Дэймон Найт - Orbit 5

“I guess I am,” he said. “Like one?”

“Since it’s Saturday . . .”

It was cool in the house, much cooler than the patio, but the air was stale. He splashed the cheaper “guest” whisky into a glass and added a squirt of charged water.

“Is that your boy Paul’s?” When he came out again Russell was staring up at the treehouse just as he himself had been doing a moment before. Morris nodded.

“He built it on his own, didn’t he? I remember watching him climb up there with boards or something, with his little radio playing to keep him company.” He took the drink. “You don’t mind if I walk around and have a look at it, do you?”

Reluctantly Morris followed him, stepping over the beds of flame-toned, scentless florabundas Sheila loved.

The tree at the other side of the house gave too much shade for roses. There was nothing under it except a little sparse grass and a few stones Paul had dropped.

Russell whistled. “That’s way up there, isn’t it? Fifty feet if it’s an inch. Why’d you let him build it so high?”

“Sheila doesn’t believe in thwarting the boy’s natural inclinations.” It sounded silly when Morris said it, and he covered by taking another sip of the whisky.

Russell shook his head. “If he ever falls out of there he’ll kill himself.”

“Paul’s a good climber,” Morris said.

“He’d have to be to build that thing.” Russell continued to stare, craning his body backward. Morris wished that he would return to the patio.

“It took him almost two weeks,” Morris said.

“He swiped the lumber off the housing project, didn’t he?”

“I bought him some of it.” For an instant Morris had seen Paul’s small, brown head in one of the windows. He wondered if Russell had noticed it.

“But he swiped most of it. Two-by-fours and four-by-fours; it looks solid.”

“I suppose it is.” Before he could catch himself he added, “He’s got buckets of rocks up there.”

“Rocks?” Russell looked down, startled.

“Rocks about the size of tennis balls. Paul built a sort of elevator and hauled them up. He must have eight or ten buckets full.”

“What’s he want those for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, ask him.” Russell looked angry at having his curiosity balked. “He’s your kid.” Morris swallowed the last of his second drink, saying nothing.

“How does he get up there?” Russell was looking at the tree again. “It doesn’t look as if you could climb it.”

“He cut off some of the branches after he got the place built. He has a rope with knots in it he lets down.”

“Where is it?” Russell looked around, expecting to see the rope tangled in the tree’s branches somewhere.

It was bound to come out now. “He pulls it up after him when he goes in there,” Morris said. The Scotch was lying like a pool of mercury in his empty stomach.

“You mean he’s up there now?”

Neither of them had heard Sheila come out. “He’s been up there since Thursday.” She sounded unconcerned.

Morris turned to face her and. saw that she was wearing a quilted pink housecoat. Her hair was still in curlers. He said, “You didn’t have to get up so early.”

“I wanted to.” She yawned. “I set the clock-radio for six. It’s going to be hot in town and I want to be right there when the stores open.”

“I wouldn’t go today,” Russell said.

“I’m not going down there— I’m going to the good stores.” Sheila yawned again. Without makeup, Morris thought, she looked too old to have a son as young as Paul. He did himself, he knew, but Sheila usually looked younger to him; especially when he had had something to drink. “Did you hear about the National Guard, though,” she added when she had finished the yawn.

Russell shook his head.

“You know how somebody said they were shooting at everything and doing more damage than the rioters? Well, they’re going to protest that. I heard it on the radio. They’re going to hold a march of their own today.”

Russell was no longer listening. He leaned back to look at Paul’s treehouse again.

“Ever since Thursday,” Sheila said. “Isn’t that a scream?”

Morris surprised himself by saying, “I don’t think so, and I’m going to make him come down today.” Sheila looked at him coolly.

“How does he live up there?” Russell asked.

“Oh, he’s got a blanket and things,” Sheila said.

Morris said slowly, “While I was at the office Thursday he took blankets out of the linen closet and a lot of canned food and fruit juice out of the pantry and carried it all up there.”

“It’s good for him,” Sheila said. “He’s got his radio and scout knife and what not too. He wants to get away and be on his own. So let him. He’ll come down when he’s hungry, that’s what I tell Morris, and meanwhile we know where he is.”

“I’m going to make him come down today,” Morris repeated, but neither of them heard him.

When they went away—Sheila to start breakfast, Russell, presumably, to finish clipping his side of the hedge —Morris remained where he was, staring up at the treehouse. After two or three minutes he walked over to the trunk and laid a hand on the rough bark. He had been studying the tree for three days now and knew that even before Paul had lopped some of its limbs it had not been an easy tree to climb. Walking only a trifle unsteadily, he went to the garage and got the stepladder.

From the top of the ladder he could reach the lowest limb by stretching himself uncomfortably and balancing on the balls of his feet with his body leaning against the trunk. Suddenly conscious of how soft his palms had become in the last fifteen years, how heavy his body was, he closed his hands around the limb and tried to pull himself up. Struggling to grip the tree with his legs, he kicked the ladder, which fell over.

From somewhere below Russell said, “Don’t break your neck, Morris,” and he heard the sound of faint music. He twisted his head until he could see Russell, with a transistor radio clipped to his belt, righting the ladder.

Morris said, “Thanks,” gratefully and stood panting at the top for a moment before coming down.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Russell said.

“Listen,” Morris was still gulping for breath, “would you go up there and get him?” It was a humiliating admission but he made it: “You ought to be able to climb better than I can.”

“Sorry,” Russell touched his chest, “doctor’s orders.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Nothing serious, I’m just supposed to stay away from places where I might take a bad fall. I get dizzy sometimes.”

“I see.”

“Sure. Did you hear about the fake police? It came over our radio a minute ago.”

Morris shook his head, still panting and steadying himself against the ladder.

“They’re stripping the uniforms off dead cops and putting them on themselves. They’ve caused a lot of trouble that way.”

Morris nodded. “I’ll bet.”

Russell kicked the tree. “He’s your kid. Why don’t you just tell him to come down?”

“I tried that yesterday. He won’t.”

“Well, try again today. Make it strong.”

“Paul!” Morris made his voice as authoritative as he could. “Paul, look down here!” There was no movement in the treehouse.

“Make it strong. Tell him he’s got to come down.”

“Paul, come out of there this minute!”

The two men waited. There was no sound except for the tuneless music of the radio and the whisper of a breeze among the saw-edged leaves.

“I guess he’s not going to come,” Morris said.

“Are you sure he’s up there?”