Дэймон Найт - Orbit 13

—And yet there are those who fight against Time. I have shown you how it is necessary for men to order their existence into patterns, to have each thing happen for a set and known duration in time. I have shown you how it is imperative that a day be organized into little precise packets of time. And yet there are those who fight against this, those who do not see that the only defense, the only security against Chaos, is Order. You have met them, I have met them. They are a well-known type—the last in in the morning, first out at night type, so to speak.

She stuck more pins into the mouse, who remained still under her gentle hands. The pins were quite well spaced out over the little body and so she began to fill in the spaces between them. Soon there were whole patches where she could run her fingers over and feel nothing but the rounded heads of the pins, no flesh or fur at all.

—She resents Order. She gets on the bus in the morning and she tries to play games with Time, tries to stretch it out. And how does she do this? She retreats to the only place where Time is plastic and subjective, she retreats into Dream. She dreams Time away, making no use of its precious irrecoverable substance.

There was no more room left for pins now. The mouse was a little shivering silvery creature, a metalflesh mouse. No room for pins on the body. She took a pin and drove it tenderly into one of the tiny black eyes. There was a pop and a little bead of blood appeared. The mouse quivered with ecstasy and then lay still as she pierced his other eye, pop. Eyes of silver beads, body of silver foil, only the tail was flesh. She cut it off with a pair of sewing scissors and the mouse froze into metal immobility.

With the immobility of the mouse an awareness came to her senses and she realized that the room was silent. She looked up. Cherry and Mrs. Cox and the students were all looking at her. They had been looking at her for some time.

—You were not paying attention. What were you doing?

asked Cherry.

—WHAT WERE YOU DOING,

he roared, when she did not answer.

Mrs. Cox strode up to her and pulled the metal mouse from her hand. Cherry looked at it with horror and there was a gasp from the students. Cherry held the little mouse up in his big hand and it began to bleed. Each little pin-prick poured out blood so that his hand was red. Tears of blood streamed from the pierced eyes and the mouse died with a squeak.

—Oh no,

she cried,

—You’ve hurt him.

And then Mrs. Cox and Cherry took her outside and the wind made her white robe flutter. The temple was bathed white with light from the moon and the pillars shone silvery. They each took one of her hands and ran, pulling her lightly between them, and they ran at the pillars, one on either side, she between, and they ran straight at the stone pillars and she was smashed and crushed and torn on the hard stone and then through the other side and the next pillar loomed up and she was smashed and torn and then through the other side and she died with shock each time the pillars crushed her. A bell began to ring. Police?

She leaned over and switched off the alarm clock. Her body was slippery with sweat.

She washed and pinned her hair up.

She put on her white robe.

She walked to the bus stop, birdlike, cloudy folds of white robe floating around her.

At work Mrs. Cox said,

—You’re looking a bit haggard, dear. Bags under your eyes. Not getting enough sleep, I expect. Went to Dr. Cherry’s lecture, did you?

She ignored her and began her work.

—Mr. Cherry wants to see you, dear. Shouldn’t worry—it can’t be anything serious. Gor, you do look tired.

Mr. Cherry said,

—Sit down, do, Miss Taylor. Just a general chat, nice robe you’re wearing, by the way. It’s come to my notice that your heart isn’t exactly in your work. You know, last in in the morning, first out at night principle, and I just wanted to have an informal talk with you . . .

The droning words buzzed sleepily above her. She felt a tickling on her hand. She looked down and saw that a little mouse had crawled onto her knee and was nuzzling her folded hands. She proceeded to stick pins into the humped flesh of his back.

—I know you resent Order,

Mr. Cherry was saying,

—but you must know that human existence has to be ordered into little precise packets of time. Everything must have a known duration. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Of course it is, and if there’s going to be any defense, any security against Chaos, everybody must live inside those little packets, because that means Order, and Order defeats Chaos. Everyone, mark you. If one single person lives outside Time that person represents a threat to Humanity, a chink through which Chaos can work its insidious intent, so to speak.

The little mouse’s body was quite covered with pins now and there was no room for any more. And so she stuck pins into his eyes, pop pop.

She looked up and saw that Mr. Cherry was watching her, had been watching her for a long time.

—What are you doing?

he asked.

She lifted her hand and showed him the little mouse. He took it from her in his big hand and it began to bleed. Each little pin-prick poured out blood so that his hand was red. Tears of blood streamed from the pierced eyes and the mouse died with a squeak.

She began to cry and great waving sobs shook her whole body.

—Oh, you’ve hurt him,

she cried.

And then Mr. Cherry and Mrs. Cox came and took her gently by the arms and someone gave her tea and sat her down. Then a man in a uniform came and they lifted her into the ambulance and Mr. Cherry and Mrs. Cox were saying soft, gentle things. She lay in the rocking bunk and saw the mudstains on her white robe and a little mouse nuzzled friendly against her hand.

After the hospital it was sausage and egg for tea. Then she read for half an hour and then she stared at the wall for half an hour, hugging her legs against the heat from the electric fire. Records, magazines and a bedtime cocoa.

Mrs. Cox said,

—You’re looking very haggard these days, dear. Bags under your eyes. Not getting enough sleep, I expect. My Ronnie’s the same—out till all hours doing God knows what. I tell him the same as you—you need more sleep, my lad, instead of gallivanting God knows where in the middle of the night. But does he listen? Talk to the wall.

Mrs. Cox was boring but she liked listening to her because she could sometimes smell her damp musty odor, like potatoes too long in the earth. She also liked to look at Mrs. Cox’s wart with the long hairs growing out of it.

She began to work on the pile of invoices in front of her. After a while she simply sat with pen in hand, dreaming. The invoices were exactly the same as the ones she had checked yesterday and they were the same as the ones she would check tomorrow. She dreamed of unpredictable things, coils and spirals that led nowhere, instead of straight lines that led to clearly signposted destinations.

—Mr. Cherry wants to see you, dear,

said Mrs. Cox.

—Just his usual pep talk, I expect. Nothing to worry about.

Mr. Cherry said,

—Sit down, do, Miss Taylor.

—No, over here if you don’t mind,

she silently mouthed, just before he actually spoke the words.

—Where I can see you,

he continued.

—Don’t get much chance to see a pretty face stuck behind this desk, ha ha. Well, just a general chat, dear. Just to see how you’re getting on in the office, so to speak. How’re you doing then, any complaints?

She murmured something.

—Good, good. I like happy staff. One of my, so to speak, sayings, is that happy staff plus clever management equals good work. I’ve learned the truth of that myself over the years. I remember a girl we had here, about the same age as you in fact, moped about all day with a face as long as a fiddle. I tell you, it was downright depressing . . .