Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

“Yes, but do you understand that I’ll be ruined if I can’t get in touch with my partner?”

The man gave him a long look of sympathetic skepticism. “We will endeavor to connect you as soon as possible, sir,” he said with a wilting smile. “However, if you will refer to your contract with our organization you will find that The Phone Company cannot take any responsibility for, or be adjudged liable for—”

“Paragraph seven,” the executive said.

Murdock gave up. “How soon can you put me through to him?” he asked.

“As soon as possible, sir. Sunspot activity, as you are no doubt aware yourself, cannot be controlled. However, if you will give me the name and number of the party you are trying to reach . . .”

“His name?”

The egg slid from Murdock’s grip. He snatched at it. Still juggling, he faced the vidphone again.

The executive said, “As soon as we regain service, sir. If you’ll give me the name of the party you are trying to reach and his contract number . . .”

Murdock scowled. He couldn’t remember his partner’s name. All the years they’d been together, and now he couldn’t remember. ... He dropped the egg.

“Sir?” the phone asked with concern. “Is there something wrong?”

“I’ll call back,” Murdock mumbled as he reached for the disconnect button.

Blood rushed to his head as he bent to pick up the monogrammed marble egg.

Frowning at his reflection in the dark face of the phone, Murdock considered the situation.

He’d been away from home only once, twelve years ago. He remembered that trip vividly—starkly. A strange place—a strange bed—strange people. None of the warm, familiar comforts of home.

He looked around the office he’d built into his lovely multilevel house. All the fine particular things. The plush red sofa vibrant against the pea-green patterns of the rug. The mellow glow of the armadillo lamp—Irving had been such a good pet; too good to give up just because he’d died. Tammy had been a good pet, too. He smiled at the stuffed tabby standing on the mantle of the electronic fireplace. So had Wallace, the parakeet that perched in eternal silence on the edge of the aquarium, one glass eye alert to his every move, the other fixed on the three Siamese fighting fish who, at the moment, seemed to be engaged in a mutual nonaggression.

Home.

And he had to leave them again. Leave Savannah and go to Punta Gorda himself. Get this mess straightened out with—hell, he still couldn’t remember his partner’s name. Well, it’d come to him.

Had to see the man, find out what was wrong. Those goddamn bulkhead rights had to be cleared before his option on that stretch of Charlotte Harbor ran out. Already the dredges and draglines were contracted to start filling.

Penalty clauses.

Forfeiture.

Every cent he had tied up in the project.

Dammit. Move fast, his partner had said. Act quickly or somebody else would grab the ball and run with it. Half the Harbor was already filled. Not much left to be developed. Get everything ready to move the instant the bulkhead rights were approved. Sure. He’d done it: put up all his capital, signed papers, made commitments. And now the option was about to expire. The deadline was less than forty-eight hours away.

There was no way out of it, around it, over it or under it. He’d have to go to Punta Gorda himself. And he’d have to fly. He shuddered at the thought.

Still clutching the marble egg, he got to his feet. He stood there.

“Jean!” he called.

“What?” His wife’s voice came thin from the distance, softened by the acoustic ceiling.

“Where are you?”

“In here, dear.” She sounded very far away.

He walked to the door. “In where?”

“The living room. I’m polishing the bronzed baby shoes.”

Stepping into the hall, he closed the office door behind him. The house was very quiet. He walked down the hall and into the

. . . kitchen.

“Jean?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Where are you?”

“In the living room, Shelly.” This time she sounded closer.

He walked through the door and across the hall to the

. . . downstairs bathroom.

“Jean!”

“What is it, dear?”

He started to say that he couldn’t find the living room, but that was ridiculous. He was upset. He’d taken a wrong turn. He’d been living in this house for fifteen years.

He opened the medicine chest and took out a bottle of blue pills. Vitamin C. Good for the nerves. He swallowed three, then remembered it was calcium that was good for the nerves. He added three bonemeal tablets to the C he’d swallowed.

“Shelly?” his wife called.

“I’ll be right there.”

“All right.”

He walked down the hall and turned left. That felt wrong. He kept turning in a one-hundred-eighty-degree arc, then he turned right. It felt right. The living room was there, just where it always had been.

Upset, he told himself. Damn whatsisname. Needed to increase his calcium intake. Maybe take more lecithin, too.

“Jean,” he said.

She set the bronzed baby shoes down on the pre-Colombian coffee table and turned to him with a pale lavender cloth in her hand.

“Yes , dear, what is it?”

“I’ve got to go out of town.”

She stared at him.

“To Punta Gorda. Trouble over the bulkhead rights in Charlotte Harbor. It has to be settled today and every time I get—get—” He still couldn’t remember. He sighed, then said, “Every time I get whatsisname on the phone he just gabbles jabberwocky at me.”

“Who?”

“You know. My partner.”

“Oh.” She nodded.

“That damn phone company.” He sighed again. “I can’t get a clear channel to Punta Gorda. Sunspots, they say.”

“Oh, the children are outside playing. Those sunspots are very bad for them, aren’t they? Shouldn’t I call them in?”

“I don’t think the sunspots will hurt them,” Murdock mumbled. “But you’d better call them in anyway. I have to leave immediately.”

“You mean right now? This minute?”

“Just about. On the next available flight to Fort Myers. I want to say good-bye to the kids. I’ve never left them . . . alone . . . before this.” He squared his sagging shoulders and added, “Call the airport, will you, while I pack. Assuming you can get through.”

She rose. The sight of her standing there, still as slim and lithe as she’d been the day he married her, filled him with a sudden sense of pride.

She was long-legged and small-breasted. Tousled blond hair cut fashionably short framed a face that was a little too emphatic to be called quite beautiful. She wore a loose ultramarine and green print housecoat and rope-soled shoes with no stockings. As she came toward him, she stuffed the pale lavender cloth into her pocket.

She looked up at him. “How long will you be gone, dear?”

“I don’t know. Not long, I hope. There’s something strange going on and I don’t like it. My option will expire tomorrow midnight if I don’t have the go-ahead from the land planning commission signed and in my banker’s hands. If this deal falls through for any reason, we’ve had it. I’ve got to go.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Everything will be all right.”

He looked deep into her wide dark brown eyes. “Would you tell me something, dear?”

“Of course.”

“And not think I’m joking?”

“Yes.”

“What’s my partner’s name?”

“Shelly!”

“No, that’s my name. What’s his name?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Jean?”

“I’m thinking,” she said. “You know, I can’t seem to remember. It’s right here on the tip of my tongue. See?” She stuck her tongue out at him.