Orbit 18 Read online

  Lottie pressed her hands hard over her ears. The bear was closing the gap; the cubs followed erratically, and now and again the mother bear paused to glance at them and growl softly. Clyde began to climb the face of the cliff. The bear came into view and saw him. She ran. Clyde was out of her reach; she began to climb, and rocks were loosened by her great body. When one of the cubs bawled, she let go and half slid, half fell back to the bottom. Standing on her hind legs, she growled at the man above her. She was nine feet tall. She shook her great head from side to side another moment, then turned and waddled back toward the blueberries, trailed by her two cubs.

  “Smart bastard,” Butcher muttered. “Good thinking. Knew he couldn’t outrun a bear. Good thinking.”

  Lottie went to the bathroom. She had smelled the bear, she thought. If he had only shut up a minute! She was certain she had smelled the bear. Her hands were trembling.

  The phone was ringing when she returned to the living room. She answered, watching the screen. Clyde looked shaken, the first time he had been rattled since the beginning.

  “Yeah,” she said into the phone. “He’s here.” She put the receiver down. “Your sister.”

  “She can’t come over,” Butcher said ominously. “Not unless she’s drowned that brat.”

  “Funny,” Lottie said, scowling. Corinne should have enough consideration not to make an issue of it week after week.

  “Yeah,” Butcher was saying into the phone. “I know it’s tough on a floor set, but what the hell, get the old man to buy a wall unit. What’s he planning to do, take it with him?” He listened. “Like I said, you know how it is. I say okay, then Lottie gives me hell. Know what I mean? I mean, it ain’t worth it. You know?” Presently he banged the receiver down.

  “Frank’s out of town?”

  He didn’t answer, settled himself down into his chair and reached for his beer.

  “He’s in a fancy hotel lobby where they got a unit screen the size of a barn and she’s got that lousy little portable . . .”

  “Just drop it, will ya? She’s the one that wanted the kid, remember. She’s bawling her head off but she’s not coming over. So drop it!”

  “Yeah, and she’ll be mad at me for a week, and it takes two to make a kid.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Butcher got up and went into the kitchen. The refrigerator door banged. “Where’s the beer?”

  “Under the sink.”

  “Jesus! Whyn’t you put it in the refrigerator?”

  “There wasn’t enough room for it all. If you’ve gone through all the cold beers, you don’t need any morel”

  He slammed the refrigerator door again and came back with a can of beer. When he pulled it open, warm beer spewed halfway across the room. Lottie knew he had done it to make her mad. She ignored him and watched Mildred worm her way down into her sleeping bag. Mildred had the best chance of winning, she thought. She checked her position on the aerial map. All the lights were closer to the trucks now, but there wasn’t anything of real importance between Mildred and the goal. She had chosen right every time.

  “Ten bucks on yellow,” Butcher said suddenly.

  “You gotta be kidding! He’s going to break his fat neck before he gets out of there!”

  “Okay, ten bucks.” He slapped ten dollars down on the table, between the TV dinner trays and the coffee pot.

  “Throw it away,” Lottie said, matching it. “Red.”

  “The fat lady?”

  “Anybody who smells like you better not go around insulting someone who at least takes time out to have a shower now and then!” Lottie cried and swept past him to the kitchen. She and Mildred were about the same size. “And why don’t you get off your butt and clean up some of that mess! All I do every weekend is clear away garbage!”

  “I don’t give a shit if it reaches the ceiling!”

  Lottie brought a bag and swept trash into it. When she got near Butcher, she held her nose.

  6 A.M. Sunday

  Lottie sat up. “What happened?” she cried. The red beeper was on. “How long’s it been on?”

  “Half an hour. Hell, I don’t know.”

  Butcher was sitting tensely on the side of the recliner, gripping it with both hands. Eddie was in a tree, clutching the trunk. Below him, dogs were tearing apart his backpack, and another dog was leaping repeatedly at him.

  “Idiot!” Lottie cried. “Why didn’t he hang up his stuff like the others?”

