Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

Murdock scowled at the large red letters across the side of the cart: FRENCH FRIED POTATOES.

“I want some ice cream!” Tracy wailed.

The parade line gapped. The vender shoved his pushcart across the street. Leslie mumbled a word his mother didn’t approve of. Murdock heard it and nodded.

The next section of the parade arrived.

Two identical men in identical blue uniforms with gold shoulder-braid were supporting between them the ends of a gigantic billowing banner that read

THE GREAT SAVANNAH TO ATLANTA

CROSS-COUNTRY LOVE-PAGEANT AND

COTTON FESTIVAL EXTRAVAGANZA

in onyx open lettering.

Behind them came a small tidy man with a large sign saying

STAMP OUT THE DEWEY

in publicity Gothic.

Behind him a girl of about ten with mauve ribbons in her long dark hair carried another sign of the same size and lettering style.

DECIMAL IN GEORGIA

She was followed by a grim buxom matron whose sign said

LIBRARIES AND SCHOOLS

From the distance came a curious wail quite unlike a fire engine or an air raid warning siren. Black smoke hovered over an approaching segment of the parade. Brilliant white puffs of steam rose to engage the dark cloud in combat.

Another brass band strode past, each man cradling his instrument in silent respect to the heartbeat measures throbbing from the big bass drum. None of them were in step.

“We’re going to miss my plane! ” Murdock said.

Jean patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry , dear. We’ll make it all right.”

“Ice cream!” Tracy howled.

“Me too!” Leslie added with small hope of success.

In unison: “ICE CREAM!”

“Shut up!” Murdock snarled.

Immediately he felt guilty. He reached into his pocket for the monogrammed marble egg. It wasn’t there. His fingers twitched.

“Calm down, Shelly,” Jean said. “You’re just a bundle of nerves.”

“I am not!”

She gave him a significant look.

“Ummm,” he said and slumped in the seat as far as the safety belt would let him, which wasn’t very.

“There’s calcium in the glove compartment,” Jean said.

He stretched out an arm and snapped open the compartment door. A flashlight rolled out and fell between his feet with a clunk. Ignoring it, he fished for the emergency bottle of calcium.

“Did you remember to pack your kelp tablets?” Jean asked.

“Ummm,” he said.

He found the bottle and took three pills.

The eerie wailing resolved itself into an approximation of a melody. The clouds of smoke loomed closer. They spewed from the chimney of a brass-plated boiler. Ranks of gleaming gilt tubes tootled the puffs of steam.

At the keyboard of the calliope, a burly man in a clown suit pounded out a ponderous waltz. The calliope rolled past, drawn by two white horses in red harness.

The following float was pulled by a pink-and-white candy-striped jeep driven by a pretty young girl in a skimpy bikini. There was nothing to the float itself but a flatbed on bogie wheels, decorated with black crepe. It bore like a wearisome burden the weight of a small gray whale with sawdust leaking out of a vent in its side.

The whale was not alone. A pair of stalwart men in yellow nor’westers kept it company. Both wore jet-black beards, lush and untrimmed. One brandished a harpoon toward Murdock as the float came even with the car, and shouted, “You oughta seen the one that got away!”

His companion gave Murdock the peace sign.

Nothing followed the float for a good five hundred feet.

A cop appeared in the opening. He gestured at Jean with one International Day-glo Orange-gloved hand.

She stepped on the gas.

Murdock checked his seat belt.

“Ice cream?” Tracy said.

Murdock realized he’d been holding his breath. He sighed. They were on the edge of a vast expanse of grass, dotted with gray aged buildings of an undefined nature and scarred with sharp straight strips of rotting concrete. Then he saw the terminal building, topped with its green fishbowl, posing proudly at the head of one blacktop strip.

Chatham Field at last, Murdock thought.

“Here we are, dear,” Jean said. “And in plenty of time, too.”

He didn’t answer her.

Was it Chatham Field, he wondered, or was it Travis Field? They’d changed the name some time ago, after it had ceased to be a military base. Which had it been; what was it now? Had they changed the name again? He’d heard a rumor that it was now McGee Field. He wished he’d looked at the sign by the gate as they drove in. Well, it didn’t matter, did it?

Jean surveyed the herringbone patterned parking places, chose one between two other cars, and swung the steering wheel sharply. The car whipped around. Its front bumper slammed against the rear chrome of a large black limousine. Satisfied, she backed and filled, deftly jockeying the car into its slot by ear.

It wasn’t until the whine of the electric engine had died away that Murdock opened his eyes and unfastened the safety belt.

He said his good-byes before he got out. Clutching his overnight bag, he walked around the car. He paused to lean in the open window and give Jean a peck on the lips. Then he pulled his head out and stepped back. He looked at the car.

“Green?” he said.

“Sunspots,” she replied.

As he entered the terminal building, he sighted the sign above the National counter.

NATIONAL

in blue letters against a backlighted white background. The light was a fluorescent flicker. He strode toward it.

Two people were in line ahead of him. A middle-aged man with a shining bald spot, wearing a black leather jacket, and a young sailor with three slanted parallel blue stripes on his white jumper.

“Why can’t I go to Boston?” the middle-aged man was asking.

“Because there are no flights scheduled to make that run,” the girl at the counter said, her voice a study in patience.

“Why? There’s always been flights to Boston from here before. I make this trip twice a month for business reasons. I know there’s a regular Wednesday flight to Boston.”

Murdock didn’t want to hear it, but the voices were loud and rising. He couldn’t shut them out.

“All air traffic to Boston has been curtailed,” the girl said. “However, you may fly to Los Angeles if you wish.”

“Why the hell would I want to fly to Los Angeles?” The man’s bald spot was beginning to flush.

“It’s very nice there this time of the year,” the girl said. “Or so they claim.”

The sailor turned to face Murdock. “You know what the Marine Corps symbol looks like?” he said.

“I’m familiar with it,” Murdock admitted.

“It’s a sea gull on an eightball with an anchor up its ass screaming ‘Go, Navy.’ I just spent five months on an LST with those mothers. All they did was sit around and fondle their guns.”

“Rifles,” Murdock muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was in the Army myself.”

“The Army.”

“National Guard, actually.”

The sailor looked disgusted. He turned away.

“. . . goddamn airline!” the middle-aged man said. He strobed off, his bald spot flickering under the sign light.

The sailor stepped up, leaned over the counter and kissed the girl soundly. She looked surprised but not at all displeased.

“Worth waiting in line for,” the Seabee said. He glanced at Murdock and his lips twisted. He moved on down the line to the mob at the TWA counter.

The girl in the National uniform gave Murdock a long unfocused look, then her warm smile became a professional one.

“Yes, sir?”