A Year Near Proxima Centauri

by Michael Martin

  A Year Near Proxima Centauri

  Michael Martin

  To Joseph and Robin

  What about a quotation? I thought a quote from the underrated poet Montague Blyte (1615–1644) might be appropriate, from his masterwork Astra Castra, numen lumen.

  This wonder lyfe hath surely sprung

  From fuller founts than oure poore worlde?

  JANUARY

  My wife and I had not eaten for nearly an hour. I walked into the food store and hacked with relish at an enormous leg of meat which hung on the appropriate spike in the sparkling icy gloom. I took four generous slices, added some purple Ormerloon peppers, a tiny pinch of Gormandine and let them sizzle in the old traditional Gaga we had bought from a little creature in the village. Just as they were greening to perfection I uncorked a bottle of 21634 Halmatrope. We always used to open our bottles three hours before a meal, but the locals tell us that five minutes is adequate and they should know. I placed the opened bottle on the preparation surface next to the bubbling Gaga and I could hear it sucking in the atmosphere. “Let it hyperventilate for five minutes,” old Mr Dobson, the neighbouring Drool, had told us, “then, quick as you can, wring its neck and squeeze it into the glass.”

  For many years my wife and I had holidayed on this tiny little unspoilt planet. I shall not divulge its name in case you all want to visit us, the sudden shock of which could easily disturb its delicate orbit and send it hurtling into the sun. I am sure I need not remind you of the fate of Pontius B, when two galacto transporter loads of Third Age “Last Holiday of a Lifetime” travellers landed and disembarked on the same polar cap. The planet instantly tilted on its axis and flew out of its orbit across the paths of the twelve inner planets, neatly popping each one into their sun before it flew off into space. As if that were not tragic enough in itself, it gave the Big Planet Hunters the idea for a whole new sport. Therefore, I am sure you will understand why I shall refer to this planet only as “Provender”.

  When my wife and I decided, for many reasons, that a change of planet and a change of life was needed this was the first place we thought of, with its unspoilt creatures, natural surroundings, interesting and sometimes marvellous weather and, above all, its food and drink.

  Everything that lives on Provender can be eaten or drunk without ill effect and most of the living creatures taste superb and respond wonderfully to creative mixing, subtle blending and diverse culinary technique. If something black and hairy you have never seen before scuttles from out of your boot, herd it into a box, give it a puff of Instamort spray, grill it gently in Smolene fat for fifteen minutes, dice it—if its appearance is too offputting—and gulp it down; it’s bound to be delicious. One unfortunate discovery we made here by accident many years ago was that the more intelligent the creature the better it tastes, We inadvertently ate the hotel proprietor’s great-grandmother before she had had a chance to pass on her arcane knowledge to the next of kin. We had no idea then that their species shrinks and changes colour so alarmingly with age. Now we are more careful, generally, but she was quite the most exquisite morsel my wife and I have ever had; marinaded in a fine old Halmatrope and eaten on a slice of toast rubbed with the flesh of a ripe Sprillet.

  Sometimes, as we float on our small lagoon, a fine vintage Algarglanon sprawled in our palms, watching the sky shimmer with rainbows of plasma as the sun hurtles towards the horizon, we took to the approximate position of our home planet Conima and sigh. We just sigh. We sigh for the remorselessly hectic pace of the life we have left, we sigh for the accelerating boundaries of knowledge that we are avoiding, we sigh for the uncontrollable, unforeseen devastation that results from the knowledge that has been acquired far too quickly for anybody to grasp its implications, we just sigh because we have eaten so much that anything more would deplete our last reserves of energy.

  One evening, as a light breeze blew us across the lagoon to our patio, I noticed our neighbour, old Mr Dobson, beckoning us with all his arms. I waved back and my wife set the sail on our floating chair to catch the breeze more effectively. Mr Dobson greeted us in the complex, rather embarrassing language of the Drools. The Drools have a perineal larynx making their language hard to master by creatures with a more sensibly placed larynx. However, my wife proved surprisingly adept at the language and was soon able to master the subtle inflections and thus fill the gaps that my faltering grasp left.