  Butcher made a noise at her, and she shook her head, watching. The dogs had smelled food, and they would search for it, tearing up everything they found. She smiled grimly. They might keep Mr. Fat Neck up there all day, and even if he got down, he’d have nothing to eat.

  That’s what did them in, she thought. Week after week it was the same. They forgot the little things and lost. She leaned back and ran her hand through her hair. It was standing out all over her head.

  Two of the dogs began to fight over a scrap of something and the leaping dog jumped into the battle with them. Presently they all ran away, three of them chasing the fourth.

  “Throw away your money,” Lottie said gaily, and started around Butcher. He swept out his hand and pushed her down again and left the room without a backward look. It didn’t matter who won, she thought, shaken by the push. That twenty and twenty more would have to go to the finance company to pay off the loan for the wall unit. Butcher knew that; he shouldn’t get so hot about a little joke.

  1 P.M. Sunday

  “This place looks like a pigpen,” Butcher growled. “You going to clear some of this junk away?” He was carrying a sandwich in one hand, beer in the other; the table was littered with breakfast remains, leftover snacks from the morning and the night before.

  Lottie didn’t look at him. “Clear it yourself.”

  “I’ll clear it.” He put his sandwich down on the arm of his chair and swept a spot clean, knocking over glasses and cups.

  “Pick that up!” Lottie screamed. “I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after you every damn weekend! All you do is stuff and guzzle and expect me to pick up and clean up.”

  “Damn right.”

  Lottie snatched up the beer can he had put on the table and threw it at him. The beer streamed out over the table, chair, over his legs. Butcher threw down the sandwich and grabbed at her. She dodged and backed away from the table into the center of the room. Butcher followed, his hands clenched.

  “You touch me again, I’ll break your arm!”

  “Bitch!” He dived for her and she caught his arm, twisted it savagely and threw him to one side.

  He hauled himself up to a crouch and glared at her with hatred. “I’ll fix you,” he muttered. “I’ll fix you!”

  Lottie laughed. He charged again, this time knocked her backward and they crashed to the floor together and rolled, pummeling each other.

  The red beeper sounded and they pulled apart, not looking at each other, and took their seats before the screen.

  “It’s the fat lady,” Butcher said malevolently. “I hope the bitch kills herself.”

  Mildred had fallen into the stream and was struggling in waist-high water to regain her footing. The current was very swift, all white water here. She slipped and went under. Lottie held her breath until she appeared again, downstream, retching, clutching at a boulder. Inch by inch she drew herself to it and clung there trying to get her breath back. She looked about desperately; she was very white. Abruptly she launched herself into the current, swimming strongly, fighting to get to the shore as she was swept down the river.

  Andy’s voice was soft as he said, “That water is forty-eight degrees, ladies and gentlemen! Forty-eight! Dr. Lederman, how long can a person be immersed in water that cold?”

  “Not long, Andy. Not long at all.” The doctor looked worried too. “Ten minutes at the most, I’d say.”

  “That water is reducing her body heat second by second,” Andy Said solemnly. “When it is low enough to produce unconsciousness . . .”

  Mi
ldred was pulled under again; when she appeared this time, she was much closer to shore. She caught a rock and held on. Now she could stand up, and presently she dragged herself rock by rock, boulder by boulder, to the shore. She was shaking hard, her teeth chattering. She began to build a fire. She could hardly open her waterproof matchbox. Finally she had a blaze and she began to strip. Her backpack, Andy reminded the audience, had been lost when she fell into the water. She had only what she had on her back, and if she wanted to continue after the sun set and the cold evening began, she had to dry her things thoroughly.

  “She’s got nerve,” Butcher said grudgingly.

  Lottie nodded. She was weak. She got up, skirted Butcher, and went to the kitchen for a bag. As she cleaned the table, every now and then she glanced at the naked woman by her fire. Steam was rising off her wet clothes.

  10 P.M. Sunday

  Lottie had moved Butcher’s chair to the far side of the table the last time he had left it. His beard was thick and coarse, and he still wore the clothes he had put on to go to work Friday morning. Lottie’s stomach hurt. Every weekend she got constipated.

