by Bob Shaw
Something really has happened on the Outside, Nicklin thought, otherwise there wouldn't be all this fuss.
The realisation was accompanied by the special feeling of wonderment which comes when a concept which has been held in intellectual probation is finally accepted. Now totally beguiled by the prospect of actually seeing the stars, the alien stars which were the subject of so much controversy, he walked towards the night-black portal. Picking his way among family groups who were having picnic snacks on the grass, he reached the place where the path skirting the portal broadened into a small semicircular plaza.
At its focus, standing on the very rim of space, was the famous Garamond statue. Although it was the most over-publicised object in the globe, he paused before the heroic bronze which depicted a man clad in a vacuum suit of a design which had been in service two centuries earlier. The spaceman, helmet in one hand, was shading his eyes from the sun's vertical rays with his free hand while he scanned the horizon. On the statue's granite base was a plaque inscribed with three words:
VANCE GARAMOND, EXPLORER
Nicklin flinched as a wash of coloured light flooded into his eyes. It was accompanied by the sound of a gentle sexless voice, and he realised that a multi-lingual information beam projected from the statue's plinth had centred itself on his face. Scarcely without delay, a computer had – by interpreting his optical response to subliminal signals – deduced that English was his first language.
…of a large fleet of exploration ships owned and operated by Starflight Incorporated, the historic company which at that time had a monopoly of space travel, the voice murmured with the disturbing intimacy of precisely beamed sound. The Bissendorf was under the command of Captain…
Images of a triple-hulled starship, as seen from space, had begun to fill Nicklin's vision, but he moved away from the statue and broke the beam contact. He had no need of a potted refresher course in Orbitsville's early history, especially at this particular moment, when he had only to take a few paces to see the universe spread out at his feet. Aware of feeling like a child about to unwrap a long-awaited gift, he moved away from the plaza and the immobilised tourists with their rapt expressions and blindly gazing eyes. Others in brightly coloured holiday clothing were leaning on the low balustrade which rimmed the portal, strung out like birds on a line. He walked past them to reach an uncrowded section, then placed his elbows on the rail and looked down at the stars.
His initial impression was that something had gone wrong. The blackness below him seemed quite unrelieved at first, and it was only when his eyes began to adjust that he was able to discern a sprinkling of faint-glowing specks. Disappointed, feeling that he had somehow been cheated, he glanced at the other spectators. They were staring into the portal with every appearance of being fascinated. Some were pointing out items of special interest to companions or children. Perhaps it's all in the way you focus your eyes, he thought. After all, some people can't adjust to the old stereo viewers, and others can never see fine rain.
He looked down again, blinking, trying to perform unwonted tricks with his optical 'muscles, but no luminous splendours emerged from the blackness. The universe continued to register on his vision as nothing more than a meagre scattering of dim points of light. He raised his eyes a little and tried looking further afield, but towards the centre of the portal the timid stars were completely invisible, hidden by the mirages which shimmered on the surface of the diaphragm field.
He turned away from the rail and walked slowly along the perimeter path, feeling slightly depressed and lost for something to do. At intervals along the path there were observation booths with hoods which curved down into the portal. He guessed that inside one of them, shielded from the brilliance of the sun, it would be possible to get a much better view of the cosmic environment, but there were long lines of would-be spectators waiting at all the booths. In any case, all he could expect to see was brighter specks of light and more of them. It hardly seemed worth the trouble.
I must admit that you really had me going for a while, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he thought ruefully. But now that I've peeped at the universe I do believe that it, too, is all part of the Big Joke. And what next? Why, I think the most sensible thing to do right now would be to bugger off somewhere and have another beer…
By late afternoon Nicklin was beginning to tire of exploring Beachhead City on foot. The beneficial effect of the eight or so glasses of beer he had consumed during his wanderings was wearing off, giving way to a drowsy apathy. He had never expected to develop any attachment for his cramped new sleeping quarters, but now he yearned to squeeze himself into the bunk bed and simply lose consciousness.
Drawing on his sketchy knowledge of the city centre, he headed in a direction he believed would let him intercept the transit to Cinnamon Brow, where the mission was stationed. He was walking past a window display of 3D television sets when the row of solid images abruptly changed. In place of graphs showing some kind of production figures there appeared the head and shoulders of a pink-faced, well-padded man who was giving the world a confident smile. A slight prominence of his teeth seemed to add aggressiveness to his expression.
I know that face, Nicklin thought, his memory stirring. The spaceship man … Rick Renard … Renard … Reynard!
Nicklin's stride faltered as into his mind there flashed the likeness of the Fox from Disney's Pinocchio – toothy, slavering, menacing, nose like a shiny black olive perched on the end of his snout. The dream! That damned dream with the fox in man's clothing and the garden which covered a hollow hill. What had it to do with spaceships? Nicklin experienced a coolness along his spine as the leviathan heaved once more in the black swamps of his subconscious. For one pounding instant he seemed on the verge of understanding the whole bizarre scenario, then there came the maddening sensation which accompanies the escape of elusive memories, the sense of a door slamming in the mind just as the grinning quarry slips through to the other side.
