It was 8 o'clock and the news was about to begin. He switched on the TV just in time to catch the top story. It was a report on the loss of another spaceship.
During the last twelve months the universe had experienced the inexplicable loss of about twenty huge space freighters. In fact, the one reported now was number twenty-one. There were millions of these giant craft plying the trade routes of the galaxies, and normally they were as safe as the worlds they serviced, if not safer. True, some had disappeared in the past, but never in such numbers, and never, as was happening now, with no clue as to how they'd been lost.
The complete mystery surrounding these disappearances assured their repeated inclusion in inter-global news bulletins. But they provided the TV news editors with something of a challenge. They were disasters without any of the evidence of disasters. There was never any wreckage to film, no mutilated bodies, no gory eyewitness accounts. In fact, generally there was absolutely nothing to put on the screen other than a library pic of a similar freighter - sometimes dressed in some computer-generated livery, to make it look like the real thing. And that was it.
The Ranamavana news editor had tackled this problem in the usual way. First of all he'd constructed a report that consisted of a brief mention of the freighter's itinerary and its last recorded position, the expected TV pic of a similar model craft (sans livery), and a commentary about the number of crewmen lost (seventeen), together with a few scraps about their personal details. And he'd then rounded off the factual part of the report with an inventory of the freighter's cargo, which on this occasion consisted mostly of wood and sawdust. And having got all this stuff out of the way he then served up the main course of the feature, a main course that was obviously cooked up to satisfy the standard Iodan appetite. This was a re-hash of the oft' used ingredients of speculation, sensationalism, action and violence. There was comment about collisions with asteroids - with impressive but inappropriate film-footage of spacecraft accidents and destructive testing. This led into a debate on the likelihood of space piracy with more library film of mostly long-dead criminals and antique warlords. And finally there was a recap on a series of loony theories on new space phenomena, accompanied by an unconvincing collage of exploding satellites, stellar eruptions and black and brown hole clusters.
Renton watched all this with great interest, not for the creative images but for the speculation about the cause of the disappearances. For, in common with millions of others, he found the whole business completely fascinating. It was the inexplicable in a very explicable universe.
There was, however, nothing that impressed him about Ranamavana's particular clutch of speculations and theories. Why have so many space freighters decided, this year, to seek out and collide with asteroids? And who's swept up the debris? What unknown space phenomenon decides that it should reveal itself now - having hidden itself away for thousands of years previously? And what space pirate or renegade war-lord would want to steal a boring old load of sawdust!? The answer, of course, was that nobody knew.
Renton switched off the TV, called up room service for some egg mayonnaise sandwiches and a bowl of rice crackers, and then eased himself back on his bed. He would read some Stephen King, consume his order as soon as it arrived, and then he would retire for the night. It had, after all, been a tiring sort of day.
6.
For Madeleine, it had been a tiring sort of day as well. She had worked a full eight-hour shift, she had walked what felt like every street in the city, and for the whole of the afternoon she had been on her mobile almost constantly. But now, back in her apartment, she could relax. And she could relax in style. For Madeleine had her very own bather…
OK, it was a luxury, but a luxury she could indulge herself in every day and a luxury that never stood any chance of ever becoming an addiction. For however much she liked her bather, Madeleine liked the real thing even more. Bathers, for her, were all about chilling out - and nothing at all to do with steaming up. So no muscled male holograms, no lithe, athletic types, and none of the more agitated or rhythmic options available on the bather's menu - but just some of the more relaxing ones - like the sound of the sea - with the feel of soft sand - and the scent of some fresh frangipani…
And it normally did the trick. Normally, Madeleine would be relaxed within seconds, and then renewed and revitalised within minutes, ready again for a slice of the real and the chance of a brand new encounter. But not so tonight.
Tonight she couldn't relax at all. Even with the sea turned right down and the soft turned right up. And it was because she needed to think - of exactly what she'd done today. So she reached for the keyboard and punched in a command that would remove all the accompaniments to her bathing experience. Three “confirm” strokes were then required to convince the bather's electronics that its user really did want to clean itself in such a primitive way.
'Well, I've done it now,' she said to herself. 'And if it doesn't come off, I'm not only out of a job, but I'm in a whole heap of trouble as well. And let's get realistic: the chances of it not coming off are far from remote. I mean, even if everything stays in place - which is hardly guaranteed - how likely is it that he'll do what I want? And that's even assuming he can… And God, then there's all the visa stuff and the work permits and agents and contracts and things. Shit, I must have been out of my mind…'
She sighed and slipped further below the waters of the bather. And then she did something that was proving a very popular pastime this season: she admonished herself.
'Come on, Madeleine. That's no way to think, and you know it. If you want anything that badly, you'll get it. And if there happen to be a few risks involved, then so what? Hell, it's not as though it's the first time you've taken a bit of a flier, is it?
'And remember something else: what you're up against. He's a mouse, isn't he? Just a confused and harmless little mouse. So how the hell can you fail?'
