Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

Tillich brought in the trains in section 3B. He picked them up fifty miles from the city, each one a brilliant speck of white or green light. His fingers knew the keys that opened and closed switches, that stopped one of the lights, hurried another. It was like weaving a complex spiderweb with luminous spiders.

He worked three hours, had a twenty-minute break, worked three more hours, had forty minutes for lunch, then the last three hours. He worked six days a week. He compared his work with a friend, Frank Jorgens, and both agreed it was harder than the air-traffic control job that Jorgens had.

“I have to have a raise,” Tillich said to the union representative.

“You know better than that, Tillich. We don’t ask for a raise for just one guy and his problems. Every sod has them.”

He tried to apply directly to the personnel department; his application was rejected, accompanied by a notice that he could appeal through his union representative. He threw the application and the notice away.

“Tillich. Norma Tillich.”

“Any change? Does she require an appointment?”

“Yes, we need to see her doctor.”

“Please take your card and this form to one of the tables and fill it out. When you have completed it, return it to one of the attendants in Section Four-N. Thank you.” The young woman looked at him directly; he frowned and snatched the form sheet.

Name. Age. Copy code from Line 3 of patient’s identity card. Copy code from Lines 7, 8, 9. . . . Reason for request to see physicians. Check one. If none apply, use back of application to state reason.

He rubbed his eyes. He should have written it out at home so he could simply copy it here. She can’t take care of the child. She neglects it. She doesn’t eat or feed the baby, or keep it clean. It might injure itself. Or she might. He read it, dissatisfied. It was true, but not enough. He added only: injure herself.

“Thank you, Mr. Tillich. You will be notified next week when you come back. Report to this desk at that time. Fourteen capsules. Will you please verify the count and sign here.”

His request was turned down. There was a typed message attached to her card. Tillick (they had misspelled the name), Norma. Nonaggressive. A series of dates and numbers followed. The times she had seen doctors, their diagnoses and instructions, all unintelligible to Tillich. Request denied on grounds of insufficient symptomatic variation from prognosis of 6-19-87-E-D-P/S-4298-MC.

“Fourteen capsules. Verify count please and sign here.”

The baby learned a new cry. It started high, wailed with increasing volume until it hit a note that made Tillich’s head hurt. Then it cut it off abruptly and gasped a time or two and started over.

“You have to feed it while I’m gone,” he said. “You can hold its bottle. Remember. Like this.”

She wasn’t watching. She was looking beyond him, past the baby, smiling at what she saw between herself and the streaked blue wall. He looked at the child who was taking formula greedily, staring at him in his unblinking way. Tillich closed his eyes.

After the baby was through, Tillich made their dinner. Tasti-meat, potatoes, soy-veg melange. She ate as greedily as the baby.

“Norma, while I’m at work you could eat some of the crackers I bought for you. The baby could chew on one. Remember them, Norma?”

She nodded brightly. The baby stared to wail. She seemed not to hear it. While he cleaned up the dishes she watched TV. The baby wailed. Its next clinic appointment was in two months. He wondered if it would wail for the whole eight weeks, fifty-nine nights. He broke a plate, each hand gripping an edge painfully. He stared at the pieces. They were supposed to be unbreakable.

The baby wailed until twelve, when he fed it again. Gradually it quieted down after that, and by one it seemed to be sleeping. He didn’t go past the partition to see.

Norma was waiting for him on their bed. Her cheeks were flushed, her nipples hard and dark red. He started to undress and she pulled at his clothes, laughing, stopping to nip the flesh of his stomach, his buttock when he turned around, his thigh. She crowed in delight at his erection, and he fell on her in savage coitus. She cried out, screamed, raked his back, bit his lip until it bled. She clung to him and tried to push him away. She called him names and cursed him and whispered love words and gutter words. When it was over, she rolled from him, felt the edge of the bed and crept from it, staring at him in horror, or hatred. She backed to the door, crouching, ready to bolt. At the doorway she shrieked like a wild animal mortally wounded, again and again. He buried his head in the bedding. Presently she became silent and he took a cover from the bed and put it over her on the couch where she slept very deeply. He knew he could pick her up, carry her to bed, she wouldn’t wake up. But all he did was cover her. He looked at the baby. It hadn’t moved. He shivered and went to bed.

“Fourteen capsules. Verify fourteen, please, and sign...”

“There are only thirteen.”

The long, capable fingers stopped. Tillich looked up. She returned his glance with no expression, then looked again at the pale-green capsules. Her fingers moved deliberately as she counted, “. . . twelve. Thirteen.” She pushed another one across the counter. “Fourteen. Please verify fourteen, Mr. Tillich.” Again she met his gaze. Her eyes were grey, her eyelashes were very long and straight.

“Fourteen,” he said and signed, and moved on.

The baby hated the park. It wailed and wouldn’t be propped up. Tillich picked it up and for a time it was silent, staring at the bushes. Children were swinging, shouting, laughing, screaming. The spring sun was warm although the air still had a bite. Forsythias were in bloom, yellow arms waving. The baby stared at the long yellow branches. Soon it grew bored and started to cry again.

“I’m cold.” Norma clung to his arm, her gaze shifting nervously, rapidly, very afraid. “I want to go home.”

“You need some sun. So does the baby. Let’s walk. You’ll get warm.”

He put the screaming child back in the baby carriage. The carriage was older than Tillich; it squeaked, one wheel wobbled, the metal parts were all rusty, the plastic was brittle and cracked. He knew they were very lucky to have it.

He wheeled the yelling baby and Norma clung to his arm. No one paid any attention to them. “I’m cold. I want to go home!” Soon she would be crying too. He walked a little faster.

“We’ll go home now. This is the way.” He didn’t look at the people. The trees were leafing out, bushes in nearly full leaf, blooming. The grass was richly green. White clouds against the endless blue. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment. For four weekends they hadn’t been able to get out because of rain, or cold weather, or Norma’s sniffles. Always something.

“I want to go home! I want to go home! I’m tired. I’m cold I want to go home!” She was beginning to weep.

“We’re going home now. See? There’s the street. Just another block, then onto the street and a little more . . .” She wasn’t listening. The baby screamed.

He saw the girl from the dispensary. She was wheeling a chair-bed, with a very old, frail-looking man on it. His face was petulant, half-turned, tilted toward her, talking. She was walking slowly, looking at the trees, the flowering shrubs, the grass. A serene look on her face.

Tillich turned the carriage to a path that led out of the park. The baby screamed. Norma wept and begged to be taken home.