Дэймон Найт - Orbit 10

When the telecast is over, Jack puts his black hat back on again. He spent an entire evening making it out of paper and coloring it black with ink. I didn’t watch because I was busy working. Jack knows the black hat annoys me, but I’m not saying anything or taking any notice.

He may be plausible in public, but Roger and I know him better. He only eats the good parts of things and leaves the rest— I imagine he was indulged. And he’s a glutton. I pointed it out when he left only the rind from the Christmas fruitcake and his antics lasted for a month. He started by leaving crusts and bits of cracker on my plate and grew even more blatant when I re­fused to take any notice. At the end, he was gobbling with both hands and flinging food about.

I do have an audio of several episodes but it isn’t easy to tell what is happening.

I have a number of recordings of Jack. None of Roger except for background.

In one recording, I say, “Jack, you haven’t been sterilizing.” It is a point I am particular about.

“It’s true, Clarence ‘Clancy’ Ballou, I haven’t been. I’ve de­cided to give it up. I’ll take my chances with the moon. Let the moon take its chances with me. I wouldn’t mind giving it a dose of something.”

“That’s against policy,” I say.

“Screw policy, Clarence. Maybe you’re too nice for this work. There’s the universe, as regular as a clock. Then there’s us, life, an out-of-place accident. We’re anarchy, disorder. No matter how tough the universe makes the rules, life will survive and spread. The moon is only the first step. Someday we’ll spread to the stars and take over everything. We’ll rip the guts out of the universe. We’ll strip-mine the stars. Life will prevail. It’s our destiny to crap up the works.”

“You make us sound evil. That’s what the regulations are for, to ensure that we don’t contaminate other worlds.”

“You don’t understand, Clarence. We are evil. And it’s up to us to make the most of it.”

“But I’m good. I’ve always been good.”

“Learn better.”

It was after that that he made his black paper hat. It’s supposed to be a reminder to me, but it isn’t really necessary. I know which of us is which.

Jack is outside. I’ve been counting our sacks of garbage. I believe that two are missing. I fear the worst.

Was it sterilized? Not if he didn’t sterilize it.

I fear the worst.

Just before the telecast, I say to Jack, “What about the garbage?”

“What garbage?”

“I know about the garbage. Unless you stop burying it outside, I’m going to have to tell them back home.”

He takes off his black hat. He combs his hair and practices his smile.

“I’ve been counting,” I say.

On the telecast, I’m cautious. I say that some garbage is missing. They ask Jack about it. Jack is in charge of accounting for the garbage. He says that it is all there.

I call on Roger. Roger smiles and waves from the background for the camera.

Jack smiles and tells the audience about garbage accounting procedures. He is very plausible. He thanks me for raising the question.

After the telecast, he says, “I have a higher loyalty.” And he puts his black hat back on.

What can I do?

Another sack of garbage is missing.

I don’t know what to do.

Roger just fell off the bench. Since I enforced safety regulations and made him stop sleeping in his ropes, he has taken to biting his fingernails and falling off the bench.

I’ve been thinking about Jack. I’ve been thinking about the moon infected with life. I’ve been thinking about people like Jack overcrawling the universe.

Jack is larger than I am.

I’ve just made myself a white hat.

Another sack of garbage is missing. Sometimes I think Jack is not completely sane.

I have taken charge of garbage accounting. I think I’ll rest easier now that it is in my hands.

In future, I think that the answer must lie in unbreachable refuse containers. And a tight check system to see that everything gets deposited. But even these cannot be enough if the irresponsi­ble aren’t weeded out beforehand. The power of life must rest in hands that respect it. I’m not sure how that can be ensured, but I will think about it until the rotation changes.

This new job means one more intrusion on my time, but it’s necessary. Those who can do are condemned to do to the limit of their strength.

I explained on the telecast to Earth tonight as best I could. I told them the problem and how I had solved it. I’m sure I didn’t tell it well—Jack was always the raconteur—but they seemed to understand. Roger looked up from his work long enough to nod and wave to the people back home.

I think things are under control.

Things are much smoother now. The change in Roger has been amazing. He is more active now. He works with greater concen­tration. He listens to my advice and nods. He has even been out­side the dome for the first time in months.

That is the good side. On the negative side, he has taken to his ropes again. I haven’t the time or the heart to speak to him about it.

I’m very busy.

I just counted and counted again to be sure. One of Jack’s fourteen sacks is missing; I believe a foot. I don’t know how it could have happened. The right foot, I think. We must get un­reachable refuse containers.

Now I’m watching Roger. Roger is hanging in his ropes and watching me.

“I’M GOIN’TA tell it, I’m goin’ta tell it now,” screamed the roly-poly, middle-aged ragamuffin. For an instant the crowd cowered around him, a mangy lion bemused by a snake, then rippled, roared, climbed the ragamuffin and strangled him before he re­membered what he had to tell.

An old woman rose from the crowd instead, wisps of gray hair swimming behind her. She rode atop the crowd, neatly bal­anced and erect. “Yes, yes, it’s all true,” she said. “They come in . . . yes yes, Sadaday they were here. Everything was fine ‘fore they come; now we got to run from them and their things.”

The crowd was heavy beneath her, but friable, and it crumpled, swallowing first her arm, then face, cotton hair, paste shoulders, and yellowed buttocks. She drowned silently, overwhelmed by flesh.

Raymond Mantle stood before the undulating mass of faces, all screaming at once, now that Cassandra had disappeared. He knew they were wary of the gleaming camera plate that covered his forehead and eyes. The threads of metal and the surface-perfect plastiglass reflected the mid-afternoon sun like a mirror.

The crowd filled the streets as far back as he could see, and it was also behind him, out of sight, but pushing toward him, closing in. He felt it, he sensed it, yet he could not let them know or he would lose control and they would bolt and trample him. He concentrated, as he had been told, and thought of things soft and warm. He was in a glass canoe on a rolling lake, drenched with sun, eating, and dreaming, and sleeping.

The crowd accepted the spell he tossed at them and hushed, but it was not enough. He waited until he could only hear their whispers and breathing. “All right,” he said. “I am still ready. Tell me, tell us what it is like to be in this hell on Earth.” (That was for the hometown audience.) “Tell me more—I will help you.” He had to believe what he said or they would sense his disbelief and make it their own. The recording mechanism buzzed com­fortably, vibrating slightly against his temples.