Well, put like that, it did seem possible, and maybe even more than possible. Maybe that impetuous nature of hers was for once going to win it. Yes, maybe this time it would finally do it, and deliver what she'd always dreamed of - and what she still dreamed of: variety, excitement, adventure - and, of course, “intensity”. That's what it was all about really. OK, life was great - but only up to a point. Because it was still stuck in the mundane. And that was despite all her previous efforts. No, what it really needed, to make it great beyond compare, was “intensity”, every sensation played at the highest volume, every experience moved to the end of the register, every relationship taken right off the scale. And if she could get that, then whatever the risks might be, they'd be worth it. And she'd go for it.
Or as they used to say at the Traffic Academy: 'she'd give it a shunt up the rear…'
…happily, an option still not available on her bather…
7.
Spazum Surfaces Corporation resided in a very surface-conscious building in the outskirts of Ranamavana. It was completely covered in some very shiny, grey-black panelling, easily shiny enough to reflect a clear twilight image of all the much-manicured shrubbery that surrounded it. It was impressive. It conveyed to any visitor the confidence of its tenant, a confidence founded on its tenant's enviable position within its own market: the dominant position.
Spazum supplied a large proportion of all vehicle, aircraft and spacecraft manufacturers with original paint finishes. Others were using products made under Spazum joint ventures. And on top of all this the company enjoyed a thriving re-finish business, principally in the automotive re-spray and touch-up market - and, although it represented only a miniscule proportion of its overall business, it was also a market leader in the provision of body-paints. Spazum was big and it was here to stay. It even had the ultimate recognition of its status in Ranamavana, a sub-coach station across the road from its offices bearing its name: Spazum Station.
And ascending from the entrance to this station, this sunny morning, was a refreshed, revived and relaxed-looking Renton. The proximit
y of sub-coach stations to both The Excessive and the Spazum site, combined with his recent experience of the local autocab service, had convinced Renton to try out what for him was a somewhat unusual experience. And at least, if a sub-coach crashed there would be other passengers to share the blame. In fact, the trip was straightforward and uneventful. What's more, Renton attracted a number of what he took to be admiring glances from women fellow-travellers. His mistake was to discount the novelty of his non-floral clothes. But so what? The attention helped cheer him immensely.
He crossed the road and approached the ramp leading up to the large, black entrance doors of the Spazum offices. They were barely discernible against the grey-black of the wall that framed them. Or they were until you went up that ramp…
Renton remembered this from his previous visits, and as he stepped onto the ramp he kept his eyes firmly on the centre line where the two doors came together. And sure enough, a red line appeared there and spread left across the left door and right across the right, followed by orange followed by yellow and then by the rest of the colours of the rainbow. Then by a new rainbow of not quite rainbow colours, and another and another. A sample of the Spazum paint range used in the most astonishing of ways. Renton was as impressed as he always was. He slowed his pace. He was two steps from the doors when they began to slide apart - still rainbowing. He stepped into Spazum reception mouthing a virtually inaudible 'pow'.
The reception area within the doors was ordinary compared to the spectrum show outside, but the reception itself was highly efficient. It took just thirty seconds to be welcomed by a little insectal receptionist and then to be informed by this same lady that the body-paint demonstration had unavoidably been rescheduled and would now take place at the same time tomorrow - and that, now he was “available”, he had been invited to visit Den D'Kemba, Spazum's finance director - to have a chat about “old times”. And as soon as he liked.
'Oh bollocks,' thought Renton. 'All I want to do is get this thing over and done with, and now I'm going to have to wait another bloody day. And as for Den… well, “as soon as I like” is in about a couple of aeons or so… Why the hell is life always whipping away from you what you want and always pushing in front of you what you could well do without?'
'And why,' he said to the lady insectal, 'do I always accept it?'
'I'm sorry, sir?'
'Oh, I errh… I errh…'
'Christ,' he though, 'I'm blurting now when I'm not even in hyper. I'd better get a grip of myself.'
'Errh,' he continued. 'I'm sorry. I was just thinking. You know. That I'd… that I'd love to see Mr D'Kemba. And I assume he's still in the same office. Errh, down past the finance department…'
'Yes, that's right, still in the same office.'
'Yes,' thought Renton. 'And he'll still be in the same office ten years from now, just like he's been in there for as long as anyone can remember.'
But these thoughts he didn't vocalise. Instead he just thanked his informant, bid her a cheery goodbye, and made off for the lair of “D'Number”.
8.
