Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

The dart thanged into a picture of two figures standing back to back. Children, from the look of them. Yes. He remembered where he’d seen them before.

He picked the pentadodecahedron up off the desk and turned it in his hands. The fish, the crab, the bull. They were the same all right. Some small differences in detail, but not enough to disguise them. All the figures were the same except for the children, if that was what they actually were. There was only one child on the pentadodecahedron. He thought there’d been two.

Or had there been? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about much anymore. Less and less every moment.

But at least the bulkhead papers were signed and on their way. The business was proceeding properly again. The pressure was off. He wasn’t staring financial ruin in the face anymore. He could stop and think. His nerves would unstring themselves and hopefully he could get back to life as usual.

The pentadodecahedron was just some toy his children had found among the marigolds. There were more important matters to be considered. He leaned back in the chair to consider them and the intercom buzzed.

“What?” he said.

“Mr. Hardy on channel two, sir.”

Not hon anymore. Sir.

He said, “Thanks.”

The intercom clicked at him. He punched 2 and as the screen across the room lit up he told himself that at last he’d get some answers to his questions. Then he could get himself home again where he belonged.

The man who appeared on the screen was so pale that Murdock wondered if the chromatint was out of adjustment. Nobody in Florida could really be that washed-out looking. The Chamber of Commerce would never allow it.

“For Christ’s sake, Murdock,” the man said. “Where in hell have you been ? If you hadn’t got here when you did, the whole deal would have been blown. I own a piece of this project, too, remember!”

Murdock decided that whoever this Hardy was, he wasn’t going to be pushed around by him like that.

“I got here, didn’t I? What’s going on out in the harbor? Somebody’s already begun filling. Is somebody trying to grab our deal? We’ve got the rights. We’ve got the option. Or have we?”

“What are you raving about?” Hardy snapped. He was wearing a vested suit. A bright red handkerchief poked out of the breast pocket. He fiddled with a corner of it as he spoke. “You’re the one who set up this early-bird deal. It was your idea to order the work started as soon as we were certain the bulkhead rights would be cleared.”

“I did? Who handled it? My partner?”

“Who partner? What partner? What the hell good am I to you as a lawyer if you don’t let me in on these things?” He frowned suddenly. “Who drew up the partnership agreement? What is this, Murdock, the axe? You trying to shove me out the door?”

He pulled out the red handkerchief and swabbed at his pale face with it.

This is ridiculous, Murdock thought. Calcium was called for. He found the small bottle of pills and flipped up the cap with his thumb. Not many left. He took three.

“What’s that?” Hardy asked him suspiciously.

“Calcium.”

The lawyer looked dubious. “Murdock, if you’re trying to screw me . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Murdock said. “Just wait a minute.”

Hardy paused and took a deep breath.

Murdock clutched the chiming pentadodecahedron. Its surface was so smooth , so like that of the monogrammed marble egg that he’d left at home. He wondered if he could have the pentadodecahedron monogrammed, too. His fingers played along its shining surfaces.

“Wait a minute,” he said again. “Let’s both calm down and talk this thing over reasonably. We’ve gotten our wires crossed somewhere.”

“Have we?” Hardy said, still dubious. “Okay, go ahead. Explain.”

“No, you explain. Wait. We can take turns asking each other questions. You go first.” He stared at his toy. He could have sworn there’d been two children on it.

“What’s this about your partner?” Hardy said.

“That’s what I was going to ask you.”

“I don’t know what kind of a stupid game you’re . . .”

The screen went dead.

Murdock looked at it without surprise. He activated the intercom.

“The phone just went dead,” he said. “Will you call TPC and . . . hello? Are you there? Is this thing working?”

No answer.

He went to the door and opened it. The outer office was empty. He crossed the room and jerked open the hall door. A flash of blue. Long tanned legs. It was his secretary. He thought it was her, but they all looked so damned much alike. She was getting into an elevator. He waved at her and ran down the corridor.

“Hey!” he yelled, wishing he knew what her name was. “Hey, wait!”

She waved back. “Hey, hon!”

And the elevator doors closed.

He pushed the button for the other elevator. It arrived quickly, full of Xeroxed blond, leggy, tanned young girls talking and giggling among themselves. He squeezed in and pressed L. The cab went up. Slowly, stopping at every floor.

At last it was empty. No more girls. His feelings on that were mixed; he wasn’t sure whether he should be happy or not. He jabbed at the L again and noticed below it a switch labeled

MANUAL OVERRIDE

He threw the switch and the elevator began to descend.

It went nonstop to the lobby and he let go of the switch. The doors slid back and showed him the plastic jungle of the Mall. He stepped out and glanced around, looking for his secretary. He saw people, legs, sunburnt arms, blondes (have more fun because there are more blondes than anybody else), a teleview camera crew, a bronzed man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a grim expression while a small monkey chittered on his muscular shoulder, and where was his secretary? She was the one in the blue bikini, but he couldn’t see her. He rushed across the lobby toward the Mall entrance. Maybe he could catch up with her in the parking lot.

He dashed through the air-curtain and collided with the blackbearded white-robed cop.

LISTEN, CHILDREN!

Big black letters swooping wildly overhead as the two of them tottered together . . . then they went over in a confused heap. There was a sound of snapping elastic . . . the black beard of the prophet was torn away ... it flopped onto the concrete like a small limp animal. Murdock hazily expected it to scurry off to its burrow or whatever.

“You’re under arrest!” the cop shouted, writhing under Murdock’s weight. “Now get the hell off me before I charge you with attempted rape!”

Murdock finally managed to convince the police that he was a respectable businessman who sought nothing more from his life than to bring increased happiness and prosperity to beautiful peaceful Punta Gorda. Once they came to accept this, they began to listen more sympathetically to his story. His status changed subtly from that of a suspect to that of a citizen. By the time he’d told it all, they were shaking their heads in sympathy.

Two things were now obvious to them. Murdock meant only good toward their city and he’d lost someone. His partner or his secretary; possibly both. The sergeant had no doubts as to what had happened to those two. It happened all the time in romantic, sun-drenched, moon-washed Florida. There was a simple, realistic and officially approved solution: pass it along to another department.

He sent Murdock upstairs to the Bureau of Missing Persons.

The office of the BMP was a whitewashed cinder-block cubicle filled with papers. File cabinets overflowed with them. Wire baskets spilled them onto the floor. A gigantic desk threatened to crumble under their weight. There were boxes and piles and shelves of them. Papers. If there was an order to them, Murdock couldn’t see it.