Orbit 9 Read online

  As he entered the terminal building, he sighted the sign above the National counter.

  NATIONAL

  in blue letters against a backlighted white background. The light was a fluorescent flicker. He strode toward it.

  Two people were in line ahead of him. A middle-aged man with a shining bald spot, wearing a black leather jacket, and a young sailor with three slanted parallel blue stripes on his white jumper.

  “Why can’t I go to Boston?” the middle-aged man was asking.

  “Because there are no flights scheduled to make that run,” the girl at the counter said, her voice a study in patience.

  “Why? There’s always been flights to Boston from here before. I make this trip twice a month for business reasons. I know there’s a regular Wednesday flight to Boston.”

  Murdock didn’t want to hear it, but the voices were loud and rising. He couldn’t shut them out.

  “All air traffic to Boston has been curtailed,” the girl said. “However, you may fly to Los Angeles if you wish.”

  “Why the hell would I want to fly to Los Angeles?” The man’s bald spot was beginning to flush.

  “It’s very nice there this time of the year,” the girl said. “Or so they claim.”

  The sailor turned to face Murdock. “You know what the Marine Corps symbol looks like?” he said.

  “I’m familiar with it,” Murdock admitted.

  “It’s a sea gull on an eightball with an anchor up its ass screaming ‘Go, Navy.’ I just spent five months on an LST with those mothers. All they did was sit around and fondle their guns.”

  “Rifles,” Murdock muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was in the Army myself.”

  “The Army.”

  “National Guard, actually.”

  The sailor looked disgusted. He turned away.

  “. . . goddamn airline!” the middle-aged man said. He strobed off, his bald spot flickering under the sign light.

  The sailor stepped up, leaned over the counter and kissed the girl soundly. She looked surprised but not at all displeased.

  “Worth waiting in line for,” the Seabee said. He glanced at Murdock and his lips twisted. He moved on down the line to the mob at the TWA counter.

  The girl in the National uniform gave Murdock a long unfocused look, then her warm smile became a professional one.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “My name is Murdock,” Murdock said, checking his watch. “I have a reservation on the next flight to Fort Myers.”

  “The ten forty-five. That’s Flight 666 to Jacksonville, Tampa, Fort Myers and Miami,” the girl said. She picked up a clipboard and scanned the top sheet on it. “Murdock?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you spell that, please?”

  He spelled it.

  “Em as in ‘mildew’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, your name isn’t here, Mr. Murdock.”

  “Let me see the list.”

  She held the clipboard to her chest and he stopped reaching.

  “Our passenger lists are confidential,” she said.

  “But my name has to be there. My wife called less than an hour ago. There were cancellations. She made a reservation for me. In the name of Murdock.”

  The girl took a step back and looked at the list again. She shook her head. “It’s really not here, sir. There isn’t a single cancellation on Flight 666. Every one of the seats is booked as far as Jacksonville. However, if you’d like to pick up the flight there . . .”

  “How can I get there?”

  She consulted another list, shook her head again. “I’m afraid Flight 666 is the only one that could get you there in time.”

  “Another airline?”

  “Unfortunately no one else has a flight out of here in time.”

  A line was queueing up behind him. He could feel their aura of impatience. He reached into his pocket for the monogrammed marble egg. It still wasn’t there. Searching aimlessly, he found a handkerchief and settled for dabbing at his forehead with that.

  “When’s the next scheduled flight to Fort Myers after Flight 666?” he asked.

  “Flight 666 tomorrow at ten forty-five.” She gave him a bright relieved smile. “Shall I reserve a seat for you?”

  “I’ve got to get there today.”

  The girl looked terribly sincere. “I’m really sorry, sir, but there’s been some difficulty between here and Florida.”

  “Hyperactive sunspots?”

  “Peripheral crosswinds. So there just aren’t any other flights besides 666 right now. Not from here, anyway.”

  His hand started for the empty pocket again. He stopped it as he remembered, passed it the handkerchief to keep it occupied.

  Sighing, he said, “I’ll wait. Maybe someone will cancel before the plane takes off.”

  “It’s goddamned unlikely anyone’ll cancel after the plane takes off,” said a weary voice behind him.

  He ignored it. “This is of tremendous importance to me, miss,” he said. “You have to understand that.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said the voice behind him.

  “I have your name, Mr. Mandrake,” the girl said. “If somebody cancels or fails to show, I’ll have you paged.”

  “Murdock,” he mumbled.

  His shoulders sagged. He walked slowly away from the counter.

  * * * *

  The vending machine dribbled out birch beers that were flat and iceless and it refused to give him his change. He gave it a few halfhearted kicks and it contritely fell over. It lay on its back disgorging shaved ice and gurgling to itself.

