Дэймон Найт - Orbit 9

When Maud said good-bye at the portal, Darrel and Errol fell on each other’s necks and cried. Mary was trying to be brave, but she had long since retreated behind sunglasses and wouldn’t speak for fear of losing control.

Anderson said, “Why won’t they tell us more? Why can’t we come in to watch?”

“You’ll see me,” Maud said. “I’ll light up the sky.”

“Oh, Maudie, I don’t think we ought to let you go.”

“Good-bye dear,” she said, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

Looking over his shoulder, she wondered why nobody else seemed suspicious, why none of the valedictory relatives had asked for any more details, and she understood that nobody cared. Her shipmates were going through the gate quickly, carried along by their families. Sons and daughters and nephews and nieces and grandchildren and a few great-grands were propelling all the old men and women toward the gate, moving inexorably even as they showered farewell hugs and kisses and repeated demands to write. She saw that the old people went uncertainly, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and hope, and she detached herself from her own group quickly, kissing each in turn, and then drew a deep breath at the portal and went inside.

An old man tottered next to her, carrying a cardboard suitcase. “We’re going to be young again,” he said. “They promised.”

A twisted little woman no older than Maud turned to him with an expression of profound bitterness. “Don’t be so sure.”

Somebody else said, “It doesn’t matter. Anything’s better than what we have.”

Maud said gently, “We’re going to see the stars.”

“Stars, hell.” Maud recognized a man whose children had pushed him forward and fled before he even reached the gate. “All I wanted was out of there.”

Someone was crying. “Oh, oh, there are too many of us.”

Looking ahead, Maud saw that their group was not alone. There must have been thousands of people in their seventies and eighties all coming from different portals, all converging on the ship; they came with satchels and handbags and canvas duffel bags and ancient, wheezing dogs and bird cages with scraggly parakeets, with balls of string and old clippings and pipes and syringes, all the paraphernalia of old age; they came in panama hats and antiquated lace dresses and one or two wore World War I uniforms, shuffling along with leg-bindings flapping and once-sleek coats hanging on their inadequate frames; they came out of despair and apprehension, with their eyes glazed and their lips slightly parted in hope.

There were almost too many of them for the ship; it loomed, some ten blocks high, and if they did all fit, they would never make it off the ground. She looked at the ship and then looked about her at the field of aging folk and she faltered, because she understood.

A strong hand closed on her elbow. “We want you to give a farewell speech from the gantry.” It was the lieutenant. “We’re very honored to have you aboard, Mrs. Constable.” He took a hasty look around. “And we’re counting on you to make this the kind of occasion it ought to be.”

“Yes,” Maud said. “You mean I am the Judas goat.”

“We have to get them on the ship somehow,” he said and then covered his mouth.

She knew perfectly well what would happen; it was a disposal operation, she could tell from the naked look on the captain’s face, the cynical expressions of the crew who bustled around in white coveralls, collecting the old people like cowboys making a cattle drive. She would get to give her speech from the gantry and then they would all load; there might be a Trumpet Voluntary or a chorus of the “Stars and Stripes Forever” before blastoff and then the rocket would explode on the gantry with all hands aboard and the nation would say, How sad, and heave a sigh of relief.

She knew what she could do: she could rise to the platform and cry out Beware, or Help; she could alert the whole nation, they would come to save her and all the others from an ignominious death. She thought of Emerson: would he come? Would they? She realized she had known, she had known from the beginning that she would never get off the ground, and so had some of the rest of them; the outside world may have known it too, perhaps they had known it all along. Considering, she looked at the others rustling about her and she became aware of all their fatigue, their infirmities, the miseries of age and all their accumulated pain, and she hesitated only a second before she looked the lieutenant in the eye and said, “Very well.”

Standing between two major generals on a platform draped with bunting, Maud gave a beautiful little speech for Darrel and Errol and Anderson and Mary and all the others who were watching, and especially for all the old people clustered about her feet. For everybody’s sake she had to make a graceful exit: her speech would be read into the Congressional Record , and in homes all over the nation the great television audience found itself dabbing at its eyes. About her, the old people surged toward the loading platform; now their eyes were bright with hope and they would board the ship with pride.

When Maud had finished she made a small bow: a prayer? and stepped inside.

She could hear all the others behind her, chittering and sighing, but she had no time to speak to them; she had work to do. Instead she withdrew inside herself, sitting docilely where the crewmen put her, obediently setting her arms into the clamps so they could strap her down. She would be dead within the hour, they would all be dead, but she was after all a poet and she would give her remaining minutes to composing the second, the final canto of her never-to-be-published deathsong, a longer narrative poem which she had tentatively titled “Across the Bar.”

My offices are under the tidal-wave breaker wall. I know, that’s an unsavory and unsafe part of Newton. I was trapped there once for three tides after a really large earthquake smashed the wall and laid several tons of rubble over the walkdown to my rooms. On the other hand, having my offices there gives prospective clients the deliciously naughty feeling that they are dealing with the underworld. Then, when they see how solidly luxurious my offices are, they think that besides being a sinister figure, I am also a successful one.

When the girl knocked on my door, I was deep asleep on the pallet behind my desk—considering how much money I spend on those rooms, I can’t afford to sleep anywhere else. I staggered up and walked to the door, swearing at myself for having let my receptionist go three tides earlier: for obvious reasons, there isn’t much market for industrial spies during the Science Fair.

Even the city police corporation relaxes during the Fair, so I couldn’t guess who my visitor might be. I opened the door.

Vision of visions! Large, soft eyes looked at me over a pertly turned nose and full moist lips. Her satiny skin glowed a deep, even infra, marking out firm, ripe curves. There was a lot to see, since her only clothing was a brief pair of rear leggings.

She was young and nervous. “You are Leandru Ngiarxis bvo-Ngiarxis?”

I smiled. “To the wide world, yes—but you may call me Ndruska.”

She stepped inside. “Why do you keep it so dark in here?”

I wasn’t about to tell her that she’d caught the master industrial spy asleep. So I lowered my head and ogled up at her. “The maiden glow of your skin is more than sufficient light for me.”

She blushed bright infra from her shoulders up and tried to sound tough when she said, “See here, Ngiarxis, it’s unpleasant enough to do business with someone of your sort. Please don’t make it any worse by, by starting immoral advances.”