Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

—runs all the way to the farmhouse and knocks—

Where? The light from the window was so weak it didn’t illumine the shape of the house or any detail beyond the windowsill. The light source was a lamp in the window, and even with head pressed against glass, he could see very little of the room. A patch of wall seemed faded and grease-stained.

Then should he knock on the window? Or holler? Such actions were too aggressive. But he just couldn’t stand there and die.

Hand over hand, palms pressed against wall siding, he began to make his way along the house. He caught one sliver in the side of a palm, another more painful one in the web between thumb and forefinger. He stepped into a rosebush, thorns punctured his calf. He couldn’t refrain from cursing. A sound came from inside the house, something like a shin banging against a chair.

He reached the corner of the house and felt his way to the door. He knocked once. The door opened. A fat man blocked some of the glaring light that flowed out at him.

—farmer comes to the door and asks—

“Who’s out there?”

The voice seemed gruff, billy-goatish, angry. He retreated three paces, almost wishing he could run back to his car and freeze in peace.

“Speak up, boy. I got a gun sittin’ here by the door powerful enough to blast you to double-smithereens before you get outta the light.”

“No don’t!”

He stood still, trying to look as niceguy as possible.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Leonard Brack and my car broke down just up the road.”

“We got no phone but you can . . .”

—farmer took him in and—

“. . . spend the night here and I’ll drive you up to the gay-rage in the mornin’. Come in and get warm, boy.”

Once in the house and seated by a flaming gas heater, Leonard enjoyed the rediscovery of warmth. The farmer, Cyrus McConnell, fed him coffee and dull conversation.

—well, this farmer had two beautiful—

“What is it, papa?” came a soft voice from somewhere above.

“Come on down and see for yourself.”

Hopping footsteps followed skipping footsteps down a stairway to the hall. Two shapely forms came through the doorway.

“This here’s my two daughters:

“Jeanie—”

Who was tall and blond with the kind of pretty farm-girl face found on tractor calendars and in almanac illustrations.

“—and Joanie.”

Who looked exactly like Jeanie except for her raven-black hair.

“They’re twins.”

Which didn’t really have to be pointed out.

—each o’ these babies was built like a—

“Brick shi—” Leonard stopped suddenly, realizing he was thinking aloud.

“What’s that, son?”

“Ah—brickshi. That’s a traditional Ukrainian greeting.”

—salesman ogled the twins up and—

“You’re breathin’ heavy, mister,” said Jeanie.

“Like a thirsty heifer,” said Joanie.

“Don’t spook the gentleman, girls,” said the farmer. “Of course he’s breathin’ heavy. He’s tired out from trottin’ over the whole durn countryside.”

Leonard, in nine years on the road, had never before encountered such breathtaking beauty. Packed well, too, including ribbons.

“You’re pale, mister,” said Joanie.

“Like a harvest moon,” said Jeanie.

—then the farmer said the salesman could sleep in the guest room provided—

“...that you let me lock you in there till dawn.”

The words acted like an emetic on Leonard, as disappointment dissipated his desire. Still, he comforted himself with the thought that the brief sight of these twin delectations would, for a change, give him something more exciting than invoices to think about as he drifted off to sleep. Sneaking one more look at the girls, he cursed fate for always springing on him Surprise without Resolution.

“You look sad, mister,” Jeanie said.

“Like a hound dog that’s just flushed a feather hat,” said Joanie.

—locked him in and he went to bed, but sure enough in a minute—

Ready to sleep, kept awake only by the dilemma of whether to dream about blond Jeanie or brunette Joanie. Or was it brunette Jeanie and blond Joanie?

Then a warm hand touched his face.

“You got cold skin, mister.”

He sat up straight.

“How did you get in here?”

“That’s my secret.”

“It’s too dark in here. Which one are you?”

“That’s also my secret. Move over.”

—so they, you know, made out, all the rest of the night, and it was—

An hour and a half of incredible warmth. A journey on apparently familiar roads which turned out to be untraveled. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. An ecstasy like nothing else he’d ever experienced in his plodding, one step in front of the other life.

She was an energetic delight, some part always in motion until she left him just before dawn. Several times he tried to detect which of the daughters he grappled with, but it was impossible to tell. When she’d departed as mysteriously as she’d arrived, he regretted not knowing which one to thank in the morning.

—so next morning he looked for, you know, signs to tell which one it was but—

When Jeanie blew in his ear while serving a plate of hash, he thought the issue was no longer in question. Then Joanie blew him a secret kiss.

“You look all perplexed, mister,” said Joanie. “Like a sow with silk purses hangin’ offa its head,” said Jeanie.

—so he went away, frustrated by the mystery—

Back to the daily monotony. Adventures came few and far between these days. Far between? Between this and what? Well, back to shoving unsuitable material into the greased fingers of sleepy storeowners.

He drove his revived car by the house for one final look. He thought he saw two girls in two windows waving at him.

—bugged all the next year by the memory, you know—

Waking him suddenly at nights. Making him conscious of plaster cracks forming crooked involved rivers along dingy hotel walls. Causing sweat to appear on his forehead at unusual times.

—so one day at twilight he found himself on a familiar road and sure enough there was the same farmhouse—

Run, Leonard, run. See (in your mind’s eye) the girls. See Jeanie or Joanie at the window. Stop. That’s not the way. Be cool and calm. They must believe this is just a coincidence, that today you found yourself on a familiar road and sure enough you spotted the house of last year’s kindnesses.

“You’re trembling, mister,” said Jeanie at the door. “Like a apple tree bein’ shook by a nervous boy,” said Joanie in the hallway.

—so he was invited to spend the night again and the farmer locked him in again and he waited until—

“I startle you again? Mister, your skin’s solid ice.”

His reflexes keener from a year’s planning, he reached for the lamp beside the bed. It clicked sharply but gave forth no illumination.

“I pulled the plug. It’s you, me, and the pitch dark, mister. Move over.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll never tell.”

—and they had, you know, one more hot night of it—

Better than last year, as if sharpened by three hundred and sixty-four days of training. Metaphysically, an almost-felt electrical current surging through all outlets and connections. Psychologically, ego-building after so many sleepless frustrated nights but also nerve-racking due to the silly confusion of identity. Philosophically, a hasty reshuffling of old values to accommodate new situational contexts.

—and he tried to find out which twin had his tony—