  Mr Dobson gesticulated at the quivering mountains that surrounded our modest dwelling. It was some time before my wife and I had grasped that these ranges of peculiar vibrating foliage that we had purchased with our house were, in fact, the main foodstuff of the Halmatrope and were harvested at the end of August by means of letting loose clouds of tiny Halmatrope spores on to the crop. These eat voraciously and as soon as they have grown big enough squads of pickers round them up and bottle them. Once in the bottle the Halmatrope grows until its head stoppers itself. It then relaxes into a state of suspended animation until released for consumption, then, as previously described, five minutes of hyperventilation and it is ready, it appeared that Mr Dobson had in fact planted, tended and harvested this crop on an informal basis with the previous owner in return for a share of the Halmatrope. I saw no reason not to continue this salutary practice and I attempted to communicate as much to Mr Dobson, but my wife had to correct me more than once. He scuttled off and was soon back with his arms full of bottles as a gesture to launch our future association. I wondered in passing what Drools tasted like. Mr Dobson shared a bottle with us and left gesticulating wildly as only a Drool can do. I felt that he had accepted us already, but our other neighbours further down the valley might not prove so amenable.

  Mr Skeg, who lived alone in a tiny cabin, was a pure blooded Colwig descended from one of the earliest tribes to settle on the planet. It was rumoured that on cold winters nights Colwigs would start to eat themselves, rapidly regenerating in the spring. We had not seen very much of Mr Skeg, just the upper thorax and a head in the distance; perhaps that was why. We resolved to postpone our first neighbourly visit to Mr Skeg’s cabin until the spring—late spring.

  Beyond Mr Skeg lived five creatures of indeterminate age and species. I speculated in the way one does about neighbours who keep themselves to themselves that they were probably a sort of mongrel variation of Montalbans, in which case, as the Montalbans have five sexes, this was probably as near to the perfect Montalban marriage as was statistically likely for such unprepossessing and antisocial creatures. Now and again we would hear shrieks and wails down the valley and catch a glimpse of one being chased off by four, or two by three, but generally they seemed to stay indoors and emit a sort of low vibration hum, rather like an enormous Capricep purring. Mr Dobson said they never seemed to eat anything, so we have yet to officially introduce ourselves to them. He had himself heard a rumour that they reproduced at an alarming rate and this provided their nutrition, but I never take any notice of rumours, I just repeat them.

  We were beginning to think that the brief but extreme Provender winter we had been told about was a rumour as we drifted aimlessly across the lagoon sipping at our half-full glasses, when a strange feeling came over us, a shiver of premonition, or, more likely, a sudden change in the electro-magnetic field. My wife ran up the spinnaker and we made it to the patio pontoon, just as a sheet of green vapour swept down the valley freezing everything in its path. We hid in the summerhouse until it had passed and then slithered and slid over to the house as quickly as we could before the next one came, which proved to be a wise decision.

  For the next three days the vapour spiralled and zigzagged back and forth along the valley. We stayed in. Fortunately we had ample provisions to survive even the worst winter
, with additional allowances in case we had to share our provisions with any voracious guests. As we snuggled together in front of a roaring fire, eating and drinking, it occurred to me that the house was not really big enough, at the rate we were growing, and if fate had conspired to trap us for the winter with the last of our summer guests we would all be feeling rather claustrophobic. Also, a roaring fire was all very nice, but as the only form of heating for what was becoming a remarkably cold house, it was not adequate. Something was required with a little less conspicuous noise and rather more widespread heat. I resolved to contact the builders and a plumber as soon as the weather improved.

  The buildings of Provender are a joy in themselves after the dreadful monotony of Conima. Creatures with natural advantages adopt a trade or craft that the families seem to continue for generations. Naturally occurring elements are wrested, with the minimum of fuss, from their locations, transported, shaped, if necessary, by the appropriate creature, and added to a structure whose design the customer and builders, in varying proportions, have some say in; unlike the processes on Conima, where vast numbers of genetically engineered molluscs construct specific structures in a sort of coralline material. My wife and I still shudder at the memory of the self-replicating organic hypermarket strain that went haywire and caused enormous identical hypermarkets to spring up overnight all over the countryside, with no consideration of customer demand.

