They danced and they danced and they danced under the hasty moons until the radio announcer said that the station was going off the air now and he wished everyone a good night.
“Good night!” said everyone.
“Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” said the wireless.
And everyone had had a good night.
“The best night,” said Rajandra Das to Mr. Jericho as they stumbled drunkenly toward their respective beds. And all the Exalted Ancestors agreed.
Marriage was beautiful for the Babooshka and Grandfather Haran, and all who saw them felt the aura of love that surrounded them when they were together and were made joyful. Yet the couple’s joy was not full, for there was a shadow in the heart of it. That shadow had been spoken into the world by the Babooshka one night, wrapped up against the chill evening in her scarlet flannel pyjamas.
“Haran, I wish to have a child.”
Grandfather Haran choked on his hot chocolate.
“What?”
“Why can’t we have a child, dear husband? A little, perfect child.”
“Woman, be serious. We are too old for children.”
“But Haran, this is the Twelfth Decade, miracles are happening every day. This is the age of the possible, so we are told, so it is possible for us, not so? Tell me, my man, do you want a child?”
“Well… it would be lovely, but…”
“Husband, it is what I am living for! Ah, to be a wife is wonderful, but to be a mother too! Haran, tell me, if I can find a way for us to bear children, will you agree to us having a child? Will you?”
Thinking this, wrongly, to be a passing whim of a recently-wed wife, Grandfather Haran set down his mug, rolled over in his bed, and growled, “Of course, dearest, of course.” He was soon asleep. The Babooshka sat up in bed until the dawn came. Her eyes were bright and twinkling as garnets.
12
There was very little in Desolation Road that missed the attention of Limaal and Taasmin Mandella. Even before Dr. Alimantando, besieged by algebra in his weather-room, had turned his opticon upon it, the twins had spotted the plume of dust on the edge of the other half of the world beyond the tracks. They rushed to tell Dr. Alimantando. Since their true grandfather’s marriage, Dr. Alimantando had become a much more satisfactory grandfather figure, a grandfather with a touch of the wizard in him, kindly, but a little awesome. Dr. Alimantando heard Limaal and Taasmin clattering up the winding staircase and was happy. He rather enjoyed being a grandfather.
Through the opticon the plume of dust took on the shape of a paisleypatterned caterpillar, which under increased magnification was seen to be a truck and two trailers, advancing at great speed across the dry plains.
“Look,” said Dr. Alimantando, pointing at the display screen. “What does that say?”
“ROTECH,” said Limaal, in whom the seeds of rationalism were germinating.
“Heart of Lothian: Genetic Education,” said Taasmin, similarly cursed with mystery.
“Let’s go and meet this Heart of Lothian, shall we?” suggested Dr. Alimantando. The children took his hands, Limaal right, Taasmin left, and dragged him down the steep, winding stairs and out into the scalding sunlight of fourteen minutes of fourteen. The rest of the population had preceded them but lacking their titular head they did not know what to do and stood about uncertainly, slightly in awe of the word ROTECH on the front of the paisley-patterned tractor. A huge round woman with a face like a potato was handing out business cards.
“Welcome to Desolation Road,” said Dr. Alimantando, bowing correctly. The children aped his actions.
“Alimantando.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said the big big woman. She spoke with a curious accent that nobody could quite place. “Heart of Lothian: genetic engineer, hybridization consultant, eugenic education officer for ROTECH. Thank you.” She bowed her ponderous bulk to Dr. Alimantando, Limaal, and Taasmin in turn. “One thing,” she said, “this place doesn’t show up on any of the maps… you sure you’re registered with the Bureau of Development?”
“Well,” said Dr. Alimantando, “er…”
“Doesn’t matter,” boomed Heart of Lothian. “Run into them all the time. I’ll sort it out with the boys in China Mountain when I get back. Happens all the time, but it’s no skin off my nose. Here…” She handed them each a business card and shouted in a voice like a thunderstorm, “The cards you’re holding entitle you to one free admission, with glass of wine, to Heart of Lothian’s Travelling Genetic Education Show: all the wonders of today’s biotechnology made available to you, at no cost, through the generosity of ROTECH’s regional development council. Roll up, roll up! bring the family, old and young, man and boy, come one, come all and see how ROTECH can help your plantation, your garden, your orchard, your pastureland, your livestock, your fatstock, your birds beasts and bushes, all at the Great PaisleyPattern Biotechnology Show. Doors open twenty o’clock. First ten get free ROTECH badges, stickers and posters. Hats for the kiddies and everyone gets a free glass of wine. Then,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “I’ll show you how I make it.”
At twenty hours every man, woman and child in Desolation Road was standing in line outside Heart of Lothian’s travelling show. It had somehow unfolded from a tractor and two trailers into a blossom of paisley-patterned canvas and flashing neon lights. A tethered helium balloon hovered a hundred metres overhead, trailing a long banner proclaiming the glories of Heart of Lothian’s Travelling Genetic Education Show. Loudspeakers poured out fast foot-twitching dance music. Everyone was very excited, not on account of the benefits their smallholdings might reap (Rael Mandella was growing increasingly worried at the depletion of his germ bank and the resulting inbreeding of the town’s livestock), but because in a place of ten houses, where even the arrival of the weekly train was an event, the advent of a travelling show was only a little less awesome than if the Panarch and all the hosts of the Five Heavens had marched over Desolation Road to the sound of flutes and drums.
At twenty minutes of twenty Heart of Lothian threw the doors open and the people streamed in in a jostling, elbowing mass. Everyone got a bag of mixed ROTECH goodies: given Desolation Road’s tiny population, to limit the largesse to the first ten would have been unjust. Glasses of wine in hand, the people beheld the wonders of ROTECH’s genetic science. They were amazed by the fertility hormones that enabled a goat to give birth to as many as eight kids at one time; they marveled at the clone-kits that could grow live chickens out of nothing but eggshells and feathers; they oohed and ahhed at the growth accelerators that could bring any living thing, vegetable or animal (even human, said Heart of Lothian), to full maturity in a couple of days; they wondered at the engineered bacteria which could eat rock, make plastic, cure plant diseases, generate methane gas, and produce iron from sand; they goggled at Heart of Lothian’s fermentory, a great bag of blue artificial flesh that digested any form of household waste and bled red, white or rose wine on demand from its nipples; and they crept timorously into the darkened room marked Monster Mash and pretended to be offended by the genetic mish-mashs that lurked, roared or slithered within their protective environments. Decked out in orange paper caps printed with the word ROTECH and the nine-spoked Catherine wheel symbol in black, Limaal, Taasmin, and Johnny Stalin stayed there for hours, taunting the agapanthas to snap their metre-wide jaws and the dragons to puff little balls of witchfire. Finally Heart of Lothian herself had to throw them out when she found Limaal and Taasmin trying to force Johnny Stalin through the gas lock into the piranha bats’ low temperature cage.