Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

“I suppose it did. Too bad you’re not going to live long enough to enjoy the results of your efforts.”

“Don’t be too sure about that. Inspector Blanchard is outside the window this very minute with a gun pointed at your head. Make a move to pull that trigger, and you’ll be dead before you hit the pillow.”

“Don’t give me that old crap. You can’t fool me. You’re through, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Say your prayers, big boy. This is it.”

hey, hold it a second, 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 keep up the tempo, come in. keep up the pace, show her finger on the trigger, build up suspense, come in tight, don’t stop, fast, now. do it! show her pulling the trigger.

Bang.

Mike pitches himself sideways the instant the gun goes off. He hits the floor, rolls over and pulls out his own gun all in one easy movement.

Bang.

She fires again. The bullet grazes his cheek. From a crouch, he brings his gun into position and shoots her, Point blank. Right between the eyes. Her head explodes like a punctured balloon. He puts his gun away, turns, and walks out of the room as his theme music builds slowly up and over.

“Okay, Melissa. Beautiful job. Wow. I think that’s one of the best we’ve ever done. What do you say we watch it. then go out and scrounge up some food? Melissa. Melissa, honey, are you asleep? Come on, let’s take a look at it. Melissa, come on. What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you get up? Melissa, get up. Get up, get up, come on, get up . . .

DAVID: I’m terribly sorry Bernice couldn’t stay for the whole program, but we’ll be seeing her again. If not here, on some other programs. In another series. Or for sure on summer reruns. Won’t we?

pan to shot of dead girl lying on bed in pool of blood, hold shot, cue music, roll credits, end on title. And dissolve.

Except for us, only the wind and sand move. Intermittently the wind rises and flays us with tan curtains of sand. It would be a good penance if I were only guiltier.

We think we are climbing the east face of the dune. None of the five of us has any directional sense. The sun parcels our days by rising at our backs and descending beyond the dune’s edge. We recall another sun, and call this shifting slope the eastern face.

The five of us:

Toby is—was—a dancer. She has no breasts; her hips are wide, her thighs very muscular. Her black leotard has frayed through at elbows and knees. She was born in New York City.

Albert is the fool. He is dressed in tweeds rather than motley, but he is the target of all our gibes. Albert has the physique of a professional wrestler.

Paula is my enigma. I know less about her than about any of my other companions. Her skin is copper stretched over fragile bones. Her face lacks expression. Paula is strikingly beautiful. She speaks with a Portuguese accent.

Dieter is the old man with the gun. He was here long before us other four. He wears a ragged uniform. The automatic rifle cradled in his arms is new; the wooden stock oiled, the metal shiny. He stares past us and mutters often.

Myself. What is there to say? I have forgotten my face. Paula says I have horseman’s hands—fingers strong enough to use the reins well but tender to soothe a frightened animal. There is little point in self-description.

I scramble toward the summit of the dune, always slipping back frustrated, lungs burning. There is a woman I imagine to be beyond the dime. Her name is lost; neither do I recognize her face. The keys of memory jangle painlessly when the locks have been lost.

It is getting toward dusk and the sky has turned purple. My sweating skin holds the dust. I lie spread-eagled so that no part of my body clings to any other part. Paula kneels beside me, to shade my face.

“I think we’re allowed more rest periods,” I say.

“No.” She shakes her head slowly and sadly. “You think too wishfully.” She moves her shoulders and for a moment the sun moves out of eclipse. I close my eyes against the dazzle, then open them again and watch the tiny translucent planets drift across her face.

“I like to shelter you,” Paula says. She stretches her arms stiffly.

“Christ on the mountain.” It is Dieter leaning over us, using the automatic rifle as a cane.

Paula looks up. “You know of him.”

The old man smooths back his thinning white hair. “I know of him. Every morning when I left my apartment I would see him up there with arms spread wide in benediction.” He laughs harshly, a dry ratcheting sound. “No benediction. All he gave down the mountainside was a shadow of superstition and ignorance. I often watched the gullible spending their centavos on candles rather than food. It was quite amusing.”

“Is not redemption more important than a full stomach?” says Paula.

“I am skeptical of a redeemer who looks like nothing more than white plaster over chicken wire,” answers Dieter.

Paula’s green eyes turn toward me. “Were you ever in Rio?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve seen movies. I’ve always wanted to visit Brazil.”

“It is a green and wild country,” she said, “and beautiful. In your movies, did you see the statue of Christ on the mountain, arms outspread, eyes turned toward Sugar Loaf?”

I nod.

“What of the favelas, do you remember them?”

“I think so. The slums on the mountainsides. Shacks of wooden lath and corrugated metal roofing. There were scenes of the favelas dwellers dancing joyously. At the time I suspected it was a fabrication, like an American image of happy darkies singing in the cotton field.”

“I remember, the favelas very well,” says Paula. “I was reared in one. Joy seldom came.”

“What about your Christ?” says Dieter. “Did he not bring you joy?”

“My Christ? You’re quick to attribute allegiances.”

“My job, once.”

“Old man, your memory seems clear. Let me test you. Do you know a bar in Ipanema called the Club Roca?”

“In Ipanema? Of course. I found many nights of diversion there.”

“There was a woman you saw. Her name was Floriana.”

“Yes.” For the first time Dieter looks startled. His eyes flicker between Paula and me. They are clouded sapphire. “What about her?”

“Floriana was a very beautiful woman for a while. Did you know she was a mestiço?”

Dieter shrugs. “I knew. I didn’t care. We must sometimes settle for what is available. The woman amused me.”

“Isn’t that cold-blooded?”

“I am not a warm man.” He smiles without humor. “What is your interest in Floriana?”

There is a shout from above us: “He’s going to make it!” Toby stands with legs wide apart, braced ankle-deep in the sand. “Albert, you’re going to make it.” Her cupped hands amplify the words. “Just a little further!”

Albert is only a few meters from the dune’s crest. He scrambles up the final, steepest part of the slope, arms and legs moving like the limbs of an enormous spider. He scrabbles frantically in the sand, beginning to slip back.

“Albert, please.” It is almost a prayer from Toby. Her hands clench.

“That’s it!” I yell. “You’re there, Al.”

With a despairing screech, Albert falls. He topples backward and flip-flops down the dune like a weighted clown-toy. He pushes before him a landslide in miniature. The sand eddies around our ankles.

“Clumsy animal,” says Dieter.

“Baby, poor baby,” Toby croons, brushing sand away from Albert’s eyes.