Damon Knight - Orbit 15

On Fiveday morning, Sam woke up at the bell. The sun was up, filling the cell with weak but already warm sunlight. The day was clear, as usual for that time of day in Quintember; later, after three o’clock, the sky would cloud over quickly and there would be a brief but intense storm. Then the clouds would dissipate, and the sky would be clear through sunset, and the stars would shine down like bright specks of glass on a velvet cushion. The early-morning light made the walls seem vaguely unreal, not as formidable as usual, somehow like the sets used in movies or plays. The colors of the walls and the yard below were diluted, all mixed with grays and water. It was a pleasant feeling. Sam stretched and smiled. She remembered that Jennings had promised them a surprise at the lecture. She dressed quickly and dashed a few drops of water in her face—as a Lion, she had to limit her use of water severely—and walked to the elevators. The other women in the dorm greeted her, and they all spoke together in hushed, excited voices. Jennings’ surprise had them all helpless with anticipation.

Sam walked across the yard to the lecture hall with some of her friends. She looked toward Willie’s building, but she couldn’t see her husband. She was hot and sweating by the time she arrived at the lecture building; the air conditioning inside felt good. Inside the lecture hall, Sam stood for a moment before going back to her seat. The podium that Jennings used had been removed. So had all the screens and maps and other equipment at the front of the hall. People came in and went to their seats. Sam looked at Willie’s place; he was there, but he was not looking toward her. She tried to attract his attention, but finally she gave up and went to her own seat. Mac came in a few minutes later and waved. She waved back, then opened her notebook. She wrote Lecture, Fiveday, Quintember 35, 0042 at the top of the page. Under that she wrote Jennings’ surprise. Still Jennings had not arrived. Sam sighed. She twisted around to look back at Willie. She couldn’t catch his eye. She thought about sending him a note; it would have to go sixteen ranks back and twenty-two files across. By the time it got to him it would be only a limp mass of pulp. Sam closed her notebook and waited. After a little while she opened the notebook again and underlined what she had written. Then she began to draw little designs in the left-hand margin, on the outside of the vertical red line.

“Good morning, good morning, my little wonders,” cried Jennings. Sam looked up, startled. Jennings rarely spoke like that. “Ladies and gentlemen, today is the day you’ve all been waiting for. Today is the day I promised that I’d show you something spectacular. Well, I hope you’ve rubbed the sleep from your eyes, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’re ready to take adequate notes. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to remind you that, as unique as today’s presentation may be, it will still be material for your examination. I’m sure that you do not want to fail your examination, ladies and gentlemen. Though your eyes may be amazed, I hope your note-taking faculties will remain unimpaired. Let us begin.” The audience waited in utter silence, thousands of ballpoint pens poised expectantly.

“Fine,” said Jennings. “All right, Sigurd. Tell the boys to roll in the first one.” A helper went through the black drapes behind Jennings. A short time later he returned, pulling a rope. On the end of the rope was the tail wheel of a Messerschmitt Bf 109E single-engine fighter plane. Three other men helped push the aircraft into the open space at the front of the lecture hall. It filled most of the area, and with the low ceiling and dim lights, the plane looked grotesquely out of place, like a beached whale in the cloisters of an Austrian monastery.

The helpers disappeared through the drapes, and Jennings walked slowly in front of the airplane. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is your what you call regular Messerschmitt Bravo Foxtrot One Zero Niner Echo. Good old plane. German. Used in World War Two. Good old plane.” Jennings patted the low, swept-up wing of the aircraft. His voice had become strangely emotional. He stared at the propeller, gave it a little push with one hand, dragged the hand back along the plane’s fuselage, ducked under the wing. He turned again and spoke to the audience. “You have to love this baby. For a while, there wasn’t anything that could knock it out of the clouds. It was a good old plane. Now look. Here it is. A relic, if you please, ladies and gentlemen. A relic from the past. We’re studying. We’re not hiding from it. You can sit there, ladies and gentlemen, take your notes calmly, coldly, without the least trace of passion. I don’t give a damn.” He was near hysteria. Sam was frightened. No one made a sound.

Jennings raised his head, shook it. “Ah, hell,” he said. “Jorge, open the drapes. I’m not going to drag these babies out one at a time. That’s stupid. Open the drapes.” The helpers opened the drapes, and there were three other airplanes in a row. Sam stared; the planes were beautiful, in an odd way. Their smooth lines, their look of efficient design impressed her, even though she didn’t understand what she was seeing. The bombs and the rifles that Jennings introduced on regular lecture days held little fascination. Sam noted their names and numbers, tried to learn their individual characteristics, only because not to was an invitation to punishment. But the planes were beautiful.

“What we have here, first, behind and to the left of the Messerschmitt, is another German World War Two bird. You have your regular Junkers Juliet Uniform Eight Seven dive bomber, the Stuka. An early model, a little ungainly perhaps, but unstoppable until somebody tried. I had a lot of trouble getting one of these. I just hope you appreciate it.” Sam was curious; this wasn’t like Jennings’ usual lectures at all. Surely there was more to learn about the history and characteristics of these planes than their names. Perhaps Jennings was waiting for someone to show initiative. Maybe he was waiting for someone to ask a sincere and interested question. Sam wondered if anyone would.

“And this,” said Jennings, pointing to the plane directly behind the Bf 109E, “is your regular North American Papa Five One Mustang fighter-bomber. A good old plane. Looks great, doesn’t it? They don’t make them like that anymore. The last one is the justly famous Royal Air Force Hawker Hurricane, what you call your fighter-interceptor. They used these babies with Spitfires. The Hurricanes tackled the German bombers while the Spitfires took out the German fighters, often those very same Bravo Foxtrot One, and so on. You don’t care, do you? I mean, none of this means anything to you, does it? These could all be made out of flour and water, and you’d react the same way. As long as you don’t get punishment on Sevenday, right? Well, look. Nobody will be punished Sevenday. Nobody. No matter what you do between now and then. I don’t care. Get the hell out of here.”

Sam felt an unpleasant chill run through her. Everyone sat still for a few moments. There was no talking. Jennings hurried from the lecture hall; the helpers struggled to get the airplanes through the doors of the freight elevator. At last Sam stood up. She waited for Willie to meet her. “What’s going on?” asked her husband.

“I don’t know,” said Sam. For some reason she was crying.

“Well, don’t cry,” said Willie. “I don’t like it when you cry. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look,” said Willie. He held out his notebook. “I took notes, like I always do. And they’re gone already. Just like always.”