Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

She shook her head and pointed toward the living room. She stood in the hall; she did not want to go into the room just yet. And the mud was sticky.

“Maureen,” her mother said, “go upstairs and take a bath. And leave that dress in the bathroom. You can put your pajamas on when you’re done. Then you can come down and join us.”

Yes, Mommy, I’m covered with fuzz, closed in the room, I don’t care. Into the bath, peel off the mudskin, no bra yet, red dress in the hamper. A few threads wiggled under the door to keep her company and burst in her hair.

She washed quickly, jumped into her pajamas, and tiptoed into the living room. No one noticed her entrance. The room had turned grey, but it was gradually building-up strength. She breathed strength into it. She could feel, taste, hear.

“You know,” Uncle Milton said, “I don’t know what it is, but I feel so comfortable here lately.”

“Sure you do,” her mother said, her smile drawing back her thin lips.

“Well, there were a few times when I thought I would have to let you sign those separation papers.”

Everyone laughed. It did not have to be funny: it felt good. Maureen sat on the rug, her blond hair untied, enjoying the feel of everything and everyone.

Outside, the noises trickled in. Maureen heard them first. Leggo, oh, here, eat it then. Too warm tonight, doesn’t matter—feels good. I don’t know why, just felt like coming over. Relax. Get dark in a while. Put that dirty handkerchief away.

“Mommy, hear the people outside the house? They’re on our lawn. Sounds funny. Hey, Johnny Eaton’s mother’s out there. Johnny’s coming too.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Uncle Milton said, staring at the new tentacles growing out of the asterisk. It readied itself for another burst of energy, its suckers grasping for support. It emitted a gurgling noise, but no one seemed to notice. Contracting, it threw off a puddle of phlegm and radiated full force. The yellow bars passed through the soft walls and wallowed in the grass and people outside. Uncle Milton poured himself another drink, spilling a jigger as a strong wisp passed into his throat.

“Four more people, Mommy. Mr. Richardson and his kid Wally and Mr. and Mrs. Allen from Snow Street. Remember them? They gave us all those vegetables last summer.”

It grew, then fell back on itself, preparing for another surge through friendly streets and houses.

Maureen closed her eyes and drew pictures. She could see the lines clearly, only a little fuzz where she could not remember a color. Johnny, look in your pocket, fingers around it, matches there too, don’t worry how, let it go, under the tree, there. The colors were darker than she imagined. It’s getting late.

“That sounded like a firecracker, didn’t it?” her father said. “Sounded like a pretty big one too.”

“Could have been a backfire,” Uncle Milton said. He leaned back into the couch, hands folded, eyes closed. He inhaled a flood of love, soft clouds perspired by the asterisk. He giggled with contentment.

“No,” her mother said, standing inside the curtains and peering out the jalousied window into the front yard. “Why, it’s that Johnny Whatshisname. He’s playing with firecrackers. And no one’s even paying attention to it.”

“Johnny Eaton,” Maureen said.

“Yes, Maureen’s right; there are over twenty people on our lawn. Look, Mr. Logos is waving at me. It’s a regular picnic. They’ve even got blankets and radios.”

Maureen watched the slick tentacles growing out of the asterisk. Better not wait, do it now. Be too late soon. Where’s the drum?

The room turned yellow with love, thick strong rays that rolled over the carpet, too heavy to float. And out through the walls. Uncle Milton was asleep. He turned over, burying his face in the soft velvet of the sofa.

“Strange we’re in the living room,” her father said. “Usually I prefer the den.”

Sandra Harris sat down on the floor beside her husband’s chair, rested her head on his knee and said, “I guess it doesn’t matter if they stay on the lawn. I’m too lazy to bother. Frank, I’m glad everything’s settled. Better than before. Frank. Do you see something on the rug? There, in the middle of the room, in front of the fireplace. Jesus, it’s ugly Frank. Frank. I think I can smell it. Can you smell it?”

Maureen faced the wall and stared through minute cracks into other cracks that led outside. Don’t look or it’ll happen. Can’t happen behind me, isn’t there. Can’t see it.

It equalized the pressure in the room and bathed Sandra Harris. She rested her head on her husband’s lap and said, “I love you.”

He didn’t flinch. Stroking her face, he said, “I know you do. And I love you too.” He yawned and fell asleep. It was dark outside. A few candles flickered in the yard and the street light glowed dimly.

Uncle Milton stayed the night. He slept on the sofa, clutching a pillow. He said he felt so good he would stay another day. And another night. Until it turned into a week. And the front yard population grew until it covered the back yard. They brought pup tents, Coleman stoves, guitars, a green water hose, and more relatives and friends. They packed themselves into the yard until everyone was in some sort of physical contact with the others. No one minded. It was good. It was pure. It was in friendship and love.

Maureen’s mother and father tacitly agreed not to talk about the neighbors that had suddenly moved in. The neighbors pressed their faces against the windows and smiled. Uncle Milton periodically yelled at them in good humor.

Maureen did not like it. She knew the ending, only she did not realize it.

Until the next day. It was early in the morning; breakfast was bubbling in a greased frying pan, sunlight was streaming in the kitchen windows, and Maureen was catnapping in the living room. Uncle Milton had been ordered to sleep in her room, cutting off access to the pickup sticks and drum, almost grown.

Her mother stepped into the living room as she untied her red apron. The asterisk became active; it stretched its tentacles across the carpet. “Come on, honey. Help Mommy get the food on.”

“Do I have to do it now?” she asked. Don’t let her look at it. It wants her to see it. Protect her. But she moves, she walks, she say things. Something’s burned out or burned in. Not real enough.

“Is that a stain on the rug over there? What is it?”

Maureen was locked into the room. The asterisk bubbled, smiled at her by raising its tentacles, passed a beam into her, a shaft of glass connecting her to it. She loved her mother now, very clearly. All the fond remembrances became real; they flowed through the beam. A reassuring drum thumped upstairs. Her mother was beautiful. All her age lines were lifted; her hair faded into grey.

“It’s ugly.” Her mother watched it spellbound. “I seem to remember seeing it last night. Like a dream. Fell asleep with your father. I can’t think.” She stepped backward and screamed. It drew itself into a ball, squelched half its substance to the side, stank, decayed a bit, and shot a beam of love right into her heart. It thickened and held her by the liver and collarbone.

“Mother, don’t touch it. Leave it alone.” She changed the picture. Nothing happened. She could not move. Mother is beautiful, she thought. Long beautiful hair. “Mother, you are beautiful. I have long hair just like yours. Yours is prettier. Daddy loves your hair. I know he loves your hair.”

Her mother’s hand sank into the porous putrescent mass, into the heart of it. She looked at her daughter, her face a landscape of disgust and fear. She smiled her special loving smile and retched as it took her arm with its tentacles.