Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

In the midst of the stacks sat a small harassed clerkish-looking man with a black, pencil-thin mustache on his upper lip. It wiggled like a starved caterpillar when he spoke.

“Yeah?”

“I was sent up here by the desk sergeant,” Murdock said. “He told me you could help me.”

“I can’t. Who’s missing?”

“My partner.”

“No shit? Yours too? It’s an epidemic. Bristol—that’s my partner—he’s gone. We’ve been trying to locate him for a week and a half now. The clerk stood up and made a sweeping gesture at the desk. A small pile of papers and photographs were swept to the floor. “You see this mess? Just look at it! Day after day thousands of missing person reports come into Florida. They’re filed from every state in the Union. Even this one. It seems like people are always running away, dropping out of sight. Have you noticed that?”

“Yes,” Murdock started. “I . . .”

“And you know where they end up?”

“No,” Murdock said. “I . . .”

“Half the time, they don’t. I have all these photographs and all these damn forms, descriptive forms, mind you, and they’re all catalogued and numbered and lettered and stamped and you know what’s wrong with them?”

Murdock shook his head.

“They don’t say which goes with what! I don’t know. You know who knows?”

“Who?”

“Bristol. He has a system. But the only person in the whole world who understands the Bristol System is Bristol and he hasn’t been in to work for a week and a half. We’ve been looking for him everywhere.” He stared at Murdock. “Now. Do you have a decent recent photograph of yourself? Full-face is best. Profile will do.”

“What?”

“For our files.”

“But I’m not missing.”

“Not now you’re not. But what about next week? Or even tomorrow? Or an hour from now?”

Murdock found the thought chilling. He put it out of his mind.

“Well, do you?” the clerk asked.

“Do I what?”

“Have a decent recent photograph of yourself? I haven’t got all day to fool around with you, mister.”

“I don’t. Its my partner I’m trying to find. Not me.”

“Stand over there. That’s right. Over against that blank wall.”

Murdock gave up and backed over to the barren stretch of cinder blocks.

The clerk opened a desk drawer. Papers tumbled in heaps to the floor. He opened another drawer and found what he was hunting for. It was a Swiftshutter camera with an automatic ellipse attachment, held together by a ragged piece of twine. Fondling it, he faced Murdock.

“Smile.”

Murdock tried one last time. “I just want. . .”

“Smile, goddammit!”

Murdock smiled.

The clerk pressed a stud. The camera clicked, growled, farted and clicked again. Flipping open the slide, the clerk pulled out a print. It smelled faintly of urine.

“Not bad,” he said. “Would you like copies made?”

“Sure, sure,” Murdock mumbled.

“Sixty-nine cents each. Here’s a form. Just enter the information in the spaces provided. Any lies will leave you open for a charge of perjury. That’s a very serious offense in this state. You have fifteen minutes to complete it, starting when I say go. Sit there.” He pointed to a school desk with a chair attached.

Murdock sat.

“Do you have a cryptostylus?” the clerk asked.

“No.”

“Here.” He held out the computer pen. “That’ll be one dollar.”

Murdock gave him the goddamn dollar.

The clerk unpocketed a turnip that looked like an old-fashioned railroad timepiece with a long thin golden chain. But it had too many studs. The clerk pressed one of the studs and the turnip began to tick. He put it to his ear, shook it and pressed another stud. It stopped ticking. Satisfied, he turned to Murdock.

“All right. Ready? Go!”

Murdock worked steadily but carefully, filling out the form to the loud tick-tick of the turnip.

“Time!” the clerk called out. “Are you finished?”

“I’ve been finished for five minutes.”

“Okay, wise guy, we’ll be checking this against. . .” The clerk looked at the form, his lips moving as he scanned it. His mustache did the prone “. . . the Georgia State Police records. You’ll be hearing from us.”

“Now will you help me find my partner?” Murdock said.

“Jesus Christ, mister,” the clerk said. “Have a heart, willya? I can’t even find my partner. I explained all that to you earlier. What’s his name?”

“Bristol?”

“Hey, that’s my partner’s name too!”

“I meant your partner,” Murdock said with a sigh.

“You’ve seen him?” the clerk asked eagerly.

“No.”

“Neither have I. And just look at this mess he left me with, the thoughtless bastard. Some people have no consideration.”

Murdock backed away. As he sidled toward the doorway, the clerk said, “You can expect those copies in two to three weeks.”

Murdock nodded and left.

“C.O.D!” the clerk yelled after him.

It wasn’t any use, Murdock thought. He felt infinitely weary. Nothing was of any use. He stepped into a public vidphone booth, slamming the door viciously behind him, and broke a nail punching 0 with his forefinger.

“Yes, sir?” the operator sneered at him.

“I want to put through a call to ...” He hesitated. It was right on the edge of his mind. Home . Yes. “. . . to Savannah, Georgia.”

“Your bug number, please?”

“What?”

“Your number. What number are you calling, please?” She gave him a faint smile and started to unbutton her blouse.

“MOrris 54692. Person-to-person to . . . to . . .” Hell, now he couldn’t even remember his wife’s first name. “To Mrs. S. Murdock.”

“One moment please,” the operator said. As she faded out of sight, he glimpsed a flash of blue. She was wearing a blue bikini top under the white blouse.

A One Moment Please sign appeared, slightly purple around the edges.

He waited.

The operator’s voice returned. The rest of her didn’t. The sign wavered, shimmering as the voice informed him, “We are ringing your party.”

The screen went dead.

He didn’t even bother trying again.

He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew one thing. He had to get home. Back to the familiar things he knew and loved. Back to whatever-her-name-was and the kids, whosis and whatsis. Back as quickly as he could. Fly back. If that pilot was still waiting for him at the airfield he could fly directly back instead of waiting for the morning flight tomorrow in Fort Myers.

If the pilot was waiting.

Murdock wasn’t counting on it.

His fingers worked frantically at the pentadodecahedron as he hurried to Loshun Mall. The bicycle was leaning against the wall where he’d left it. A parking ticket fluttered from the high handlebars.

He stared at the little white card, then ripped it off and tore it into quarters. He tore the quarters into dimes and dropped the change into a litter basket, then climbed onto the bike and pedaled like hell back to the airfield.

The Piper Yamacraw sat beside the candy-striped hangar, a large patient bird squatting on a barren nest. No one was in sight.

Murdock pedaled anxiously around the hangar. He found Dallas in back, playing quoits with the kid.

He swung off the bicycle and let it fall. His fingers strove into his pocket and fisted around the pentadodecahedron.

The pilot grinned amiably at him. “Back to Fort Myers now, Mr. Murdock?”

“Savannah!” he answered. “Can you fly me to Savannah?”