  The game was between Mildred and Clyde now. He was in good shape, still had his glasses and his backpack. He was farther from his truck than Mildred was from hers, but she had eaten nothing that afternoon and was limping badly. Her boots must have shrunk, or else she had not waited for them to get completely dry. Her face twisted with pain when she moved.

  The girl was still posing in the high meadow, now against a tall tree, now among the wild flowers. Often a frown crossed her face and surreptitiously she scratched. Ticks, Butcher said. Probably full of them.

  Eddie was wandering in a daze. He looked empty, and was walking in great aimless circles. Some of them cracked like that, Lottie knew. It had happened before, sometimes to the strongest one of all. They’d slap him right in a hospital and no one would hear anything about him again for a long time, if ever. She didn’t waste pity on him.

  She would win, Lottie knew. She had studied every kind of wilderness they used and she’d know what to do and how to do it. She was strong, and not afraid of noises. She found herself nodding and stopped, glanced quickly at Butcher to see if he had noticed. He was watching Clyde.

  “Smart,” Butcher said, his eyes narrowed. “That sonabitch’s been saving himself for the home stretch. Look at him.” Clyde started to lope, easily, as if aware the TV truck was dead ahead.

  Now the screen was divided into three parts, the two finalists, Mildred and Clyde, side by side, and above them a large aerial view that showed their red and blue dots as they approached the trucks.

  “It’s fixed!” Lottie cried, outraged when Clyde pulled ahead of Mildred. “I hope he falls down and breaks his back!”

  “Smart,” Butcher said over and over, nodding, and Lottie knew he was imagining himself there, just as she had done. She felt a chill. He glanced at her and for a moment their eyes held —naked, scheming. They broke away simultaneously.

  Mildred limped forward until it was evident each step was torture. Finally she sobbed, sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

  Clyde ran on. It would take an act of God now to stop him. He reached the truck at twelve minutes before midnight.

  For a long time neither Lottie nor Butcher moved. Neither spoke. Butcher had turned the audio off as soon as Clyde reached the truck, and now there were the usual after-game recaps, the congratulations, the helicopter liftouts of the other contestants.

  Butcher sighed. “One of the better shows,” he said. He was hoarse.

  “Yeah. About the best yet.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed again and stood up. “Honey, don’t bother with all this junk now. I’m going to take a shower, and then I’ll help you clean up, okay?”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said. “I’ll be done by the time you’re finished. Want a sandwich, doughnut?”

  “I don’t think so. Be right out.” He left. When he came back, shaved, clean, his wet hair brushed down smoothly, the room was neat again, the dishes washed and put away.

  “Let’s go to bed, honey,” he said, and put his arm lightly about her shoulders. “You look beat.”

  “I am.” She slipped her arm about his waist. “We both lost.”

  “Yeah, I know. Next week.”

  She nodded. Next week. It was the best money they ever spent, she thought, undressing. Best thing they ever bought, even if it would take them fifteen years to pay it off. She yawned and slipped into bed. They held hands as they drifted off to sleep.

  THE HAND WITH ONE HUNDRED FINGERS

  One hundred fingers are too many, you say? No, just enough.

  R. A. Lafferty

  We are the folks esteemed and loved by nobody any more.

  We are the cloaked and veiled and gloved And we’re rotten to the core.

  —Rotten Peoples' Rollicks

  * * *

  1

  The Hand with One Hundred Fingers was pretty much in control of things then. It enhanced persons and personalities, or it degraded them, for money, for whim, or for hidden reasons. And what it did to them was done effectively everywhere and forever.

  Julius Runnymede had had several afflictions. He had a speech impediment; he was shy, he was inept, he was a bungler. Then, while he was still a young man, he inherited a medium-sized fortune. He decided to invest it in a new personality. He went to one of the leading firms of Person-Projectors, and they cured his disabilities almost immediately. His bungling and ineptitude and shyness and speech affliction were transmuted into assets. He became one of the finest orators in the Fourth Congressional District, and a bright future lay before him. All thanks to the Hand!