Irritated by the incident and hoping he was not going to become obsessive about it, Nicklin went on his way, growing more tired with every step.
Darkness had slid across the world by the time he got back to the mission, and although he was still weary he now wanted something to eat before bed. He had gone all day without food, mainly because his miserly allowance would not have covered the cost of a decent meal.
The site was a vacant section in the kind of area where low-cost housing struggled for territorial control against light engineering units and anonymous storage buildings. How Montane selected such places and got authorisation to use them was something Nicklin had yet to learn, and he cursed the general lack of amenities as he stumbled across the rutted ground with little more than the luminosity from the ribbed sky to guide him. Why had Montane never learned that it paid to think big? Or that money attracts money? The mission should have taken over the biggest and most prestigious stadium in the city, and made a show of installing its workers in the best hotels. That way – quite apart from matters of high finance – Nicklin could have had a first-class meal before retiring to bed, instead of the uninspiring stodge served up by Carlos Kempson, the so-called cook who had replaced Dee Smethurst.
When he reached the marquee and its retinue of vehicles he discovered that Kempson's trailer – which had been dubbed the chuck-up wagon – was locked. Mildly annoyed, he glanced about him and became aware that someone was speaking inside the marquee, although its interior lighting was not switched on. He walked to the entrance, looked inside and discovered that Montane was quietly addressing a group of his followers. They were sitting in the front two rows of one section, illuminated only by a single portable lamp. Montane had not gone up on the stage, but was standing on the flattened grass just in front of his audience. To Nicklin the scene looked oddly furtive, reminiscent of a meeting of early Christians in pagan Rome.
"…much more serious than I thought it was," Montane was saying. He paused as Nicklin entered the marquee, and some of his listeners looked
around to see what had caused the interruption. A few made noises which indicated that they regarded Nicklin's presence as an intrusion, but Montane silenced them with a damping movement of his hands.
"Come and join us, Jim," he said. "This is a ways-and-means session, and God knows we need all the fresh ideas we can get, regardless of the source."
Choosing not to be offended by the last words of the sentence, Nicklin – his curiosity aroused – advanced along the left aisle. As he neared the group he saw that Danea Farthing was sitting in the second row. He sidled into the third row, sat down directly behind her and blew gently on the back of her neck.
"Hello, darling," he whispered. "I got back from town as soon as I could – I hope you didn't miss me too much."
Her only response was to hunch her shoulders and lean forward to distance herself from him. Smiling with malicious satisfaction, Nicklin made himself at ease and directed his gaze towards Montane.
"For the benefit of anyone who has come in late," Montane went on, a certain dryness in his voice showing that he wanted Nicklin's full attention, "we are discussing an extremely serious new setback in our plans for the future.
"As you all know, eleven or twelve days ago – when this globe we inhabit made what people have begun to refer to as the Big Jump – Orbitsville lost contact with everything that had previously existed outside the shell. That included all the interstellar ships which were either approaching Orbitsville or were already docked outside all the portals.
"At the time, I saw no reason to be concerned over the disappearance, because it had never been my intention to buy a fully operative vessel. Even a ship nearing the end of its certification would have cost something in the region of two million monits – a price which was far outside our limited resources. I should say at this point that none of you is to blame for our not having built up the necessary funds. You have all worked hard, and the fault lies entirely in the way I directed your efforts."
Corey, old son, them is the truest words you ever spoke, Nicklin thought, but a murmur of disagreement arose from the audience. Montane – a homely figure in his short-sleeved tan shirt and off-the-peg slacks – swallowed visibly and nodded in gratification. Nicklin, realising the man was under a considerable degree of stress, began to sense that what he was hearing was no ordinary pep talk.
"Some time ago I chose what seemed a reasonable alternative, under the circumstances," Montane continued. "I contacted a leading repair yard, right here in Beachhead, and took an option on an obsolescent Type 93 passenger ship. Apparently its owners had put it into land-dock for a major overhaul, but had gone out of business before the work was completed.
"It was not the ideal ship for our needs, but the asking price was only three-quarters of a million, plus approximately another 200,000 for completing the refurbishment. We haven't got all the money yet, but I had hopes of reaching the target before next winter."
All you needed was a few more heliumheads like me. Nicklin shifted impatiently in his chair. So what happened next?
"But I have to report to you that today when I contacted the brokers concerned – Mather and Czubek – I was informed that my contract had been cancelled. It seems that I was a few days late with one of my interim payments, and that was all the excuse they needed. In normal circumstances a slight delay with an instalment would have been neither here nor there, but ever since the Big Jump circumstances have been very far from normal.
"It turns out that a huge consortium has been formed with the object of re-establishing interportal trade in the shortest possible time. The members of this consortium are buying up all available spacecraft – interstellar ships included – and, as far as I can determine, money is no object with them. We are in a sellers' market, I was told today, and the laws of supply and demand have pushed the price of our ship up to more than three million monits.
"There you have it, my friends." Montane's voice, which up to that point had been well under his control, hoarsened into something like a sob. "I … I don't know what to do next. The Devil is laughing at us tonight … and I simply don't know what to do next."