  A man wearing gray gabardine coveralls with

  VENDO

  stenciled over his left breast and

  HI! I’M JACKIE!

  over the right rushed up. He looked mad.

  “You know anything about this, buddy?” he asked Murdock.

  “No, sir.” Murdock wished the incriminating cup he was holding were elsewhere. He wished he were elsewhere. Home.

  “You didn’t see it happen?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” the serviceman said grimly. “Five times in one week is too often to be coincidence.” He gave Murdock a flinty stare. “I have the power to make a citizen’s arrest, you know.”

  Murdock didn’t know. But he nodded. He began to edge away, concealing the cup with his body.

  “The criminal always returns,” the man pronounced. “When he does, I’ll be here. Waiting!” Murdock nodded again.

  A sharp sound cut the air, jabbing at his nervous system. The public address speaker rattled something resembling his name in conjunction with Flight hiss-sizzle-hiss. He made it to the plane door just as it was closing. More than half the seats were empty. The hostess flashed an enameled smile at him and told him to sit wherever he wanted. He slid into the nearest seat and discovered he was over the wing. He couldn’t see the ground. Suddenly he wanted very badly to see the ground.

  He got up and took another seat aft of the wing. He gazed at battered cracking whitetop, thinking of the marble egg he’d put down on the coffee table and never picked up again. It was the fault of that damned pentadodecahedron. It had distracted him from more important things. He wondered vaguely what it was. Not that it mattered. He fastened his seat belt.

  It seemed forever before the plane finally came to life and taxied across the field.

  It reached the end of the runway, made a full turn and sat there, shuddering and grunting and not getting anywhere. The engines whined. The pitch rose. The intensity rose. The shuddering increased. The plane trembled and lurched. Then it began to roll. It picked up speed. Too fast, he thought. The ramp was too short. They’d crash into those blank gray buildings at the end of it.

  He shut his eyes.

  When he opened them ag
ain, he discovered the ground was far below. Too far. Getting farther away every moment. The plane lifted at a quick sharp angle.

  He struggled to pull himself together. His angle of vision widened as the plane lifted. He could see the city, the muddy red river along its edge, the grassy expanse of Hutchinson Island lying across from it. The red river became a ribbon winding through the flat gray-green of the marshes and the brighter green of the pine-covered islands. Small streams threaded through the green to join it. They twisted and writhed, cutting the land into small sharp-edged shards.

  Fascinating.

  It looked just like a map; just like that Coast and Geodetic Survey map he’d had when he was a kid. Where was it now?

  At home.

  Ahead, he could see the vast gray sea, discolored where the red river dumped its burden of mud. He realized that the long thin strip of land splitting the river near its mouth was Cockspur Island. The five-sided structure on the prow of the island must be Fort Pulaski. It was a National Monument of some kind. Something to do with Robert E. Lee, he thought. He should take the kids out there to see it sometime. He really should. Doctor Kirk’s book advised taking youngsters on educational and culturally inspiring field trips at frequent intervals.

  And then there was nothing under the plane but sea.

  No ground at all. Nothing visible through the window but the wing and the water and the white ice-crystal clouds glimmering in a stark blue sky. No ground at all. At that realization, he felt the pit of his stomach flinch. He wanted the ground. He wanted his home.

  He discovered a tugging. His hand was digging under the seat belt and into his pocket, looking for . . .

  His fingers touched a smooth, cool, comforting surface. Elated, they closed on it. He hadn’t left the egg after all. He’d simply overlooked it when he’d hunted before. That only proved how bad his nerves were getting. More calcium tablets. That was what he needed.

  The shape of the surface was wrong. Frowning, he brought the object out of his pocket. It chimed at him. He held it up and stared at the shining silvery facets of the thing.

  The figures of two children seemed to stare back.

  * * * *

  Landing in Jacksonville made his stomach queasy. Landing in Tampa was just as bad. But at least it was the last stop before Fort Myers. The plane lifted off again on the last leg of his trip.

  He worried about the pentadodecahedron as he watched land skim by below. They weren’t traveling as fast now as before, and they were lower. He could see a lot of detail in the landscape. Neatly trimmed lawns, precisely planted groves of fruit trees. Swimming pools shaped like oblongs, like ovals, like kidneys, like half moons and quarter moons and full moons. A pool in every backyard. And most of the backyards butted against canals.

  Money, he thought. Loads of money down there. Fortunes had been made already. And lost. Dammit, what had happened to . . . to . . . Jesus, he still couldn’t remember the bastard’s name.

  Beyond the vast fields of houses in bloom, he could see the rolling green of the Gulf. Thin spindly oil rigs latticed out of it a short distance offshore. A lean white yacht cut across it, catching his eye with its trim speed. It threaded between markers and anchored fishing boats, heading for a small bay.

