Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

“I don’t see it,” he said.

She pulled in the tongue and tasted it, then frowned. “It was there.” Shrugging, she shook her head. “I’ll call the airport.”

He kissed her again and went to pack.

“Ten forty-five,” Jean said as Murdock came into the living room. “You’ve got almost an hour to get there.”

“Seats?” he asked as he set down his overnight bag.

“There were some cancellations. You have a reservation.”

“Good.”

He looked toward the children. Leslie was five now. His sister, Tracy, was four. Good, dutiful, obedient children, but more concerned at the moment with something Leslie held hidden in cupped hands than with their father’s impending departure. For an instant Murdock felt disappointment. He told himself they were both too young to understand.

Doctor Kirk’s Bluebook on Successful Child-Rearing in Our Modern Society said that a father must never let his own troubles interfere with his appreciation and attention to the concerns of his children.

Murdock grinned at his son and said, “Whatcha got there, champ?”

The boy eyed his father.

Tracy returned the grin. “It’s magic.”

“Let’s see.”

Peeling his thumbs apart, Leslie spread his hands open. The object nestled into his palm was small and shiny. A faceted shape made of some bright silvery metal.

As Murdock started to take it, he realized there was already something in his hand. His monogrammed marble egg. He put it down on the pre-Colombian coffee table, carefully so it wouldn’t roll off, then reached for the silvery object.

His fingers touched a surface as soothingly smooth as the polished stone they’d just relinquished. They closed tight on it. “What is it?” he repeated.

“Has it got germs on it?” Jean asked.

“It’s a pentadodecahedron,” Leslie said.

Dutifully, Tracy added, “It’s magic.”

Murdock stroked one facet of the curious object. “A what?”

“Pentadodecahedron,” Leslie repeated.

Tracy said, “We found it in the marigolds. The Easter Bunny laid it.”

Jean nodded as if her worst suspicions had been substantiated. “It has germs on it.”

“It’s got pictures on it,” Tracy said.

Murdock opened his hand and looked. She was right. Each of its five-sided facets showed a small figure of some kind.

“There’s a lion and a goat,” his daughter told him. “And some fishes and some children and—and all kinds of stuff.”

He nodded agreement. The side he was looking at showed a pair of children facing each other. The figures seemed vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place them.

“Shake it,” Leslie said.

Murdock shook it. He heard a series of small but distinct musical notes like the clear tones of fine crystal struck lightly with something made of steel. Soothing.

“That’s nice,” Jean said. “What is it, dear?”

“Be damned if I know.”

“A pentadodecahedron,” Leslie offered patiently.

Jean looked at her offspring. “Where did you get it?”

Tracy repeated, “We found it in the marigolds.”

“Looking for Mister Moto,” Leslie said.

Mister Moto was the snow-white, blue-eyed, stone-deaf tomcat that had been adopted into the Murdock household a few months ago, after Irving died.

“Did you find him?” Murdock asked, hefting the object. It was very light. Too light for the size of it. It chimed in his hand.

“We called and called, but he never came,” Tracy said.

Leslie shot his sister a scowl of disgust. “Nope. Can I have my pentadodecahedron back now?”

“It has germs on it,” Jean told him. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Yes, we do,” Tracy said.

“Where?”

“In the marigolds ,” she sighed.

“Does this mean I can’t have it back?” Leslie said.

“We can look for more,” Tracy suggested. “Maybe the Easter Bunny laid a lot of them.”

“Listen, children,” Murdock said. “I’ve got to go on a short trip. I want you two to behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

“Can we go, too?” Tracy asked.

Leslie just glowered at his father.

The pentadodecahedron chimed again as Murdock turned his arm to look at his watch. “We better get moving.”

Jean instantly looked harried. “I’ve got to fix my face.”

“I’ll get the car out. Come on, kids.”

He picked up the suitcase. It had his initials on it in gold leaf that was still as bright as the day it was bought. The matched luggage had been a wedding gift. For an instant he wondered who’d given it to them. And why. The thought passed.

Tracy mumbled, “I wanna hunt Easter Bunnies.”

Jean backed the car out of the driveway, swung it in a wide arc and stepped on the gas. It jolted forward. Murdock tested his seat belt for the third time since he’d strapped in. It felt secure. He checked the kids, saw that they were all right, then stared at the road ahead.

“Jean,” he said suddenly, “our car was blue. Wasn’t it?”

“Isn’t it?” she said. She gripped the steering wheel hard with both hands and set their course by sighting down the hood ornament, a chromed scorpion with unfurled wings.

“No, it’s green,” he told her. “Look at it.”

“You’re right.” She pondered the problem and came up with an answer that satisfied her. “It must be the sunspots.”

“How in God’s name could sunspots change the color of a car?”

“Sunspots do all sorts of things, don’t they?”

He wasn’t sure. “Maybe. Watch out!” he shouted as Jean ran a red light with practiced ease.

“I wish you wouldn’t scream in my ear like that,” she said, more hurt than indignant. “It’s very distracting. Don’t you want to make your flight?”

Murdock didn’t reply. Jean slammed on the brakes.

Murdock lurched forward. The safety belt cut painfully into his bulging middle. It held. As he rocked back, he saw that the light over this intersection was green.

“What the hell?”

“Look, Mommy!” Leslie called from the back. “A parade!”

“Yes, dear,” Jean said.

“I want some ice cream!” Tracy wailed.

Murdock stared up the cross street. A pair of perfectly matched piebald horses proceeded at a stately pace, towing a gilded float behind them. On the float a huge papier-mâché boll weevil basked in a blanket of pink and white camellias. It rolled slowly past, followed by men on horseback and men pedaling high-wheeled velocipedes and ten-speed English racing bikes with red, white and blue streamers whipping in the wind.

Small girls in filmy lawn intertwined complicated dance steps among the riders, strewing flower petals and cotton bolls. Dogs in ruffled clown collars and tasseled nightcaps staggered along on their hind legs, yipping and snapping at the petals and bolls as they blew past their noses.

The sound of a brass band preceded its actual appearance. The oompahs converged on the spot and overwhelmed completely the tiny string ensemble that paced along behind with an air of indefinable sadness and regret. Short-skirted girls with bright red boots and rouged batons high-stepped by to the cheers of the people lining the street.

“I want some ice cream!” Tracy wailed.

“There’s the ice cream man!” shouted Leslie.

“The children would like some ice cream, dear,” Jean said.

Murdock said nothing.

Leslie leaned excitedly over the back of the seat and pointed. “There he is! See? See him? Right there!”

A man in white pushing a small cart with tinkling bells suspended on strings.

“I’m afraid that’s not really ice cream,” Jean said.