Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

“My name is Murdock,” Murdock said, checking his watch. “I have a reservation on the next flight to Fort Myers.”

“The ten forty-five. That’s Flight 666 to Jacksonville, Tampa, Fort Myers and Miami,” the girl said. She picked up a clipboard and scanned the top sheet on it. “Murdock?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you spell that, please?”

He spelled it.

“Em as in ‘mildew’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry, your name isn’t here, Mr. Murdock.”

“Let me see the list.”

She held the clipboard to her chest and he stopped reaching.

“Our passenger lists are confidential,” she said.

“But my name has to be there. My wife called less than an hour ago. There were cancellations. She made a reservation for me. In the name of Murdock.”

The girl took a step back and looked at the list again. She shook her head. “It’s really not here, sir. There isn’t a single cancellation on Flight 666. Every one of the seats is booked as far as Jacksonville. However, if you’d like to pick up the flight there . . .”

“How can I get there?”

She consulted another list, shook her head again. “I’m afraid Flight 666 is the only one that could get you there in time.”

“Another airline?”

“Unfortunately no one else has a flight out of here in time.”

A line was queueing up behind him. He could feel their aura of impatience. He reached into his pocket for the monogrammed marble egg. It still wasn’t there. Searching aimlessly, he found a handkerchief and settled for dabbing at his forehead with that.

“When’s the next scheduled flight to Fort Myers after Flight 666?” he asked.

“Flight 666 tomorrow at ten forty-five.” She gave him a bright relieved smile. “Shall I reserve a seat for you?”

“I’ve got to get there today.”

The girl looked terribly sincere. “I’m really sorry, sir, but there’s been some difficulty between here and Florida.”

“Hyperactive sunspots?”

“Peripheral crosswinds. So there just aren’t any other flights besides 666 right now. Not from here, anyway.”

His hand started for the empty pocket again. He stopped it as he remembered, passed it the handkerchief to keep it occupied.

Sighing, he said, “I’ll wait. Maybe someone will cancel before the plane takes off.”

“It’s goddamned unlikely anyone’ll cancel after the plane takes off,” said a weary voice behind him.

He ignored it. “This is of tremendous importance to me, miss,” he said. “You have to understand that.”

“I do, sir.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said the voice behind him.

“I have your name, Mr. Mandrake,” the girl said. “If somebody cancels or fails to show, I’ll have you paged.”

“Murdock,” he mumbled.

His shoulders sagged. He walked slowly away from the counter.

The vending machine dribbled out birch beers that were flat and iceless and it refused to give him his change. He gave it a few halfhearted kicks and it contritely fell over. It lay on its back disgorging shaved ice and gurgling to itself.

A man wearing gray gabardine coveralls with

VENDO

stenciled over his left breast and

HI! I’M JACKIE!

over the right rushed up. He looked mad.

“You know anything about this, buddy?” he asked Murdock.

“No, sir.” Murdock wished the incriminating cup he was holding were elsewhere. He wished he were elsewhere. Home.

“You didn’t see it happen?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” the serviceman said grimly. “Five times in one week is too often to be coincidence.” He gave Murdock a flinty stare. “I have the power to make a citizen’s arrest, you know.”

Murdock didn’t know. But he nodded. He began to edge away, concealing the cup with his body.

“The criminal always returns,” the man pronounced. “When he does, I’ll be here. Waiting!” Murdock nodded again.

A sharp sound cut the air, jabbing at his nervous system. The public address speaker rattled something resembling his name in conjunction with Flight hiss-sizzle-hiss. He made it to the plane door just as it was closing. More than half the seats were empty. The hostess flashed an enameled smile at him and told him to sit wherever he wanted. He slid into the nearest seat and discovered he was over the wing. He couldn’t see the ground. Suddenly he wanted very badly to see the ground.

He got up and took another seat aft of the wing. He gazed at battered cracking whitetop, thinking of the marble egg he’d put down on the coffee table and never picked up again. It was the fault of that damned pentadodecahedron. It had distracted him from more important things. He wondered vaguely what it was. Not that it mattered. He fastened his seat belt.

It seemed forever before the plane finally came to life and taxied across the field.

It reached the end of the runway, made a full turn and sat there, shuddering and grunting and not getting anywhere. The engines whined. The pitch rose. The intensity rose. The shuddering increased. The plane trembled and lurched. Then it began to roll. It picked up speed. Too fast, he thought. The ramp was too short. They’d crash into those blank gray buildings at the end of it.

He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, he discovered the ground was far below. Too far. Getting farther away every moment. The plane lifted at a quick sharp angle.

He struggled to pull himself together. His angle of vision widened as the plane lifted. He could see the city, the muddy red river along its edge, the grassy expanse of Hutchinson Island lying across from it. The red river became a ribbon winding through the flat gray-green of the marshes and the brighter green of the pine-covered islands. Small streams threaded through the green to join it. They twisted and writhed, cutting the land into small sharp-edged shards.

Fascinating.

It looked just like a map; just like that Coast and Geodetic Survey map he’d had when he was a kid. Where was it now?

At home.

Ahead, he could see the vast gray sea, discolored where the red river dumped its burden of mud. He realized that the long thin strip of land splitting the river near its mouth was Cockspur Island. The five-sided structure on the prow of the island must be Fort Pulaski. It was a National Monument of some kind. Something to do with Robert E. Lee, he thought. He should take the kids out there to see it sometime. He really should. Doctor Kirk’s book advised taking youngsters on educational and culturally inspiring field trips at frequent intervals.

And then there was nothing under the plane but sea.

No ground at all. Nothing visible through the window but the wing and the water and the white ice-crystal clouds glimmering in a stark blue sky. No ground at all. At that realization, he felt the pit of his stomach flinch. He wanted the ground. He wanted his home.

He discovered a tugging. His hand was digging under the seat belt and into his pocket, looking for . . .

His fingers touched a smooth, cool, comforting surface. Elated, they closed on it. He hadn’t left the egg after all. He’d simply overlooked it when he’d hunted before. That only proved how bad his nerves were getting. More calcium tablets. That was what he needed.

The shape of the surface was wrong. Frowning, he brought the object out of his pocket. It chimed at him. He held it up and stared at the shining silvery facets of the thing.

The figures of two children seemed to stare back.

Landing in Jacksonville made his stomach queasy. Landing in Tampa was just as bad. But at least it was the last stop before Fort Myers. The plane lifted off again on the last leg of his trip.