Дэймон Найт - Orbit 7

“Martie?” Boyle stopped by him. “Want to talk to you. Half an hour over by the fence. Okay?”

Gregor left the circle finally and went straight to Julia. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly, keeping his gaze on her face. “My dear. Very impressive. So nihilistic. Did you realize how nihilistic it is? But of course. And proud, also. Nihilistic but proud. Strange combination. You feel that man almost makes it, this time. Did you mean that? Only one toe restraining him. Sad. So sad.”

“Or you can imagine that the circle starts with the devastation, the ruins, and the death of man. From that beginning to the final surge of life that lifts him from the origins in the dirt… . Isn’t that what you really meant to say, my dear?” Frances Lefever moved in too close to Julia, overwhelming her with the sweet, sickening scent of marijuana heavy on her breath. “If that’s where the circle begins, then it is a message of nothing but hope. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Gregor moved back a step, waving his hand in the air. “Of course, one can always search out the most romantic explanation of anything. …”

“Romantic? Realistic, my dear Dwight. Yours is the typical male reaction. Look what I’ve done. I’ve destroyed all mankind, right back down to the primordial ooze. Mine says, Look, man is freeing himself, he is leaping from his feet-of-clay beginnings to achieve a higher existence. Did you really look at that one? There’s no shadow, you know.”

Dwight and Frances forgot about Julia. They argued their way back to the circle, and she leaned weakly against the redwood fence and drank deeply.

“Hey. Are you all right, Julia?”

“Dr. Wymann. Yes. Fine. Great.”

“You looked as if you were ready to faint. …”

“Only with relief. They like it. They are fascinated by it. It’s enigmatic enough to make them argue about meanings, so they’ll both write up their own versions, different from each other’s, and that will make other people curious enough to want to see for themselves. …”

Dr. Wymann laughed and watched the two critics as they moved about the large stones, pointing out to one another bits and pieces each was certain the other had missed.

“Congratulations, Julia.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Oh, no. Not after real critics have expressed opinions.”

“Really. I’d like to know.”

Dr. Wymann looked again at the circle of stones and shrugged. “I’m a clod. An oaf. I had absolutely no art training whatever. I like things like Rodin. Things that are unequivocal. I guess I didn’t know what you were up to with your work.”

Julia nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I’m revealed as an ass.”

“Not at all, Dr. Wymann. I like Rodin too.”

“One thing. I couldn’t help overhearing what they were saying. Are you the optimist that the woman believes, or the pessimist that Gregor assumes?”

Julia finished off her champagne, looking at the goblet instead of the doctor. She sighed when it was all gone. “I do love champagne.” She smiled at him then. “The stones will give you the answer. But you’ll have to find it yourself. I won’t tell.”

He laughed and they moved apart. Julia drifted back inside the house to check the buffet and the bar. She spoke briefly with Margie Mellon, who was taking care of the food and drinks. Everything was holding up well. A good party. Successful unveiling. A flashbulb went off outside, then another and another.

“Honey! It’s really great, isn’t it? They love it! And you! And me because I’m married to you!”

She never had seen Martie so pleased. He held her close for a minute, then kissed each eyelid. “Honey, I’m so proud of you I can’t stand it. I want to strip you and take you to bed right now. That’s how it’s affected me.”

“Me too. I know.”

“Let’s drive them all off early… .”

“We’ll try anyway.”

She was called to pose by the circle, and she left him. Martie watched her. “She is so talented,” a woman said, close to his ear. He turned. He didn’t know her.

“I’m Esther Wymann,” she said huskily. She was very drunk. “I almost envy her. Even if it is for a short time. To know that you have that much talent, a genius, creative genius. I think it would be worth having, even if you knew that tomorrow you’d be gone. To have that for a short time. So creative and so pretty too.”

She drained a glass that smelled like straight Scotch. She ran the tip of her tongue around the rim and turned vaguely toward the bar. “You too, sweetie? No drink? Where’s our host? Why hasn’t he taken care of you? That’s all right. Esther will. Come on.”

She tilted when she moved and he steadied her. “Thanks. Who’re you, by the way?”

“I’m the host,” he said coldly. “What did you mean by saying she has so little time? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Esther staggered back from his hand. “Nothing. Didn’t mean anything.” She lurched away from him and almost ran the three steps that took her into a group of laughing guests. Martie saw Wymann put an arm about her to help hold her upright. She said something to him and the doctor looked up quickly to see Martie watching them. He turned around, still holding his wife, and they moved toward the door to the dining room. Martie started after them, but Boyle appeared at the doorway and motioned for him to go outside.

The doctor would keep, Martie decided. He couldn’t talk to him with that drunken woman on his arm anyway. He looked once more toward the dining-room doorway, then followed Boyle outside.

A picture or two, someone said. He stood by Julia, holding her hand, and the flashbulbs exploded. Someone opened a new bottle of champagne close by, and that exploded. Someone else began shrieking with laughter. He moved away from the center of the party again and sat down at a small table, waiting for Boyle to join him.

“This is as safe as any place we’re likely to find,” Boyle said. He was drinking beer, carrying a quart bottle with him. “What have you dug out?”

The waterfall splashed noisily behind them, and the party played noisily before them. Martie watched the party. He said, “The death rate, extrapolated only, you understand. Nothing’s available on paper anywhere. But the figures we’ve come up with are: from one million eight hundred thousand five years ago, up to fourteen and a quarter million this year.”

Boyle choked and covered his face with his handkerchief. He poured more beer and took a long swallow.

Martie waited until he finished, then said, “Birth rate down from three and a half million to one million two hundred thousand. That’s live births. At these rates, with the figures we could find, we come up with a loss per thousand of sixty-three. A death rate of sixty-three per thousand.”

Boyle glared at him. He turned to watch the party again, saying nothing.

Martie watched Julia talking with guests. She never had looked more beautiful. Pregnancy had softened her thin face, had added a glow. What had that bitch meant by saying she had so little time? He could hear Julia’s words inside his head: You’ll have to turn it over sooner or later. She didn’t understand. Boyle didn’t understand. Men like Whaite wouldn’t have repudiated a theory so thoroughly if there had been any merit whatsoever in it. It was myth only that said the science community was a real community. There were rivalries, but no corruption of that sort. The whole scientific world wouldn’t unite behind a lie. He rubbed his eyes. But how many of the scientists knew enough about biochemistry to form independent judgments? They had to take the word of the men who were considered authorities, and if they, fewer than a dozen, passed judgment, then that judgment was what the rest of the community accepted as final. Only the amateurs on the outside would question them, no one on the inside would think of doing so.