  The one hundred fingers of the Hand were the one hundred Person-Projector firms in their comprehensive union. They controlled all rulers of all countries, and all parliaments and congresses for the reason that they were able to manufacture presidents and premiers and prime ministers and assemblies (and other power groups behind the formal assemblies) out of common human material. And they were able to destroy as well as manufacture.

  Alice Jacoby was an aspiring young actress, but she had bad acting habits. She popped her eyes and she popped her teeth in the intensity of her theatrical emotions. Her voice was adenoidal, and were it not for its adenoidal element it would have been perfectly flat. She wasn’t pretty, and she surely wasn’t in any way compelling. She had about as much sex as a green watermelon.

  But there were at least two people who loved her and who knew that something drastic would have to be done for her. One of these was her father, who mortgaged his farm to help her. Another one was her uncle Jake Jacoby, who mortgaged his auction and cattle business.

  Alice paid the money to a firm of Person-Projectors, one of the hundred fingers of the Hand. The people-engineers of this firm enhanced her personality. And immediately Alice was in demand as an actress. She was known. Nearly everyone in the world had at least a subliminal and unconscious recognition of her.

  She still popped her eyes and her teeth when she tried to emote, but now these seemed to be enchanting gestures. Her voice was still adenoidal, but now it seemed to be ravishingly adenoidal. She still wasn’t pretty, but now she was compelling. And now she was as sexy as a fully ripe watermelon. All hail to the Hand again!

  There were three steps. First a person did not have certain advantages. Then the person seemed to have acquired them. And then it was learned that there was no difference between seeming to have special attributes and really having them.

  A person’s personality was plotted and planned. Then the personal or aura signature was attached to an updated and almost presentable electronic personality. This new electronic personality was set onto world television for only one-fiftieth of a second; but that was time enough to create a consensus and to give a resonance back. The weight of numbers of participating persons was most important in this. An unchallenged (and unconscious) world consensus of the electronic personality was formed. Oh,
there was a bit more to it than that, about a minute and a half more. If it were too simple, then everybody could set up in the Person-Projector business and reap fortunes.

  Well, if it worked for Alice Jacoby, why wouldn’t it work for everybody? It would, it would. Almost everybody who was able to raise a small or medium-sized fortune had now become a Corrected-Consensus-Projected-Personality. It worked for Wisteria Manford, it worked for Peter Hindman, it worked for Hector Gibbons. It worked for quite a few millions of persons, but it would be a distraction to list them all.

  The Person-Projectors brought down as many persons as they elevated (to give a proper balance to things), but the downfallen are hardly noticed at all. And everybody notices the uplifted.

  The century-long battle over the nature of reality is finished. The “Nature of Reality” lost. Reality is seen to be no more than a mirage, a heat-inversion false appearance. No one has ever really slaked his thirst in the bogus waters of reality. But almost everyone has imagined that he has. And the imagining is just as good. It was once said that subjectivity and objectivity were the opposite sides of the same coin. Now we know that they are the same reverse side of the same coin, and the face of the coin is blank.

  Reality is whatever enough people believe it is. Reality is a projected conditionality. And a person is exactly what the current, projected consensus of that person shows him to be. There is no more to it than that. It was noticed, more than a hundred years ago, that people in group pictures tend to look alike: that is to say, they become persons of a particular consensus. It was noticed that persons in crowds take on the look of that particular crowd; and that persons in demented or rabid crowds lose all individual characteristics and come to look almost exactly alike.

  Soon after these first realizations, a group of men (they were then believed to be a bunch of fox-faced phonies, but we now know that they were a noble assembly of the media lords themselves) undertook the creation and projection of artificial personalities. It was then believed that “artificial” and “natural” were somehow in opposition, which we now know to be untrue. This was a praiseworthy electronic manipulation which paralleled the genetic manipulation which began at about the same time. So, by introducing “new-data projection” to attach to certain persons, by using old-fashioned folk interaction newly directed, by employing feedback from that interaction, by adding the “coloration” technique, people could be stabilized into their true and valid forms. This would work for anything. Inanimate objects, and even the sun and the moon, could likewise be converted into new and clarified forms by these techniques: and they will be.