Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

He worried about the pentadodecahedron as he watched land skim by below. They weren’t traveling as fast now as before, and they were lower. He could see a lot of detail in the landscape. Neatly trimmed lawns, precisely planted groves of fruit trees. Swimming pools shaped like oblongs, like ovals, like kidneys, like half moons and quarter moons and full moons. A pool in every backyard. And most of the backyards butted against canals.

Money, he thought. Loads of money down there. Fortunes had been made already. And lost. Dammit, what had happened to . . . to . . . Jesus, he still couldn’t remember the bastard’s name.

Beyond the vast fields of houses in bloom, he could see the rolling green of the Gulf. Thin spindly oil rigs latticed out of it a short distance offshore. A lean white yacht cut across it, catching his eye with its trim speed. It threaded between markers and anchored fishing boats, heading for a small bay.

He recognized the curious shape of the bay and the twin rivers feeding into it. Charlotte Harbor, almost exactly the way it was on the maps back in his office. The town on its edge must be Punta Gorda.

Why the hell didn’t the planes land here ? It was absurd that he should have to go on to Fort Myers and then backtrack.

Absurd.

Something was going on in the Harbor. Barges like huge houseboats were anchored along the shallows between Pine Island and the mainland. Lengths of huge tubing on floats trailed across the water like surfaced eels. Plumes of pale mud gushed from their mouths, laying layers of sand along the shore. Dredges building dry land at the edge of the sea. Not far from the water draglines were cutting deep gashes into the earth. Ditches that were embryonic canals. A land project in its early stages. Pushing back the sea.

His land project.

It was his project; he was certain of it. He’d studied the maps too often. He knew the lines and contours of them too well. He couldn’t be mistaken. That was the land and water-right he’d optioned. That was the land he was going to build as soon as the bulkhead rights were cleared.

But someone was at work there already.

He squinted to read the huge letters painted across the side of one of the dredges.

EMERGENCE DEVELOPMENT, INC.

It was even the company he’d contracted to do his work. But it was too soon. The bulkhead rights weren’t cleared yet. As far as he knew.

What the hell had his partner been up to? What was going on? Had somebody jumped his claim, gotten away his option? Was that why whosis had gabbled about hard-boiled haddock? Afraid to face him and own up to it?

He gripped the chiming pentadodecahedron, his thumb rubbing frantically at one facet. Wait until he got hold of . . .

Whatshisname.

Unless he was leaping to conclusions.

The seat belt sign flashed on. The plane circled on. The field at Fort Myers was smaller than the one at Savannah, but then it had never served as a military base. It lay at the edge of town, alongside a broad straight stretch of highway. The plane circled wide. It cut back and swung in low and fast. Much too fast. Murdock gripped the arms of the seat. The plane touched down smoothly and taxied toward the small terminal building. Stopped.

Passengers scrambled to their feet. They filled the aisles. Murdock found himself jammed in between two of them, a tall blond girl with one blue eye and one green eye, and a chubby Roman Catholic priest with a broken arm in a black clerical sling.

They moved along past the hostess who handed each an orange, out the door and down the escaladder into the hot bright Florida sunshine. That day the opening market value on the sunshine had been 20.69 and rising.

The air smelled of half-burnt jet fuel, scorched paving and salt marshes. Murdock crossed the concrete to the terminal building. Inside, the scent was the cool canned slightly musty odor of recycling air. He felt the thin film of sweat on his forehead chill as he walked past a blower. He rubbed at his face and wiped the hand off on a trouser leg as he hurried over to the long bank of vidphones.

The red lights were burning; they were all in use.

He stood there staring at the pleasingly patterned Translucetic booths and wished somebody would get the hell off the phone and give him a chance at it.

An unshaven old man with a patch over one eye and grappa on his breath stopped in front of him and asked Murdock if he could for the love of God spare a quarter for a cup of coffee.

“I gave at the office,” Murdock muttered.

“Please,” the old man whined.

“Here. Take this.” Murdock shoved the orange into the man’s open hand. “I need all my change for the phone.”

“An orange! I’m overwhelmed,” the old man said. He walked away grumbling to himself.

Finally one of the red booth lights blinked green and a door opened. A white-haired woman in a lavender and cerise sarong waddled out. Her mirror-lensed sunglasses turned toward Murdock. He saw himself reflected in them, tiny twin images bulging in their fishbowl convexities.

She stood firm, blocking the door. With an anxious grunt he shoved past her bosom and into the booth. He jerked the door shut behind him. A dim light and a noisy fan cut on.

Facing the blank screen, he thumbed a coin into the slot and punched 0.

She was the first genuinely ugly vidphone operator he’d ever seen. For a moment he just stared at her in astonishment.

“Your call, sir?” she said.

At least her voice was pleasant. It reassured him.

“Punta Gorda,” he told her. “Area Code B813, person-to-person to . . . make that station-to-station to DEsmond 69969, collect from Mr. Murdock.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Area Code B813 is temporarily out of service.”

She smiled. Strong teeth.

Like a mule, he thought. He almost asked her if she knew when service would be resumed. But, of course, she wouldn’t. He felt certain of that.

Instead, he said, “All right. I’d like to put through a person-to-person call to Savannah, Georgia. Area Code J912, to Mrs. . .” He hesitated. It was right there. It was . . . “to Jean Murdock. Collect.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Only calls originating within Area Code D813, Fort Myers, can be serviced at this time.”

“Sunspots?”

“I don’t know the reason, sir.”

“And I suppose you don’t know when service will be restored either, do you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re most welcome, sir.”

She flashed her teeth at him again. The screen went blank. In her case it was a mercy.

He bounced the chiming pentadodecahedron in his hand.

Someone started banging on the Translucetic side of the booth.

“Hey, you through in there already or what?”

Bang! Bang! Bang bang bang bang!

He opened the door. It was the priest with the broken arm.

“Bless you, my son,” the priest said. He shouldered Murdock roughly out of the way as he went in and slammed the door behind him.

A fold-down screen closed the Hertz-Avis booth. A sign tacked to it said

OUT

Underneath it was a smaller sign:

WE LOVE YOU, PLEASE WAIT

WILL BE BACK AT

There was a clock dial under the sign. The hands of the clock were missing and someone had drawn a leering face on it in heavy red Magic Marker ink.

Murdock looked around, then walked over to the airline ticket counter. A young man with long hair sat on a high stool behind it. He wore a blue blazer and a bored expression. He was looking off into the distance as Murdock approached.

“Excuse me,” Murdock said.

No response.

“I said, ‘excuse me.’“

The young man’s eyes focused on him. “Yes? May I help you?”