Orbit 17 by Damon Knight

Author:Damon Knight
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2017-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

WHEN WE WERE GOOD

What are children for, anyway? (And if the answer is so obvious, why can’t you think of it right now?)

Dave Skal

On Friday my father beats me.

On weekends I play granddaughter to a jet-setting dowager, covering my quick-healing bruises with elegant frocks bought specially for the purpose. I spend Monday afternoons in church, giving comfort to men of the cloth who need assurance that all is well with youth. On Tuesdays I lend my services to a licensed child molester, and Wednesdays to a lower-class dyad, who treat me with all the respect befitting the size of their investment.

Thursdays are open.

Anything can happen today.

I wake early to the cold hostel, switch off the sleeper’s programmed tapes and hurry shivering into the lightbath adjacent to my cubicle. I close my eyes tightly and activate the unit, feeling the sudden blast of ultraviolet light, the ticklish Burry of dead skin. My body glows pinkly as I brush away the monomolecular flakes that remain. Like a chrysalis, or a snake shedding its skin. I recite an invocation silently and begin to dress, picking a work-skirt from the closet. A flowing garment of many possibilities, ideally suited to our needs. Psychodrama. Mime. Improvisation. Anything can happen, as long as one remains flexible.

Morning sounds within the hostel: a sleeper unit groaning, the rush of a distant lightbath. I go to the dining area early for my allotted fare. The proctors are already eating. I sit near them, shamelessly hoping they may notice me. Soon, perhaps, I will be a proctor myself. In the meantime I must make a good impression. I take my food and again recite an invocation—this time to the hormone regulators that protect us.

Breakfast finished, I hurry across the garden to the amphitheater. Already hungry faces have assembled at the observation areas. For the moment I ignore them and join the other chiggies. The domed theater rapidly fills; the class murmurs eagerly as we await the appearance of our protector, God. A buzzer signals his arrival. All chiggies hush and stand at attention. The proctors survey us sternly.

A door opens to reveal an elegant woman of late middle age. She has Teutonic features and a mane of silver hair. A black evening dress and matching pumps complete the picture. There is a momentary silence—surely this cannot be our God! But then the woman smiles warmly, motioning us to be seated with a familiar gesture. There are gasps of approval and recognition. Another triumph of disguise! God is a model for us all. His disguises are as unpredictable as life itself—he has appeared to us variously as man and woman, youth and sage. Once he even appeared as a dwarf. It is not known how he effects these illusions; this is a matter of faith. We are only expected to follow his protean example as best we can. Life is change, and change requires adaptation—even at the expense of recognizable personality.

God often says that.

“This morning I’ve decided it might be wise to refresh our minds with a discussion of aims and goals," he begins, his voice a dark contralto.

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