  Our house was typical of the area, constructed by the distant ancestor of our local builder, Henry, from enormous lumps of the local rock, using the colossal strength that this particularly squat muscular creature has. My wife and I hoped that Henry would be able to match the subtle colouring and robust disregard for symmetry that so individualized his great-grandfather’s work.

  The local stone was, I am told, formed when ancient earth movements and volcanic activity heated and compressed the massive accumulation of shed Couth skins. The Couth is long since extinct, but now and again entire Couth skins are unearthed, miraculously unscathed by the trials of time, revealing the unerring eye for detail and tidy stitchwork which led it to be regarded as the most fashion-conscious and fastidious of primeval creatures, never allowing itself to be seen twice by another creature in the same skin. Unfortunately, as the population grew, the poor, vain creatures refused to adapt, and most died of exhaustion, mid-skin, or died with no issue, crestfallen, depressed, hidden from chance inspection. Tragic as this may be, the rock which evolved is durable, easily worked and will polish up beautifully if desired, revealing hidden folds, pleats, nips and tucks, trapped in rock for ever, boldly resisting the cruel arbiter of fashion.

  The multiplicity of species on the planet meant that all speculative construction had to be simple and adaptable to the general needs of most species. We have a large dining room and a comfortable spacious sitting room, each with an open fireplace. The low calorific content of the local timber and the high proportion of Noxule gas in the atmosphere conspire to make Provender fires loud, colourful events rather than particularly warming ones. We also have the customary broad kitchen with its variety of tools and equipment suitable for dismembering and preparing even the largest of natural creatures, should the need arise; with the traditional icy store room attached. There are three bedrooms, we are planning two more, and a particularly resourceful reproduction and gratification suite, equipped to cater for the subtle climatic, emotional and physical requirements of any creature we are ever likely to welcome under our roof. We do have a couple of old friends who are Chrysms, but although we pride ourselves on our liberal attitudes, my wife and I have always insisted that if ever they stay with us they can bring their own Yumice. Last, but not least, the abluting suite. This was something else that would have to be upgraded to our requirements when the weather was more clement. The previous incumbent obviously never washed anything he could not see and with his failing eyesight in the last years this must have precluded virtually everything, necessitating a complete fibril blast of the house before we moved in.

  After our three days trapped watching the antics of the green vapour we were a little wary of venturing out. The last of the vapour had rushed off down the valley as unexpectedly as it had come. We had it on good authority that such storms were sudden and infrequent, so, after confining our movements to the immediate vicinity of the house for a few more days, my wife and I bravely resolved to venture out for a meal to an establishment warmly recommended by Mr Dobson, at least my wife was sure that his recommendation was warm.

  I unlocked the garage and my Stromba eased itself out into the cool air. I had had misgivings about parting with my prize Ferenziculo when we moved to Provender. When you are accustomed to the best it is hard to settle for anything less: the sleek almost weightless shell, with its frictionless coating, the seats that mould themselves to you and clasp you like an ardent lover and the reflex controls that get you there almost before you have decided where to go. But as Carlo, my Plasmatist on Conima, advised, “Provender has only two coordinate cells, is three light years from the nearest Plasmatist (ten from the nearest recommended one), and are you going to bring it back to Conima every time it runs out of 41K?” I was convinced: we would have to buy one of Provender’s durable, one tries to avoid saying laughable, little Strombas. However, that proved almost as much of a problem as importing a Ferenziculo. Provender is a gustatory paradise, not a technological one. Anything which does not naturally occur on Provender is regarded as a threat to the economy and the limited ability of the population. In spite of stringent trade policies within the nebula and grant-aid to encourage the importation and adoption of technology established for millennia elsewhere, the inhabitants of Provender continue to tread their own path, which in many areas is preferable to handling a Stromba.

