Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

“Hey Jeanie!”

“You can’t trick me into telling.”

“Why not?”

“That’s my secret.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Secret.”

“But a guy’s got to know who he’s doing it with.”

“No he don’t. It is merely a natural act between two consenting individuals, and identity has nothing to do with it. Identity is superfluous, incongruous, inadequate.”

“Damn it, that’s what knocks me out. You talk different here than both of you do downstairs.”

“A woman’s mantle varies from parlor to bedroom.”

“Well, give me a clue at least.”

“Clue implies a mystery to be solved, a corner puzzle piece to begin interlockment. Therefore, there cannot be clues here, since I do not wish you to arrive at a solution. Quit jawin’.”

—again, just before dawn, she disappeared—

But where to? Nobody just disappears. Not without a long drum roll and a puff of smoke, anyway. The ritual was same as last year: a quick ascension to a kneeling position, a warm kiss upon his chest, the residual bounce of the bed as she left it, a couple of footsteps.

The absence of further sound upset him. No click of key in lock, no raising of secret trapdoor, no sliding of secret panel, no pushing open of window.

Her departure method was only the penultimate mystery. The question of her identity furnished more mental tension. In daylight there was not sufficient contrast between Joanie and Jeanie’s behavior to provide any indication of who warmed his bed these annual nights.

At breakfast both girls looked a bit puffy-eyed, as if they both had been awake all night. Two pairs of eyes studied him knowingly.

—had insomnia all the next year worrying about it—

Maybe Jeanie because blondes have more fun. Maybe Joanie since brunettes relish mystery.

And how could he be sure it was the same girl both years? Maybe Joanie one year, then Jeanie’s turn the next. Or vice versa. But the second said the same things as the first. Well, that’s possible. They’re sisters and the first could have told the second all the details of the first’s experience so the second could sneak in the room and pose as the first. Or not really the second posing as the first but the second being the second and, since she was a twin, acting very like the first. The consequences of such possibilities terrified him because then it was not just a problem of which one came to his room, but which one at which time? It had the effect of cubing the mystery.

He developed nervous tics. Chewing on a pillow, then retreating in disgust from the saliva puddles. Mind blanking off in the middle of a sure sale. Stopping at any old farmhouse, but finding the occupants had no daughters or married daughters or homely daughters (who, though they eyed him knowingly, left him alone at night) or pretty daughters (who laughed at his advances).

—so he went back to the farmhouse and the farmer and the farmer’s daughters—

With his new spectacles he could see the house better than before. It was a genuinely ugly structure. Gray paint peeled off the siding at a thousand places. Windowsills sagged. A corner of porch was held up by old lumber.

Joanie opened the front door and greeted him indifferently, like an old friend. So did Jeanie.

Cyrus came into the hallway, greeted Leonard with a hearty brickshi, and held out his left hand to shake. The right one was missing, lost when he’d tripped and reached up to a thresher for help.

—and this time, what do you think—

Surprise, Leonard! Here comes Jeanie with a three-month-old kid in her arms. Don’t choke.

“Is he yours?” he said to Jeanie.

“Might be,” she answered.

“Might be mine, too,” Joanie interjected, taking the baby from the arms of Jeanie, who gave him up willingly.

He studied the baby carefully for a clue. A few strands of medium brown hair, about as many as Leonard had on his own head, and the same shade of brown. No other indications.

“Your girls do like to fun me,” he said to Cyrus. “But I’ll bet you’ll tell me whose it is.”

“Can’t, Leonard. Wish I knew. I was in the hospital for five months recovering from this. Came home and found the little tyke nestled in a crib. They won’t tell me neither.”

Leonard’s face revealed his disappointment.

“You look despairin’, mister,” said Joanie.

“Like a young ‘un when they take down the Christmas tree,” said Jeanie.

“Can’t understand how she done it,” Cyrus said, “whichever one it was. Lock ‘em both in every night.”

—so he went to bed that night more mixed up than usual and sure enough—

“Move over.”

Acting quickly, he whipped out the flashlight he’d concealed under the covers and shone it on her navel. She grabbed it out of his hands, flicked off the switch, and flung it across the room.

“Now move over.”

—so he had another night of, you know, fun—

“But I’ve got to know now.”

“I don’t see why it’s so damned important.”

“Because of the kid.”

“Why because of the kid? It’s just a baby like all others.”

“Because it’s mine, that’s why.”

“Who said it’s yours?”

“Isn’t it?”

“That’s a secret.”

“How can you be so callous about your own child?”

“Who said it’s my child?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Secret.”

“I would think, for the kid’s sake, that he ought to know which of you is his mother.”

“Who said either of us was his mother?”

—and so another night went by without him being any the wiser—

“The trouble with you, mister, is that you think your one-nighter per year is the only thing that happens around here. As if my father, my sister, and I go into suspended animation, lifeless until you saunter in again. Frankly, I nearly forget you from one year to the next.”

“Then—it really isn’t my baby?”

“I never said that.”

—and he left the next day as confused as ever—

“Here—I saved a can of peach preserve for you,” Joanie said after breakfast.

“And some tomato puree from me,” Jeanie said.

Leonard divided an expression of fury between them.

—another year—

He developed several plans, as follows:

PLAN A: Scratch her someplace. Draw blood. Next morning see which girl is scratched.

PLAN B: Bring two flashlights.

PLAN C: Set off a tear gas bomb and quickly don gasmask. In ensuing confusion, plug in lamp and turn it on.

PLAN D: Whip out a set of handcuffs and chain her to me so she can’t leave before dawn.

—and another return to the farmhouse—

The girls, bustling around, paid little attention to him except to show how well little Timmie could walk all by himself. Cyrus sulked in a kitchen, so despondent he even had the girls lock Leonard in his room.

—and another night—

All plans failed, as follows:

PLAN A: The next morning both girls wore bandages on the spot he’d scratched (the back of the neck).

PLAN B: The second flashlight got lost in the covers when she descended upon him.

PLAN C: He left the bomb in the trunk of his car.

PLAN D: The handcuffs, purchased in a novelty store, were too big for her wrists and she slipped out of them.

—and still confusion—

“I’m more than just confused. I think I’m on the verge of insanity.”

“Don’t dramatize. You’ve just got a simple ego hangup, that’s all.”

“When I’m in an asylum, you’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth.”

“If you’re so determined, try catatonia. It might do you some good to shut up for a while.”