Дэймон Найт: Orbit 7

Martie rubbed his head, searched his desk for aspirin and didn’t find any. Slowly he reached for the phone, then dialed Sandy, his information girl. “See what we have on tap about weather-related illnesses, honey. You know, flu, colds, pneumonia. Stuff like that. Hospital statistics, admittances, deaths. Closings of businesses, schools. Whatever you can find. Okay?” To the picture on his desk, he said, “Satisfied?”

Julia watched the Hilary Boyle show at six thirty and afterward had scrambled eggs and a glass of milk. The weather special at ten explained Martie’s delay, but even if there hadn’t been the special to whip into being, transportation had ground to a stop. Well, nothing new there, either. She had tried to call Martie finally, and got the recording: Sorry, your call cannot be completed at this time. So much for that. The baby cried and cried.

She tried to read for an hour or longer and had no idea of what she had been reading when she finally tossed the book down and turned to look at the fire. She added a log and poked the ashes until the flames shot up high, sparking blue and green, snapping crisply. As soon as she stopped forcing her mind to remain blank, the thoughts came rushing in.

Was it crazy of her to think they had killed her two babies? Why would they? Who were they? Weren’t autopsies performed on newborn babies? Wouldn’t the doctors and nurses be liable to murder charges, just like anyone else? These were the practical aspects, she decided. There were more. The fear of a leak. Too many people would have to be involved. It would be too dangerous, unless it was also assumed that everyone in the delivery room, in the OB ward, in fact, was part of a gigantic conspiracy. If only she could remember more of what had happened.

Everything had been normal right up to delivery time. Dr. Wymann had been pleased with her pregnancy from the start. Absolutely nothing untoward had happened. Nothing. But when she woke up, Martie had been at her side, very pale, red-eyed. The baby is dead, he’d said. And, Honey, I love you so much. I’m so sorry. There wasn’t a thing they could do. And on and on. They had wept together. Someone had come in with a tray that held a needle. Sleep.

Wrong end of it. Start at the other end. Arriving at the hospital, four-minute pains. Excited, but calm. Nothing unexpected. Dr. Wymann had briefed her on procedure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Blood sample, urine. Weight. Blood pressure. Allergy test. Dr. Wymann: Won’t be long now, Julia. You’re doing fine. Sleep. Waking to see Martie, pale and red-eyed at her side.

Dr. Wymann? He would have known. He wouldn’t have let them do anything to her baby!

At the foot of the stairs she listened to the baby crying. Please don’t, she thought at it. Please don’t cry. Please. The baby wailed on and on.

That was the first pregnancy, four years ago. Then last year, a repeat performance, by popular demand. She put her hands over her ears and ran back to the fireplace. She thought of the other girl in the double room, a younger girl, no more than eighteen. Her baby had died too in the staph outbreak. Sleeping, waking up, no reason, no sound in the room, but wide awake with pounding heart, the chill of fear all through her. Seeing the girl then, short gown, long lovely leg climbing over the guard rail at the window. Pale yellow light in the room, almost too faint to make out details, only the silhouettes of objects. Screaming suddenly, and at the same moment becoming aware of figures at the door. An intern and a nurse. Not arriving, but standing there quietly. Not moving at all until she screamed. The ubiquitous needle to quiet her hysterical sobbing.

“Honey, they woke you up when they opened the hall door. They didn’t say anything for fear of startling her, making her fall before they could get to her.”

“Where is she?”

“Down the hall. I saw her myself. I looked through the observation window and saw her, sleeping now. She’s a manic-depressive, and losing the baby put her in a tailspin. They’re going to take care of her.”

Julia shook her head. She had let him convince her, but it was a lie. They hadn’t been moving at all. They had stood there waiting for the girl to jump. Watching her quietly, just waiting for the end. If Julia hadn’t awakened and screamed, the girl would be dead now. She shivered and went to the kitchen to make coffee. The baby was howling louder.

She lighted a cigarette. Martie would be smoking continuously during the taping. She had sat through several tapings and knew the routine. The staff members watching, making notes, the director making notes. Hilary Boyle walked from the blue velvet hangings, waved at the camera, took his seat behind a massive desk, taking his time, getting comfortable. She liked Hilary Boyle, in spite of all the things about his life, about him personally, that she usually didn’t like in people. His self-assurance that bordered on egomania, his women. She felt that he had assigned her a number and when it came up he would come to claim her as innocently as a child demanding his lollipop. She wondered if he would kick and scream when she said no. The cameras moved in close, he picked up his clipboard and glanced at the first sheet of paper, then looked into the camera. And the magic would work again, as it always worked for him. The X factor.

A TV personality, radiating over wires, through air, from emptiness, to people everywhere who saw him. How did it work? She didn’t know, neither did anyone else. She stubbed out her cigarette.

She closed her eyes, seeing the scene, Hilary leaving the desk, turning to wave once, then going through the curtains. Another successful special. A huddle of three men, or four, comparing notes, a rough spot here, another there. They could be taken care of with scissors, Martie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, mooching along to his desk.

“Martie, you going home tonight?” Boyle stood in his doorway, filling it.

“Doesn’t look like it. Nothing’s leaving the city now.”

“Buy you a steak.” An invitation or an order? Boyle grinned. Invitation. “Fifteen minutes. Okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Martie tried again to reach Julia. “I’ll be in and out for a couple of hours. Try it now and then, will you, doll?”

The operator purred at him. He was starting to get the material he had asked Sandy for: hospital statistics, epidemics of flu and flu-like diseases, incidence of pneumonia outbreaks, and so on. As she had said, there was a stack of the stuff. He riffled quickly through the print-outs. Something was not quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Boyle’s door opened then, and he stacked the material and put it inside his desk.

“Ready? I had Doris reserve a table for us down in the Blue Light. I could use a double Scotch about now. How about you?”

Martie nodded and they walked to the elevators together. The Blue Light was one of Boyle’s favorite hangouts. They entered the dim, noisy room, and were led to a back table where the ceiling was noise-absorbing and partitions separated one table from another, creating small oases of privacy. The floor show was visible, but almost all the noise of the restaurant was blocked.

“Look,” Boyle said, motioning toward the blue spotlight. Three girls were dancing together. They wore midnight-blue body masks that covered them from crown to toe. Wigs that looked like green and blue threads of glass hung to their shoulders, flashing as they moved.

“I have a reputation,” Boyle said, lighting a cigarette from his old one. “No one thinks anything of it if I show up in here three-four times a week.”

He was watching the squirming girls, grinning, but there was an undertone in his voice that Martie hadn’t heard before. Martie looked at him, then at the girls again, and waited.