Дэймон Найт - Orbit 5

“It can’t be true,” Zinner said.

It struck Alyson as ironic that the astronomer, far from being elated now that observation had confirmed his hypothesis, was behaving as if in deep shock. He decided he would never be able to understand the scientific mind.

“Why can’t it be true?” Alyson asked.

“Oh, for all sorts of reasons,” Zinner said impatiently. “It would ball up the whole solar system.”

“But wasn’t this what you wanted?”

“Why yes . . . sure, only I never really believed it. I was just . . . kidding. I never meant for it to happen!”

The telephone rang.

“Doctor Zinner, for you,” the night assistant called from upstairs.

Zinner took it below. Most of the conversation was from the other end of the line. Occasionally the astronomer scribbled a number on the memo pad. When he finally hung up and turned from the phone, his face was blank.

“Well. . . how’d it go in the Rose Bowl?”

“Hundred was a shade under nine seconds.” “How’d the radar work?”

“All right.”

“Get the velocity?”

Zinner consulted the memo pad. “Hit thirty-seven at the halfway mark. Average was around thirty-three.”

“A full honest old-time hundred yards, then?”

Zinner didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied with the record. “How about a turn around the dome?” he said suddenly.

Alyson followed him through the door to the open balcony. There was a gentle breeze in the pines. Far below the lights of the valley shone faintly through the haze. After strolling around the dome, they stood in silence leaning against the railing, contemplating the red lights winking on the television towers.

Jupiter was the dominating object in the night sky. Gazing at it, Alyson wondered, is that a planet? another world up there? Or is it only part of a stage setting? A bright light shining through a hole in some canvas? Is it millions of miles away? Or so close I can almost reach out and touch it?

Zinner was the first to speak.

“Al, what’s real and what isn’t? How do we know when we’ve got something and when we haven’t? You fellows in Humanities know all about philosophy. Where do I go for the answers? Tell me what to do.”

“Tell you what to do?”

Alyson was thoughtful as he watched a meteor arch across the sky and fade away. After a moment he spoke.

Edna Waziki was beside herself by the time theirs came. She talked about nothing else for months after they put in the order and she sat by the window for hours, and when the truck finally pulled in to the drive she screamed a scream that brought the entire family on the run. The delivery man came to the door with a little traveling case, with a handle on top and holes poked in the end, and Edna giggled and the kids laughed and danced and jumped around while Edna’s husband Artie paid the driver and they jiggled uncontrollably while Artie fumbled with the catch.

“It says here his name is Winston,” Edna said, turning the card so Margie and Little Art could read the name. “Now step back, we don’t want to scare him all at once.”

Artie scowled into the suitcase. “Well where is the little bastard?”

“Artie, please.” Edna bent down, calling softly. “Tchum on, Winston, tchum on.”

Margie said, “Daddy, Daddy, I can see him.”

Little Art was poking a stick into the opening. “Daddy, Daddy, here he comes!”

“Damn foolishness,” Artie said, but he crowded around with his wife and children and they watched Winston come blinking into the light.

Margie gasped. “Oh Daddy, he’s teeny.”

“In he cute, oh, Artie, in he cute.”

Artie snorted. “He sure don’t look like much.”

“You can’t tell when they’re little like this,” Edna said. “But you just wait till he grows up!”

Margie was snickering. “Oh look, he made a puddle.”

“Of course he has, he’s nervous.” Edna swept Winston to her bosom. “Poor thing, you poor little thing.”

“Runt like that,” Artie said, “he’s never gonna come to anything.”

“Honey, didn’t you see his pedigree?”

“Oh Mama, he looks like a monkey.”

“Shh, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Here Winston, here Winston.” Little Art tried to make Winston take the stick.

“You leave him alone.” Edna held Winston protectively; Winston was crying.

“He won’t even take the stick.”

“He’ll take it,” Artie said ominously. “He better take it. Lord knows I paid enough.”

Edna hugged Winston protectively. “He’s upset. He’ll feel better when I clean him up.”

Artie accused her: “You said he was guaranteed.”

“He is guaranteed,” Edna said, taking Winston to the bedroom; in the door she turned and said defensively, “You’ll just have to wait, it all takes time.”

She spent about an hour on him and when she came out he was calmer, much quieter, and he had stopped crying; he even sat up at the table with them, brought to adult height by a stack of city telephone books. He was about four, small-boned and blond, with a little blue romper suit buttoned fore and aft and large brown eves which crackled with intelligence. He looked at them all in turn but he wouldn’t touch his dish.

“See that.” Artie said in exasperation. “Five thousand dollars and he won’t even touch his dish.”

“He’ll eat.” Edna said. “He just doesn’t know us vet.”

“Well he better get to know us. Five thousand dollars down the drain.”

“It’s not down the drain,” Edna said; she was getting too upset to talk. “He’ll make us proud, you just wait.”

Freddy Kramer came in just then, to pick Artie up for bowling. “So this is it,” he said, giving Winston the onceover.

“First family on the block to have one,” Artie said, with dawning pride. “I guess you might call it a kind of a status symbol.”

“Don’t look like much.”

“You ought to see his pedigree.” Looking at Freddy, who would never be able to afford one, Artie allowed himself to be expansive. “Lady writer and a college professor. Eye Q. a hundred and sixty, guaranteed.”

Edna stroked Winston’s fine blond hair. “Winston’s going to college.” It pleased her to see that Artie was smiling.

“Kid’s gonna get his Ph.D.”

Edna took Artie’s hand under the table, saying in a low voice, “Oh Artie, you are glad. I knew you would be.”

Freddy Kramer was looking at Winston with a look bordering on naked jealousy. “What gave you the idea?”

“Edna seen the ad.” Artie went all squashy; Edna was massaging his knee. “And anything my baby wants . . .”

“You won’t be sorry, Artie. Winston’s gonna major in physics. He might even invent the next atomic bomb.”

Freddy’s lips were moving; he seemed to be figuring under his breath. “How big of a down payment would they want?”

“Depends on the product,” Edna said.

“Now this one,” Artie said, slapping Winston’s shoulder, “this one’s gonna support us in our old age. Ph.D. and one-letter man guaranteed. He might get our name in the papers, according to the ad.”

Edna said vaguely, “There’s something about a Guggenheim.”

Winston started crying.

“Why Winston, what’s the matter?”

“Little Art kicked him,” Margie said.

“Well you kids keep off him until you learn to play with him nice.”

“You can’t get ’em like this no more,” Artie was saying to Freddy Kramer. “Parents had ten and retired to Europe on the take.”