam. “But maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Mac, with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh, hell,” said Willie. It was still Sevenday evening. He wondered how he was supposed to take notes the next morning, at the Oneday lecture.

It was the fifth week of Quintember; the weather was hotter each day, more humid, so that the air conditioning made the plastic-slab windows steam up. The world outside was invisible through the wet haze, or else, when someone rubbed the stuff away, the yard below looked blurred and unreal. The high gray walls around the yard were close. They looked like death.

The old year ended, the pageantry of Jennings Day passed, the mild weather of December changed into the windy coldness of Unuary, Diuary, Tertuary. Quatober brought spring. Like a hungry cat, greedy for prey, the hot weather attacked and took possession of the year. By the beginning of Quintember the temperature had climbed into the mid-nineties and remained there, day after day, night after sultry night. The humidity matched the thermometer’s readings, and the air seemed heavy and almost unbreathable. Sam hated it, Willie abided it, Mac loved it. Jennings didn’t seem to notice, and the white-uniformed trusties simply couldn’t.

It was the fifth week of Quintember. Nearly half the year had gone by already, a year that had begun with the usual promise and illusion: a year of potential reinforcement, of minimal punishment. Willie had planned to record the number of Sevendays that were given to each, but dropped the scheme shortly after the first of Diuary. Sam had shown interest in his project, but when he quit she said nothing. In Quintember he couldn’t even remember why he had begun. He learned nothing.

It was baseball season, of course. Because of their success on the football field, Willie, Sam, and Mac had been allowed to play on the same baseball team. Willie was the catcher and batted fourth. Sam was the first baseman and batted eighth. Mac was the shortstop, even though he was left-handed, and batted second. Willie didn’t enjoy being a catcher, any more than he enjoyed being a linebacker. He liked batting cleanup, though.

The pitcher, a woman named Sheila, looked toward Willie for his signal. He decided on the slider. Her fast ball didn’t have much zip on it, but her breaking stuff was working. She nodded, went into her windup, and threw. The batter swung and topped a roller to Mac at shortstop. Because he was left-handed, and because Jennings had decided that Mac had to play that position, Mac had developed a unique method of fielding ground balls. If they were hit to his right, he would be out of position and off balance to throw the runner out at first. Consequently he had to stop the ball, take one more step with his left foot, plant it and pivot so that he faced toward the outfield, and snap the ball underhand to first. It cost him almost a full second more than a right-handed shortstop, and his throws were often low and in the dirt, but a lot of practice with Sam had made their infield as good as any. Jennings never said anything or showed that he was at all pleased whenever Mac made one of his odd fielding plays; still, Willie was aware that their team had the best record of reinforcement in the entire league.

Willie stood up behind the plate, waiting for the next batter to take her place. He looked out at Sam, who stood behind and to the left of first base. It seemed to Willie that the right fielder had been murmuring to her at the end of each inning, as the fielders ran off the field and into the dugout. He would make sure this time. He would keep his eye on the right fielder, on his lips; Willie didn’t care how foolish he looked, standing still after the last out, staring apparently in a daze. If that man was making whispered suggestions to Sam, the team would soon need a new outfielder. Willie didn’t care what Jennings would do—and Willie knew exactly what he would do.

Sometimes Willie wondered if Sam understood how much she meant to him. Willie suffered a lot of punishment because of her. She always said that it was pointless, that Willie did things for silly reasons, that he imagined things. But Willie could see what those creeps were doing. Sam couldn’t, for some reason. She always saw only the good in people.

The opposing batter struck out on four pitches. Willie fired the ball down to the third baseman; the ball traveled around the infield, until finally Sam tossed it back to him. She looked very tired. She hated the heat and the tropical air. The game still had a few more innings; Willie wished that Jennings would put in a replacement for her. He knew that Jennings wouldn’t.

The third batter swung on the first pitch and hit a high pop foul. The female pitcher yelled, “Sam! Sam!” Willie stayed out of the way, and Sam ran over and caught the ball, which had blown back in front of the pitcher’s mound. That was the third out. Sam smiled at Willie; he looked at his wife, then turned and watched the right fielder. His experiment would have to wait another inning. Willie walked with Sam back to the dugout. “Is that guy bothering you?” he asked.

“What guy?” she said.

“The right fielder. Dicky.”

“No,” said Sam, frowning. “Are you trying to get him in trouble, too?”

Willie watched one of his teammates walk to the plate as he removed his catcher’s gear. “I just want to know if he’s giving you a hard time. I’ll bust him up, is all.”

“He’s not,” said Sam. “Dicky just says, ‘Way to go’ or something like that. Like anybody else would say to anybody else on the team.”

“Anybody else ain’t my wife.”

“You’re up next,” said Sam. “Stop worrying.”

“I can’t help worrying, when I see what those creeps try to do. You tell that Dicky that if he don’t shut up, I’m going to bust him up.”

Sam said nothing. She just went and sat by herself in the corner of the dugout. She looked like she was going to cry. Willie was angry, and he couldn’t understand what she was feeling bad about; she ought to be glad he was looking out for her. He let out a loud sigh, shrugged his shoulders, and went to the bat rack.

At the end of the Threeday lecture, Jennings had smiled and promised the audience a surprise on Fiveday. “I have a real treat in store for you,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “I have something so unusual, you won’t want to miss the lecture on Fiveday. I think you’ll really enjoy it. I think it’s something you’ll remember for a long time, something you’ll want to tell all your friends about. Don’t be late on Fiveday. I don’t want to say anything more about it now, but I’ll give you just one hint. It’s something that’s really worth getting up to see. Even you, Paola,” he said warmly, looking at a plain, somewhat simpleminded girl who sat about twenty ranks from the front, and who had a reputation for being consistently tardy, “even you might want to make a special effort to get here early. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it’s something you won’t likely ever see again. I guarantee you all a fascinating lecture on Fiveday. Are there any questions?” The room was silent, as it was supposed to be. Jennings’ smile had disappeared, and he looked slowly across the files, from left to right, searching hopefully for someone whispering, someone fidgeting to leave. He was disappointed. “All right,” he said at last. “Get the hell out of here.”

That had been on Threeday. After the lecture, and for the next two days, everyone had wondered what Jennings’ surprise could be. Naturally, there were many guesses, but no one had any more information.