Renton, much to his credit, hadn't touched a drop of accountancy for well over eight months now. But when it had been his daily tipple, it had brought him not only to the Spazum factory - in his capacity as an audit clerk - but also, on many occasions, into Den D'Kemba's office - in his latter capacity as an audit manager. So the “D'Number” office was a place to fear. It was a place where he would have to confront his terrible past - possibly in all its terrible detail - and a place where he would be reminded that, despite all his recent efforts, he still had a long way to go. Add to that the prospect of seeing the Den man as well, sitting behind that desk he never moved from, and Renton was relishing the next few minutes of his life about as much as he'd relished the idea of communal underwear at that weird boarding school of his. But, no matter. He would go through with it. Because it would be rude not to. And Renton still wasn't very adept at being rude. It was just another hangover from all that accountancy…
And anyway, he was now there. Or at least he was in the anteroom. For Den was a man whose status merited a cavernous outer office - and whose dullness dictated its décor… Yes, visiting the finance director of Spazum was like dropping into a funeral parlour during a power cut. And the vast outer office, in particular, was a reflection of his dreary and dismal persona. It was all black. The walls were made of black woodalike panelling, and there was black stippled wallpaper on the ceiling. Then the banks of cabinets against two of the walls were black and the carpet was a black shade of brown. And any visitor, who was required to wait, would be invited by D'Kemba's secretary, a black woman at a brown console, to seat himself in one of the black and brown armchairs, one of those behind the long black coffee table. And there he could take it all in: the absence of colour, the respite from hues - and the triumph of gloom over bright. Yes, this place was a real refuge from the vibrant and the gaudy, and it was right at the centre of the Spazum enterprise, a company whose very business was the colourful. It was quite bizarre.
Fortunately for Renton, he was not a visitor who was required to wait, and he was immediately ushered into D'Kemba's own office, a slightly lighter version of the black hole outside. This office suffered irredeemably from a very large window in one wall, which despite heavy grey blinds, allowed slivers of brightness to make it inside. However, D'Kemba was not a man to give in without a fight, and he'd long ago mounted a rearguard action with entirely black furniture and, on one wall, a large matt-finish reproduction of the Spazum building - a study in greys and in black. The battle had not yet been lost. And, of course, there was his own sombre mood, ready as always to counter the intrusive power of light of any sort. It was almost as though he was able to suck it in and re-radiate it as greyness, a depressing greyness. He was, in fact, a particularly miserable old sod.
Renton knew this. Just as he knew from his previous visits to this place that one simply had to accept the gloom of his surroundings and of the man himself. Indeed, in a professional sense, D'Kemba had been good news. He would never have surprised you with a red office nor would he ever have launched himself into any speculative or novel accounting caper, which might have unbalanced your auditing equilibrium. He'd been sour but predictable, and as pessimistic as they come - but safe. Discussions with Den had always confirmed your beliefs; they had never revealed the unexpected.
And there he was. Still behind that desk, and still looking miserable. And still radiating all that greyness…
Renton's greeting was carefully chosen. 'Den. Hello there. It's great to see you again. It really is. And tell me, how are things holding together?'
Renton was already formulating Den's response in his mind, which would be something along the lines of: 'oh, it gets worse by the day, Renton. It really does. And as for our friends up at Echo…'
Echo was the (Omoria based) group of which Spazum was a part. And although Den had the title of finance director - of what was a significant chunk of the Echo empire - he'd never had any real power. He'd always been no more than a well paid, very competent bookkeeper, providing the real executives at Echo head office with all sorts of management information. And as a result, the “Echo valley bandits” were always at the receiving end of his grumbles. And as often as not, they deserved it. Like most head office management, they didn't actually understand what went on in any of their operations, and gathered data from the likes of Den, not for the information it contained, but more for the fact that it reinforced their authority: the principle of data collection as a tool of repression. And consequently much of it was a complete waste of time, and of Den's in particular. So Renton was sure they would get a mention in the opening remarks…
But they didn't. And they didn't because the finance director's opening remarks consisted of no more than a low grunt and then a choking sound. And as if to give this poor offering a little more substance, he accompanied it with a look of acute surprise surmounted by a couple of huge staring eyes. And the eyes weren'
t staring at Renton, but at the doorway behind him.
Renton turned to look, fearing that he'd been followed into the room by some great paint monster, but all he saw was a fleeting glimpse of a short fat man. Then it was gone. Sucked back into the gloom of the outer office.
And what had also gone was Renton's composure. This, after all, was Den D'Kemba's office, where surprises were unknown. And certainly surprises involving Den himself. Then, on the heels of that composure went Renton's grip on the proceedings. Because as he turned back to Den, Den was on his feet!
Now, this wasn't just a surprise, this was a life-changing revelation. Den, after all, was not just a guy who you always saw sitting behind his desk, but he was also a guy who you never saw not sitting behind his desk. And for all Renton knew, he'd been sitting behind that desk for the whole of his life. He had once been assured that the finance director did actually come complete with legs, but he had never observed them, and definitely not when they were being used. After all, Den was not the sort of chap who wandered around chatting to his staff. He played all his matches on his home ground - as well as to his own rules.
But now they were being used. And being used to carry Den from his office. That fleeting apparition was clearly blessed with some quite remarkable powers.
'Sorry, Renton. I must just see… I must… I'll let you…'
And as the distraught FD brushed past Renton, failing dismally to bring any of his statements to any sort of conclusion, he dropped a small envelope into Renton's lap. And then he was gone.
It was now Renton who had the look of acute surprise and the huge staring eyes - and a sudden thought in his mind, which if vocalised would have been along the lines of: 'What the hell else is going to happen on this trip? And what the hell else could happen on this trip?'
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