  He recognized the curious shape of the bay and the twin rivers feeding into it. Charlotte Harbor, almost exactly the way it was on the maps back in his office. The town on its edge must be Punta Gorda.

  Why the hell didn’t the planes land here? It was absurd that he should have to go on to Fort Myers and then backtrack.

  Absurd.

  Something was going on in the Harbor. Barges like huge houseboats were anchored along the shallows between Pine Island and the mainland. Lengths of huge tubing on floats trailed across the water like surfaced eels. Plumes of pale mud gushed from their mouths, laying layers of sand along the shore. Dredges building dry land at the edge of the sea. Not far from the water draglines were cutting deep gashes into the earth. Ditches that were embryonic canals. A land project in its early stages. Pushing back the sea.

  His land project.

  It was his project; he was certain of it. He’d studied the maps too often. He knew the lines and contours of them too well. He couldn’t be mistaken. That was the land and water-righthe’d optioned. That was the land he was going to build as soon as the bulkhead rights were cleared.

  But someone was at work there already.

  He squinted to read the huge letters painted across the side of one of the dredges.

  EMERGENCE DEVELOPMENT, INC.

  It was even the company he’d contracted to do his work. But it was too soon. The bulkhead rights weren’t cleared yet. As far as he knew.

  What the hell had his partner been up to? What was going on? Had somebody jumped his claim, gotten away his option? Was that why whosis had gabbled about hard-boiled haddock? Afraid to face him and own up to it?

  He gripped the chiming pentadodecahedron, his thumb rubbing frantically at one facet. Wait until he got hold of . . .

  Whatshisname.

  Unless he was leaping to conclusions.

  The seat belt sign flashed on. The plane circled on. The field at Fort Myers was smaller than the one at Savannah, but then it had never served as a military base. It lay at the edge of town, alongside a broad straight stretch of highway. The plane circled wide. It cut back and swung in low and fast. Much too fast. Murdock gripped the arms of the seat. The plane touched down smoothly and taxied toward the small terminal building. Stopped.

  Passengers scrambled to their feet. They filled the aisles. Murdock found himself jammed in between two of them, a tall blond girl with one blue eye and one green eye, and a chubby Roman Catholic priest with a broken arm in a black clerical sling.

  They moved along past the hostess who handed each an orange, out the door and down the escaladder into the hot bright Florida sunshine. That day the opening market value on the sunshine had been 20.69 and rising.

  The air smelled of half-burnt jet fuel, scorched paving and salt marshes. Murdock crossed the concrete to the terminal building. Inside, the scent was the cool canned slightly musty odor of recycling air. He felt the thin film of sweat on his forehead chill as he walked past a blower. He rubbed at his face and wiped the hand off on a trouser leg as he hurried over to the long bank of vidphones.

  The red lights were burning; they were all in use.

  He stood there staring at the pleasingly patterned Translucetic booths and wished somebody would get the hell off the phone and give him a chance at it.

  An unshaven old man with a patch over one eye and grappa on his breath stopped in front of him and asked Murdock if he could for the love of God spare a quarter for a cup of coffee.

  “I gave at the office,” Murdock muttered.

  “Please,” the old man whined.

  “Here. Take this.” Murdock shoved the orange into the man’s open hand. “I need all my change for the phone.”

  “An orange! I’m overwhelmed,” the old man said. He walked away grumbling to himself.

  Finally one of the red booth lights blinked green and a door opened. A white-haired woman in a lavender and cerise sarong waddled out. Her mirror-lensed sunglasses turned toward Murdock. He saw himself reflected in them, tiny twin images bulging in their fishbowl convexities.

  She stood firm, blocking the door. With an anxious grunt he shoved past her bosom and into the booth. He jerked the door shut behind him. A dim light and a noisy fan cut on.

  Facing the blank screen, he thumbed a coin into the slot and punched 0.

  She was the first genuinely ugly vidphone operator he’d ever seen. For a moment he just stared at her in astonishment.

  “Your call, sir?” she said.

  At least her voice was pleasant. It reassured him.

  “Punta Gorda,” he told her. “Area Code B813, person-to-person to . . . make that station-to-station to DEsmond 69969, collect from Mr. Murdock.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Area Code B813
is temporarily out of service.”

  She smiled. Strong teeth.

  Like a mule, he thought. He almost asked her if she knew when service would be resumed. But, of course, she wouldn’t. He felt certain of that.

  Instead, he said, “All right. I’d like to put through a person-to-person call to Savannah, Georgia. Area Code J912, to Mrs. . .” He hesitated. It was right there. It was . . . “to Jean Murdock. Collect.”