Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

Sure.

A surge. Spit of sparks, glow of fusing metal, stink of burning insulation, gooseflesh feel of wetness.

Buffalo soldiers of the Ninth Calvalry rode up and routed the redskin horde. The six survivors of the way-station massacre were safe. But when the smoke cleared, Oliver Embry lay slumped over his desk, an arrow through his chest, his hand still holding down the telegraph key.

Heehaw, heehaw.

Baby’s putting us on!

Doesn’t want to leave the womb, that’s what. Equates the dream with the womb.

It can’t stay in the womb forever. Show and tell.

A delivery room: Liza on the table, the others doctors, nurses, anesthesiologist. Ben held out a rubber hand. “Forceps.” He shoved remote-control forceps up into Liza’s uterus, watched the monitor, and wound the cord around the baby’s neck.

Fear, as the noose tightened.

“Stop!”

“You see now what dying means? This thread’s our only way out of the maze. Your only way too.”

“You can’t kid me. It’s only a dream-happening. Hee—”

The delivery room washed away in a flood. The bag of waters burst. Air entered the womb and ballooned the lungs of the still-unborn baby. Through its mind they heard it listen to its own cries as it dashed again and again against the rock of the pubic arch.

Liza’s in labor.

Can’t be. Don’t feel a thing. Still have a month to go.

We’ve been lying without nourishment who knows how long. Malnutrition brings on premature birth.

Help me!

Have to help yourself, kid. No one’s out there or your uterine crying would’ve brought help by now.

Help me!

Do what we told you to do before.

I don’t know if I can.

You have to.

Hold everything!

Dammit, Sue, why?

How can we be sure we’re even alive? Our bodies may have died . . . out there. This may be our only reality, our immortality. If we shatter the dream—

Sue’s right, we may break out into nothingness.

You too, Frank? Pay no mind to them, kid. Try.

A surge. Spit of sparks, glow of fusing metal, stink of burning insulation, gooseflesh feel of wetness.

They opened their eyes. Nothingness. Then they smiled; Liza too, though the labor pains were fierce. Nothingness was merely the darkness of their individual windowless cubicles, lights off to encourage slumber. Life still beat in them. Too weak to move, to tear off the wires and sit up, they lay gathering strength of will. They could relax, close their eyes.

Fear. Could they be sure they weren’t dreaming they’d awakened?

Heehaw heehaw.

A siren? Had the fire alarm gone off and brought help?

Heehaw heehaw.

The sound grew.

They held their breath.

“Look, Weinraub,” I said, “you’re going to have to be careful.”

He laughed it off. He said, “Oh, you’re exaggerating. I won’t have any trouble. This is not a movie, this is real life. Oh, don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” You know how he is, you can just see the smile on his face, the knowing smile that he uses for everything. You know that he can’t take care of himself.

The next thing I knew, he was flying westward on gossamer wings of song, his thumb outstretched to the great wide wonderful land that is our nation, ranging across the vast expanse of this, the Pennsylvanian Commonwealth, ever eager to meet new people, encounter new and fresher viewpoints, discovering America on all her rich and terrifying levels, his ridiculously long hair flowing behind, holding and pulling him back.

As he went, he sang. He sang of poverty, he sang of ignorance, and fear, and he sang of Puff, the Magic Dragon and where all the flowers had gone. He carried a twelve-dollar guitar, a Supaphone that he had bought in a Penny’s basement in Harrisburg; he did not play it. One does not play on one’s image, and you can be sure that Stevie knew what was image and what wasn’t.

He stood on the side of the roads of our nation, every road and all roads, yes, and no roads, too, for he was everywhere at once with nowhere to go. He was our nation, the spirit of question, the spirit of adventure, the spirit of restless exploration that expanded our United States to their present maturity and slumber. And the myriad cars that passed him by, the thousands of rides that slowed only to hurl their empty cans of Carling’s, these Philistines are the poorer for it, and I join Steve Weinraub, wherever he is, in saying to them, “We cannot tolerate or condone such behavior.”

Oh, and now I must tell of those adventures, although it pains me much, I must relate his only exploits, his bootless fame, if you will, and how those events tore from him his very heart and soul, and stabbed deep into his visceral privates to wrench there from the darkling roots of identity.

He was out there, old Steve, alone under the Pennsylvania skies and the Pennsylvania sun and moon. He stood by the way, humbly, talking to himself and whistling. You know how he is when he is all alone: he will do old movie scenes and whistle Christmas carols. He waited for a ride. He waited in Leeper, he waited in Indian Bog, he waited in South Eastwich. The great muddy chariots roared through the Allegheny night, streaming by him like giant silverfish. He waited for the rebirth of wonder.

And yet, every once in a while a car would stop. Sometimes it would be a rich fag in a dusty tan Saab. Sometimes it would be a Mustang with a college-age couple who wanted to hear Carolyn Hester songs; sometimes the guy and girl were pinned. Mostly, however, he was picked up by blue-haired little old ladies in red and white Dodge Chargers. When he got an old lady, he always told her he was a poet. She would, of course, ask for a poem. Here it is:

The old ladies invariably said, “That’s very interesting.” It seemed that their Roberts had been poets, too, before they had all passed on. The ladies always asked Steve how he felt about Edgar Guest; Steve answered that he liked him fine.

No one asked him if he was hungry. He was hungry, too, I know. No one said, “Why don’t we stop here, kid; let me treat you to a Double Cheese.” No one said, “Well, kid, where you going? Got anywhere to stay tonight?” No one asked; to them the free ride was enough. Weinraub marked it all down in his notebook. If only we could have that notebook, that priceless document of imperialist linoleum thinking. Then all your questions would be answered.

What did he eat? Nothing, and for a long time. Where did he stay? Nowhere, which is to say in little shady glens along scenic Route 80. Back and forth he traveled, back and forth across the ever-changing panorama of our Keystone State, looking and looking, and every person who picked him up told him where to find it all. Every car he rode in had it written somewhere, on a windshield sticker, on a fingerprint-smudged plaque bolted to the dashboard, on the bumper sticker from Fabulous Conneaut Lake Park. Everything said, “It’s all happening in Gremmage.” For a time Steve didn’t believe it; but, as is the case in situations like this, the evidence piled up beyond the point where he could ignore it. But the idea of actually finding where it’s at scared him. Steve lied a lot, but deep down inside he knew he couldn’t take care of himself.