Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

I went to the door. She pulled a long grey feather from her wing and stooped to give it to the smallest baby to play with. I was out of the door before she straightened up again.

The day was moving toward evening. The shadows were climbing the sides of the courtyard. As I crossed to my sister’s quarters, I noticed that the cavorts had all gone. High above my head, the panes of my window were still catching the eye of the sun, but Poseidon had vanished. All was still. The fur had sunk down at last to the ground—a dusty twist of it rolled across the flags under my feet Now only light filled the tranquil air.

I was well again: tomorrow I would probably quit the castle.

SOMETIMES the baby played with old blocks that Tillich had found. The blocks were worn almost smooth, so that the letters and numbers were hard to read. You had to turn them this way and that, catch the light just right. The corners were rounded; there was no paint on them. Tillich remembered blocks like them. He thought the old, worn ones were much nicer than the shiny, sharp-cornered new ones had been. He never watched the baby play, actually. He would see it on the floor, with the blocks at hand, and he would busy himself somewhere else, because there was the possibility that the baby’s movements with the blocks were completely random. In Tillich’s mind was an image of the baby playing with blocks. He was afraid of shattering the image.

There had been another image. The baby sleeping peacefully, on its side after its morning bottle; its forefinger and index finger in its mouth. Tillich glanced at it each morning before leaving for work, in case it had wriggled out from its covers, or was under them completely. Always, in the dim dawn light, the baby’s sleep had been peaceful and Tillich had left quietly. One morning, for no reason, Tillich entered the room, went to the other side of the bed to look at the infant. It wasn’t asleep. It was staring, not moving, hardly even blinking, just staring at nothing at all, the two fingers in its mouth. It shifted its gaze to Tillich and stared up at him in an unfathomable look that was uncanny, eerie, inhuman and somehow evil. Tillich backed away, out of its line of sight At the partition that separated that end of the bedroom from the rest of it, he paused to look back. The baby looked asleep, unmoving, peacefully asleep.

“Tillich,” he said at the dispensary. “Norma Tillich.”

The dispensary nurse read the card he handed her.

“Any change? Does she need an appointment?”

“No. No change.”

“Two a day, morning and night. Fourteen capsules. Please verify fourteen and sign at the bottom.”

He hated the young woman on duty in the dispensary. If he could get there during his lunch break, she wouldn’t be on duty. He never could make it until after work, however. She had a large, bony face. Her hands were large, strong fingers flicking out capsules, pills, moving deftly, sure of themselves. No need to verify the count when she was on duty. The computer card went back into the machine. He moved on. The line was always there, might always have been the same people in the same order. He hurried home. She would be hungry. The baby would be hungry and crying.

“Good morning, Mr. Rosenfeld.”

“Good morning, Mr. Tillich. You are well, I trust?”

“Quite well, thanks.” He poured boiling water over the soup powder, spread two large crackers with Pro-team and put them on the tray. He filled Mr. Rosenfeld’s water pitcher and got some fresh cups out and put them on the bed stand. “Anything else, Mr. Rosenfeld?”

“No. No. That’ll do me. Thank you kindly

“You’re welcome. I’ll just drop in this evening.”

“Not if you’re busy, my friend.”

“No trouble. Have a good day, Mr. Rosenfeld.”

The old man nodded. He was eyeing his tray, impatient for his breakfast, too polite to begin until Tillich was gone.

The baby was always wet and usually soiled as well when he got home. Tillich changed it and put it in its bed with its bottle propped by it. Its color was greyed yellow.

“Norma, did he eat anything today?”

She looked vague. Then her face folded in somehow and collapsed in tears. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. You left the formula, didn’t you? Did you forget its formula?”

“I didn’t forget. The bottle’s gone. You must have put it in the disposer. Did he take the milk?”

She wept for another minute or two, then jumped up, peeking at him between her fingers. She sang, “I had a red canary. He couldn’t sing. I left the window open and he flew away . Would that be a bad thing to do? Let it fly away, I mean.”

“No, that wouldn’t be bad.”

“Because I would. And I’d watch him fly away. Fly away. Fly away.”

Sometimes she brought him her brush. “Would you like to do my hair?” It was long and silky when it was clean and brushed, alive with red-gold highlights in the dark blond. Her eyes were blue, sometimes green, her skin very pale and translucent. Blue veins made ragged ray patterns on her breasts which were rounded, firm, exciting to him. She had nursed the baby for months. One day she hadn’t, then another and another. It took days and days for her milk to stop, and all the while it seemed to puzzle her. She would come show him her wet clothes, or drying milk on the bedding, on her belly. When he tried to put the baby to her breast again, she recoiled as if terrified. He awakened one night to find her kneeling over him trying to force the nipple between his lips. There was a taste of sweet milk on his mouth.

Mrs. De Vries lived on the same floor; he met her often. She usually had a child by the hand when they met. She was very thin and tired-looking. When he opened the door to an insistent knock, she was there.

“Mr. Tillich, will you please come? Please. I need someone.”

He glanced back inside; Norma hadn’t even looked up. She was watching the TV with a rapt expression. He hesitated a second, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“One of the kids. God, I don’t know.” She hurried him down the hall to her apartment. A girl about ten stood in the doorway. He had seen her before in the hall, down in the lobby. She had always seemed normal enough. She held the door open and moved aside as they came near.

Mrs. De Vries pushed Tillich past the girl, through the living room to a bedroom that had mattresses all over the floor. Two more children stared at him, then he saw the other child, alone on a mattress against the wall. The child, a boy, four, five, was having a convulsion. His back was arched, his tongue protruded between clamped jaws, blood and foam on his chin. He was already cyanotic.

Tillich turned to the woman. “Don’t you have any medicine for him?”

“No. He never did this before. My God, what is it?”

“Call Pediatrics, Emergency.” She stared. “Do you have a phone?”

“No.”

“I’ll go. What’s his name? Symptoms?”

“Roald De Vries. Fever a hundred and four, all day.”

He called Pediatrics, Emergency. “I’m sorry. We are already over capacity. Please leave patient’s identification number, name and reason for calling. Take patient to nearest hospital facility at eight a.m.Thank you. This is a recording.”

He didn’t have the number.

“I’ll stay here,” he told Mrs. De Vries. “Call them back and give his file number. Or they won’t see him tomorrow.”

The oldest child was the girl he had seen before. Waiting for her mother to return, he saw the welts on her arms, her neck. She seemed to have conjunctivitis. The next two children, boys about six and five, were very thin, and the larger of the two peed on the floor. The girl cleaned it up soundlessly. There were two bedrooms. A man slept in the other one. He had the dry, colorless skin of long illness; his sleep was unnatural. He was heavily sedated. Tillich looked at the sick child. His body was limp now and dripping sweat. The woman came back and he left. He saw her again a week later. Neither of them mentioned the child.