Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

Wally Walrus has it. A surefire way to steal Bumble-Bee Bennie’s honey. Wally’s put glue on all the flowers in the pasture next to Bennie’s hive.

When Bennie and the other bees go out to gather honey, they stick to the flowers. Wally, hiding behind a rock at the edge of the pasture, grinningly watches the fun as the bees try to struggle loose. When he’s sure they can’t get themselves unfastened, he comes out into the open, teases them by tickling them under their little chins, does a fancy jig, then goes to their honey tree and, licking his lips, starts to climb.

He’s only halfway up the tree when the first drop of water hits. Within moments, it’s pouring down rain. And Wally knows what that means. Glue comes loose in water, and when the glue on the flowers comes loose, the bees do too. He has to really hustle if he wants to get that honey.

He picks up speed. Climbs faster. Lickety-split. Moving like a demon. Until, at last, he makes it. To the top of the tree where, there it is, right in front of him. Mounds and heaps and gobs of beautiful, delicious, sweet and yummy honey. He dips his paw in, closes his eyes, and starts to take a big juicy lick. Then he hears it.

Buzz.

Off in the distance, but coming in fast.

BUZZ.

Almost here, now, and getting louder.

BUZZZZZZZZ.

He turns around in time to see the whole hive of bees at him. With Bumble-Bee Bennie leading the way.

Diving down at a fantastic speed, the bees form themselves into a huge fist in midair. Bam. They poke Wally a good one in the jaw. He falls off the tree and lands with a resounding WHUMP. The bees regroup themselves into a baseball bat. Bumble-Bee Bennie grabs the handle and starts whacking the living daylights out of Wally’s head. The scene closes with Wally being pounded slowly into the ground. Now 12 inches showing. Now 9. Now nothing but the nubbly little bumps on top of his head.

The program is a huge success. The audience loves it. In fact, she laughs so hard, tears roll down her cheeks.

this is the big scene, let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, here we go. cut to a close-up of the gun in her hand, show her pulling the trigger.

Bang.

... the news beat team live and in color. Tonight, Angela Thomas with the President in exile. Roger Porter covering the Vatican riots. And special direct reports from combat zone correspondents in Africa, Indochina, New England, and Alabama. All brought to you by the friendly folks at . . .

Ping-pong balls lie on the floor of a plastic cage. Abruptly, they start to move. To bounce. To collide. Caught by an air jet blowing into the cage. Suddenly, whoosh, the jet blows one ball through a hole in the cage’s top and into a short transparent tube. Another ball follows the first. Then another. And another yet. One by one. Into the tube. Until ten balls are lined up, trapped, inside.

A man flips open a little door in the tube, takes out the first ball in line, looks at it, picks up a microphone and says, “B-8.”

A woman with twelve cards in front of her runs her finger down the B column of each card in turn, dropping corn kernels on six of the cards as she goes.

“I-21.”

A young woman looks at her two cards, scowls, looks next to her at her husband’s card, scowls again and points. With a sheepish look, he drops a kernel on his card.

“G-53.”

An old man with bent, rickety fingers slides a kernel across his card. Across the I column. Across the N column. To the G column. To the number 53.

“N-34.”

A woman gets excited. She needs only one more number to win. O-72. She sweeps all the kernels from her card and hugs it to her breast. She closes her eyes and mouths the number silently to herself. O-72. O-72. O-72. O-72.

“O-72.”

She leaps up, waves her card, and shouts . . .

freeze action, catch her there, cue the announcer, voice over.

You can try to change your future this way. By wishing. You can try improving the world that way, too. There’s only one problem. It doesn’t always work. Join the Peace Corps.

hey, that was pretty good.

“Hi, ladies, it’s me. Back for another edition of Cooking with Carla. Tonight’s recipe is a little goody I picked up in an intimate little French place on the Côte d’Azur when I was dining there with my good friend—if you know what I mean—the Count. It’s a delightful little thing call Maïs grillé et éclaté à la brochette. And it’s a snippy-snap to make. All you need is one plumeau, a half pound of brochettes, three green tomatoes, two olives—peeled and pitted—a stalk of celery, three maple leaves, and a freshly skinned muskrat. To begin, coat the brochettes liberally with Granny Gump’s Good Granular Gravy and set aside to dry. Then . . . aw, hell, this is cracking me up. keep going, we can edit later. Then, remove all the feathers from the plumeau. Implant the feathers into the tomatoes until you have something resembling a badminton shuttlecock. When you’ve finished, set them aside until it’s your turn to serve. Next, take the...oh, crap, I’m laughing too hard ... that last bit got me ... I can’t finish...turn it off...please turn it off . . .

cut it off. cut it off. this is the big scene, let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, ready? here we go. cut to a close-up of the gun in her hand, come in. show her finger on the trigger, come in light, don’t stop, show her pulling the trigger.

Bang.

The pain has been getting worse. It’s so bad tonight that every time Melissa dozes off, it jerks her awake.

Scotty can’t bear seeing her in such agony.

He gets up, dresses, and goes to the TV studio. He puts on the tape that shows Dr. Sam Lafferty curing Melissa of her afflictions. He watches it once. Twice. Twelve times in all. The happy ending chokes him up again and again.

He returns to Melissa at dawn, pleased to see she’s finally managed to go to sleep. He shakes her gently to wake her, then, smiling, takes her in his arms and hugs her as hard as he can. He holds her tightly to him and kisses her.

While she pounds on his back, screaming soundlessly, wild with pain, trying to get him to let her go.

But he doesn’t notice.

that last bit didn’t come across very well, we’d better redo it. cut out the symbolism and tighten up the continuity.

He takes it, rolls with it, and comes back swinging. Sock. Pow. No dippy spies can get the best of Mike McCale. He slams the fat one up against the wall. Turns, picks up the little guy, and throws him into the other two sending all three to the floor in a big, sprawling heap. He kicks the fat man in the teeth for good measure, and leaves. To find—the girl.

He knows where she’ll be. In his apartment. Waiting for the fat man to call. To tell her Mike McCale is dead. Is she in for a surprise.

He’s lost his key in the scuffle, but that doesn’t stop him. With a powerful kick, he demolishes the door to his apartment. He steps over the wreckage into his living room. She isn’t there. He walks to the bedroom door, eases it open, and finds her. Lying in bed. Smiling. With a big .38 Smith and Wesson Police Special in her hand. Pointed right at his gut. She speaks. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mike.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. I knew they’d never stop you. How did you guess it was me?”

“Simple, really. You slipped when you mentioned the doll. Only MasterMind could have known about that. When I put it all together, everything fit.”