  My wife and I had presented ourselves to the nearest Stromba dealer, a young Drool with an annoying turn of phrase. He was not the first dealer we had suspected of speaking perineally but the first we had met who literally did so. He obviously had never met Conimunculi before, or else had scant regard for their comfort. The first Stromba we tried had no space whatsoever for my wife. In the end we settled for a modified Stromba that had been intended for a Nullion,but he was eaten unexpectedly before collecting it. We said we would have it and could we take it? Apparently not. We had the money, codes of reference, incubation receipts, synaptic verification, even by chance my wife’s Scanplan, but no, he wanted more. Could we show our current Species Rating? I said no. “No Stromba,” he said, squatting for inflection.

  I did not need my wife to translate. I have always held the Species Rating in disregard. Actuarial tables of species risk, covering as they do the 7,463 species requiring equipment to transport them, are totally inaccurate. They take no stock of individual aptitude and accomplishment, and only a very general account of environment. It is pure chance that Conimunculi score so low on this scale: the figures were completely distorted thirty years ago when freak interference waves from deep space briefly reversed the controls on every vehicle of the western land masses of Conima, resulting in an average of one accident for every three Conimunculi; every stationary vehicle started and every moving vehicle stopped. Freak occurrences of this sort have no place in actuarial tables that dictate current price adjustments. Despite my protestations the dealer ’screened through the information for himself and imposed a massive government surcharge on us, which rather took the fun out of our first trip home in the Stromba.

  With Mr Dobson’s directions firmly etched on my wife’s memory we slid off in search of nutrition. The directions took us spiralling up crags of Couth and down through shimmering fields of Palanxas, their tiny blue shoots just piercing through the crusty flood plains. Later they would sprout the dark green horns of flesh that are indispensible with sliced Clovis. We stopped outside a domed dwelling, constructed apparently from the fossilized rib bones of the long since extinct Megamega, a huge creature, as legend has it, that grew quicker than it could be eaten, whose growth was stimulated by b
eing eaten, and had no objection to being eaten. The perfect foodstuff, one might think, but in the end each creature grew so huge it was unable to crawl to another to mate and finally each one collapsed in on itself under the immense force of gravity on its vast bulk, leaving cathedral-like skeletons. These sank into the fine Megamega guano of the flood plains where they had lived and were revealed again eons later when meandering rivers cut fresh courses.

  Our hosts were a pair of Copuli, permanently joined at the waist, as are all Copuli, by a length of gristle that they coyly draped in pink fluffy material. After marriage separation of Copuli can only be occasioned by death, disease or divorce. This unerring attachment to one another, whilst it can be considered charming, normally leads Copuli to choose other occupations than, for instance, running a restaurant. My wife and I rather wished that Mr Dobson had apprised us of this fact, but always in search of new tastes and experiences, we followed our hosts to our appointed table. We perused the menu in the dim, flickery light of a Noxule gas lamp, which spluttered and popped, and gave off a peculiar smell. The odd light seemed to make the vaulted roof of cream ribs above us jostle as if they were still inside some great breathless beast. I observed that what purported to be the menu seemed to be a list of contractual obligations on the part of the customer to eat what was presented before him in its entirety or face a harsh financial penalty for leftovers. I looked at my wife. She looked at me and almost at the same instant we laughed.

  “What a marvellous idea,” I said. “What an amusing joke.” Old Mr Dobson had spotted we had a sense of humour. This was obviously a trick the locals played on unsuspecting visitors.

  Noticing our mirth the Copuli shuffled awkwardly over with a sheet of paper for us to sign. It was a copy of the menu. They seemed genuinely surprised when we signed it, with mock seriousness. “Anyway,” I said to my wife, “what can they possibly give us from Provender that isn’t delicious?” We were soon to learn. A deformed long-haired creature, I had no idea of what species, hopped up to our table on one leg and presented us with an opened bottle of Halmatrope with no information on the label whatsoever. When I asked if there was any choice he shrugged and left it for us. I poured it. Its colour was good. It was lively, rather mischievous, as the best Halmatrope are, and, by golly, did it have a nose on it! Expecting disappointment I tried it. It was superb. We consumed it before the arrival of our meal and the waiter, unbidden, brought us another bottle. Then came the meal: there were no starters or puddings, just one main course, an enormous haunch of Nullion. I had never seen such a well-grown Nullion before and it was as lean and succulent as you could ever wish.