Дэймон Найт: Orbit 5

“He’s bred for brains,” Edna said patiently. “When they’re bred for brains you’ve got to put up with a lot.”

Melinda Patterson smiled a saccharine smile. “I just don’t know whether it’s worth it in the long run, putting up with all the mess.”

“Winston is going to get his Ph.D.” Edna saw she was losing them, and she went on quickly. “And next week he’s going to win the Bonanza contest, just you wait and see.”

She was sorry the minute she said it; the Bonanza contest was a kind of crossword puzzle and she didn’t know whether Winston was trained for that kind of thing, but she had laid Winston on the line and he was just going to have to follow through; maybe he would win and the prize money would make up for all the trouble he had given them. If Winston won they would all get their pictures in the papers together, and it would be a lot easier to be friends with Winston after that. They might even let him have his diddy back. As soon as the ladies left she told Winston about the contest and when he cried she tried to cuddle him, but he wouldn’t kiss her and she had to spank him. Then she got eight dictionaries, a thesaurus and that week’s Bonanza puzzle and sent him to his room.

He tried, he tried for days, and when they came to check on him at the end of the week he said: “It’s hopeless.”

Artie glowered. “Don’t you tell me what’s hopeless.”

“Look.” He made them read one of last week’s answers. THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE . . . and a four-letter word. “The answer is ROME because while there are many HOMES there is only one ROME.” He said, “See? It’s a hoked-up awbitwawy cheat.”

“Do the puzzle, Winston.”

“But it’s all chance.”

Artie shook him. “Don’t you tell me what’s chance.”

Evelyn Cartwright was the first on the phone when Winston didn’t win. “I just thought maybe he hadn’t entered,” she said in honeyed tones. Edna was grim. “He entered five hundred and seventy-eight times.”

“I.Q. one-sixty,” Evelyn Cartwright said with a musical snigger. “All that money down the drain.”

The guys in the shop laughed so hard that Artie came home early. “Kid just don’t know his place. I’m gonna make him learn his place.”

Edna thought maybe if she cut down on Winston’s rations it would sharpen his brains, so she put him on bread and water and a little fish: brain food, according to the books. Could she help it if some part of her insisted that she serve rich stews to Artie and the kids at the same time? Could she help it if determination hardened her heart so that she didn’t even watch Winston’s tiny, tortured face as the others devoured ice cream and sugar cookies, and fell on meatloaves like twenty-one-inch shells and devoured coconut custard pies?

Artie decided a little outdoor work would put Winston in trim and build his character too so he turned him over to Margie and Little Art for a couple of hours every afternoon; they tried to make him catch the ball and they made him run foot races and practice broad-jumping and Artie always let it go on a little longer than it should have because after all. the kid had to turn out a one-letter man, it was in the guarantee.

What killed them was, after all they’d paid for him he sniveled all the time, even after Edna let him hang up the snapshot of his father the professor and his mother the lady writer sunning at Biarritz; they had sent it in a letter reminding the Wazikis that the true parents were entitled to half of Winston’s future earnings, and it burned Artie so much that he tore it up and jumped up and down on the pieces and wouldn’t let Winston see it at all, not even the part where they sent their love. All that money, and Winston could hardly keep his mind on the dumbest questions; Edna’s next bridge gathering was a real washout, Winston cried the whole time, and all the ladies could talk about was how peaky he looked.

Artie thought maybe a Sane Mind in a Sound Body and from then on Winston slept on the screen porch for his health, they even let him have a blanket because it was kind of cold.

Artie’s birthday was coming up and he had taken so much guff from Freddy Kramer and the guys from the shop that he knew he had to show them, he would have a big beer party on his birthday, by that time Winston would be shaped up from the brain food and all that sleeping on the porch. He would have a big beer party on his birthday, he would get everybody greased and then he would have Winston come in and do his stuff. As it turned out they probably did drink too much, and maybe Artie did forget about Winston being outside for his constitutional, and maybe it was snowing by the time somebody remembered and they brought him in; maybe that’s why all he did was stand there in his romper suit with his knees knocking and his jaw set in his Hamlet look.

Or maybe it was just plain stubbornness; whatever it was, Artie gave him a cuff and said, “Okay, Winston, tell the guys about the Diet of Worms.”

“Yes, Mr. Waziki.”

Artie gave him a belt. “And call me Pop.”

“Yes, Mr. Waziki.”

Artie gave him another belt and he started off on the Diet of Worms but he only got out a couple of lines before his mind wandered or something and he began staring at some spot in a comer and when Artie prodded him he turned to Artie with his face flaming and a look that bordered on apology and said, “I’m sowwy. I f-forget.”

“What, forget.” Artie poked him harder because all the guys were laughing. “What forget?”

Winston was shaking pretty hard, his knees were knocking; nerves, probably, Artie decided; Winston said, “I j-just.”

“Awright, awright,” Artie said, because the guys were pushing him and Winston had better hurry up and do something. He tried to steer him into familiar territory: “Tell the gang about the Weimeraner dog.”

“Hell,” Freddy Kramer said, egging the other guys on. “I bet he can’t even add.”

“Yeah,” said somebody. “Big deal, Artie. What else did ya bring?”

Artie gripped Winston by the shoulders; the other guys were getting ugly and he had to do something quick. He shook Winston, hard, hissing, “Times tables. Give ’em the times tables.”

Winston just rolled up his eyes with an agonized, for-give-me look. His teeth were chattering so hard now that he couldn’t even talk. Still he made a brave beginning: “W-wun.”

“See,” Artie said quickly, “he’s about to give you the one-times.”

“The hell he is, look at him.”

Winston’s face was flaming now, his eyes feverish, and when Artie pressed him he couldn’t even talk. The guys were getting ugly and if Winston didn’t do something in a minute they were all going to walk out on his birthday party and Artie would be finished down at the shop.

“He's going to give you the times table” Artie said doggedly, and he kept on shaking Winston.

“Forget it, Artie.”

“Forget it hell.” They were all milling and fuming and he had to act fast so he picked Winston up by the sailor collar. “Back in a minute. I’m gonna teach him, I’m gonna teach him for once and for all.”

Then he took Winston upstairs and he got Edna’s silver hairbrush and turned him over his knee, muttering, “Gonna teach him a lesson,” and when he finally stopped spanking Winston he set him on his feet. Winston’s legs buckled and his eyes rolled back so all Artie could see was the whites. He kept on for a couple of minutes, trying to make Winston stand up or answer or something and after a while he got scared and went down and called Edna, noting only in passing that the guys must have gotten depressed, hearing Winston yelling and all, everybody was gone.