A man in the front row spoke up. "You can't blame yourself, Corey – for three million they'd have found some way to break the contract."
"Yes, but on top of everything else I've lost the deposit I put down."
"How much was it?"
Montane gave a wan smile. "The deposit was a hundred big ones."
Nicklin noticed the atypical use of slang, albeit ancient slang, and knew that Montane was trying to be casual, as a way of dealing with a desperate sense of guilt. There was a general gasp of dismay at the news of the loss, but Nicklin had turned his thoughts to the central issue – was Montane about to abandon his pathetic attempt to become a new Saviour?
Unexpectedly, he found little to savour in the idea. He expected to quit the mission some time in the nearish future and find a job with decent pay and prospects, but he still despised Montane and Danea, and craved a chance to revenge himself on them. What had just happened to Montane was clearly a major disaster, but it had not been personally and visibly inflicted by Nicklin. Therefore it did not count for much in the revenge stakes.
As for Danea – he had devised a special super-duper all-singing, all-dancing scheme of vengeance for her, one which would bring him complete satisfaction in every sense of the word. The plan was to amass a good sum of money – the how of it was not clear to him yet – but he wanted so much cash that neither she nor her bumbling Svengali would in all conscience (great word!) be able to refuse it on behalf of the Lord. She would be obliged to prostitute herself for him again, and when that happened he would make use of that splendid body as it had never been made use of before. If she was going to play the role of temple prostitute, priestess-whore, he was going to be the most ardent worshipper in the land. It was a consummation devoutly to be wished, and when the happy day came he was going to fuck her and humiliate her and fuck her again and make her sorry she had ever…
Hold on! he told himself in near-panic as fury geysered through him. You've got to play it cool. Icy cold, in fact. They won't hate you properly unless you are seen to be chilly and emotionless, inhuman and implacable…
In the front row the electrician Petra Davies raised her hand to ask a question. "Corey, could we not appeal directly to the boss men in this consortium? When they hear that we are a religious organisation–"
"That's right," a man cut in. "Or maybe we could just rent the ship from them for a while. After all, we only want to make one trip in it – then they could have it back."
Montane shook his head. "It's a good idea, but I very much doubt that these people would be in sympathy with our objectives. In fact, I'm sure they wouldn't. The head of the consortium is a man called Rick Renard…"
The remainder of the sentence was lost to Nicklin. He was already in a mental turmoil when the mention of Renard caused a veritable explosion in the depths of his subconscious, a psychic detonation which hurled a shrapnel of tumbling memory fragments up into the forefront of his mind. Renard … Reynard! He had had an uncle by the name of Reynard. Not an uncle – Reynard had been his mother's uncle. A great-uncle. As a small child he had been deeply afraid of his great-uncle Reynard, because his mother had a habit of referring to him as a wily old fox, and little Jimmy Nicklin had been convinced that Reynard really had the ability to turn himself into a fox when nobody else was around. Jimmy knew in his heart that if he were ever left on his own with great-uncle Reynard the dreadful transformation would take place, and that Reynard the Fox would eat him all up. Luckily, great-uncle Reynard was a rare visitor to the Nicklin home, because his job as a land surveyor took him to distant places. And it was from one of those remote locations that he had sent little Jimmy a certain picture postcard…
"Corey, I've got some interesting news for you," Nicklin called out, his heart pounding as he rose to his feet. "I know where there's a spaceship – a spaceship you can have for next to nothing!"
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 11
"All right, Jim – why all the secrecy?" Montane said. "I don't like the idea of keeping all the others in the dark, not at this sad stage of our enterprise."
The door of his camper was closed, the toffee-shaded lamp was creating a mellow glow, and the tea requisites were laid out on the ready-made table formed by Milly Montane's coffin. The two men were sitting on the side bench, their knees almost touching, and Nicklin – his tiredness having completely vanished – was luxuriating in the atmosphere of seclusion and comparative comfort.
"We have to talk about my fee," he said, "and I felt it would be better if we did that in private."
"Fee? You expect a fee?"
Nicklin smiled. "Of course! Nothing in this life comes free, Corey – you should have learned that by this time."
Montane studied his face. "Do you want your money back?"
"Possibly. I'm not sure yet. I might be prepared to go on treating it as an investment in Montane Enterprises Inc."
"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Montane said, pouring out two cups of tea.
"I'm having the time of my life," Nicklin assured him.
"I'm glad somebody's having a good time. Very well, Jim – tell me what you want. Let's hear it."
Nicklin sipped from his cup before speaking, deliberately prolonging the moment. "Leaving the question of my money to one side for the present, I want a new job. No more driving in the middle of the night, no more clearing of thistles. I think the title of Executive Vice-President might suit me."
"A grand title wouldn't have any meaning around here," Montane said with a thin smile.
"It would for me. And in keeping with my new status I would expect my stipend to be increased. In fact, I expect unlimited drawing facilities – although naturally I wouldn't abuse the privilege. My needs are modest."
"Go on," Montane said, still with his bitter smile.