Дэймон Найт - Orbit 8

“Us?” If I hadn’t known his thoughts, I’d have sworn Mayson was genuinely surprised.

“Why not? I could do with your bunks for a while. Computers are expecting two girls from the Department of Paris, and we’re a bit stuck. Send Stores a list of the things you’ll need, and I’ll recommend you for Orange Disks.” I caught Mayson’s triumphant glance. “But you won’t get any transport off the regular routes, so travel light.”

He waved us away and picked up the phone. “Computers? About those two girls, Stevens—”

A week later, hung over and sore from our injections, we plunged into the inferno of the morning shopping ration. The long-delayed One-Way (Streets) Bill was expected to be passed at the next reading. And not before time.

The shoppers who, struggling and cursing, filled the wide streets were nearly all women, wearing Yellow Disks marked “Housewife. Wed. Shift 1.”

Mayson had done some homework, and we were in period costume: trousers, shirts, socks and hooded jackets, all of natural cotton, and leather shoes. The trousers would protect our legs against thorns, insects or snakes, he said, and the natural materials would be better than synthetics in a hot, humid atmosphere. On our backs were knapsacks containing water, food and other necessities—these were anybody’s guess—and the guns hung from our shoulders by straps. On our chests were the Orange Disks, bearing our photographs and the legend “Urgent Priority at All Times.” They were valid for a year and were literally priceless.

Thanks to the Disks, we made good speed. They took us through, instead of around, the Parks, and to the front of every queue at both Airstrips, and enabled us to stand by the windows for the whole of the two-hour flight. We saved at least a week by simply ignoring the customs queue, and nobody dared challenge us.

At the other end the driver of an orange garbage-wagon spotted our Disks and picked us up. He used his siren to good advantage and was able to speed up during the comparative lulls between the Workers’ and Shoppers’ travel shifts. He dropped us within sight of the hills, having saved us many days of battle.

Less than a month after leaving the Ministry we flourished our Disks at the gate in the wall behind the last housing block. The guard saluted and let us through.

At last we sat resting on the cold hilltop, exhausted from the climb and uneasily aware of the unfamiliar space and quietness. Below us lay the valley, its treetops shimmering in the sunshine. I realized that we need no longer stay so close together, and self-consciously moved away, suddenly irritated by Mayson, who was already busy calculating the area of the valley.

I think it was here that I lost the camera. I remember photographing the contrasting views before and behind, and the next day it was missing. The loss seemed trivial at the time. We had the packets of old-fashioned paper notebooks and pencils which Stores had dug out of the Ministry basement (the fewer gadgets, the fewer technical hitches), and these would be adequate for collecting the notes and diagrams which would be of more interest to Phillips than the scenery, when translated into potential bunk space.

We followed a spring which cascaded down to a small lake, emerging as a stream that, ignorant of its destiny when it should pass beneath the Wall of Civilization into an underground reservoir, meandered peacefully along the valley, overhung by trees. We should not be able to wander far from its banks at first, because the floor of the forest was covered by dense undergrowth, and we had brought no hatchets. In time, the bulldozers would make short work of this problem.

When we came to a break in the trees we cleared a small area, using knives and branches, and camped for the night. After supper, Mayson worked by torchlight for an hour or so and then, with a muttered “Good night,” turned in.

But I sat with my back to a tree, far into the hot, damp night, idly waving the insects away, and savoring for the first time in my life the peace, and the sounds and scents of the wild: bird calls, the chattering of monkeys, the scuffling of small night creatures, the smell of foliage and moist earth. No doubt there would be snakes—perhaps dangerous. I had once been allotted a Zoo Disk, and an indescribable emotion possessed me as I contrasted this solitude and freedom with the plight of the animals crouching mournfully in their three-tiered cages at home. It occurred to me that the whole world must have been like this before man had destroyed it with the spread of his teeming millions. Suddenly lonely, and frightened by the unquiet forest, I huddled into my blanket and slept.

* * * *

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mayson’s voice shattered the peace of the dawn. He grabbed his water flask (replenished by courtesy of the Orange Disks at the last block before we reached the Wall) and cuddled it as though it were his only child.

I continued to empty mine over a bush and nodded toward the stream. “That’s fresher.”

“You’re nuts. It hasn’t been purified.”

“It’s never been polluted. And in a few days we shan’t need these anymore.” I indicated the plastic containers full of synthetic food concentrate. “We’ll make some paths, find edible plants. And we can catch animals for meat.”

It’s funny, but I never thought of using the guns for hunting. My mind was set on the idea that they were for whatever unimaginable emergencies Mayson had envisaged when he insisted on bringing them.

He stowed his food and water into his knapsack, and closed it elaborately. “Oh well, if you want to poison yourself with natural food, stinking with bacteria—”

I grabbed his arm. “Sh! Look! Over there.”

I must have been looking at it through the trees for some time without seeing it, so perfect was its camouflage. Elegantly draped over a low branch thirty yards or so from the stream was the most glorious creature I had ever seen: a huge cat, as big as a lion, but colored in black and gold stripes which blended harmoniously with the shafts of morning sunlight slanting into the forest. Its underparts were a vivid white. It lay relaxed, eyes half-closed, a poem of grace, dignity and serenity.

“A tiger! A living tiger!” I breathed. I would have sent the whole civilized world to perdition for the camera.

It is not generally known that there were at one time many species of cat. The only surviving members of this once numerous family were the so-called domestic cat, formerly a popular pet, now a pest, which had successfully defied all attempts at extermination, and the lion, which, being gregarious, lazy and friendly to man, is easily tamed and thrives in captivity. The others, solitary and independent, failed to adapt to close confinement and ceased to breed. Though the leopard was the fiercest, the most beautiful of the wild cats was the tiger, the last of which died in London Zoo early in the twenty-first century.

Nevertheless, a tiger this undoubtedly was—a “living fossil.” You may have seen films, or museum exhibits, of tigers, but these could give you no idea of the shining glory and awe-inspiring presence of the living animal.

Mayson had seen it now. His face wore the bleak, let’s-get-it-over-with expression that I had begun to hate. He went over and picked up his gun.

“Put that down,” I said. “And for God’s sake keep still, or you’ll frighten it.”

He examined the mechanism of the safety catch. “We’ll have to take it back with us. It’ll be the scoop of the century.”

I planted myself between the gun and the tiger. “Look, Mayson, you can’t mean that. You couldn’t do it. And anyway, we’ve no equipment for taking it over the mountain dead or alive.”