Chapter 7
An hour spent with the manager of the Orangefield branch of the Portal One Bank had left Nicklin emotionally exhausted. He was not sure why an interview with Dixon Figg should have that kind of an effect on him, but it always had, and he was glad to leave the hushed dove-grey offices of the bank and go for a restorative walk in Mumford Park.
Except in large cities, the profession of realtor had all but ceased to exist in the two centuries that man had been on Orbitsville. It was ironic, Nicklin often thought, that it was a surfeit of the very commodity they traded in which had practically forced real estate dealers out of existence. With entire continents available for nothing, clients willing to pay more than peanuts per hectare had become elusive.
The banks, ever ready to fill a commercial vacuum, had absorbed land management into their activities, and as a consequence Figg had a comprehensive knowledge of Nicklin’s affairs. The thing which annoyed Nicklin was that Figg always treated him with barely hidden disapproval, even contempt, in spite of his sensible business practices, avoidance of debt, and an accumulation of some 40,000 orbs in his personal savings account. Figg was only reflecting the town’s prejudices, Nicklin surmised, but surely it was incumbent upon the manager of a bank to be more civilised than the local stubblejaws.
On being told that Nicklin wanted to liquidate every one of his assets in preparation for leaving town in a couple of days, Dixon Figg’s expression had gone from shock to outrage to deep suspicion in as many seconds. The display had cowed Nicklin so thoroughly that he had not dared to give the real reason for his drastic proposal. Instead he had launched into a series of lies about a cousin in Beachhead City who had presented him with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy into the family’s ventilation engineering business. Under Figg’s astute probing the structure of lies had become more complicated and increasingly shaky, until in the end—his intelligence roundly insulted—the banker had withdrawn into the hostile iciness with which he concluded the interview.
Now, walking amidst the greenery of the park, Nicklin was reproaching himself for not having been tough and cold with Figg. Tough, cold and—if necessary—brutal. When the questioning started he should have silenced Figg with the verbal equivalent of a broadsword. Perhaps he would do just that in the morning when he went to collect his underwritten draft for 82,000 orbs, but it was much more likely that he would be as ineffectual as ever. It was only when he was with Danea that the bold and positive side of his personality seemed to emerge, enhanced by the power of her feelings for him.
The realisation that he would soon be quitting oppressive Orangefield for ever, and going off into the unknown with her, gave his spirits a powerful boost, enabling him to drive the crabbed Mr Figg out of his thoughts. He strolled around the little park twice, breathing deeply and consciously relaxing, until it was almost time for his 11.00 a.m. appointment with Corey Montane. Leaving by the east gate, he walked the length of Telegraph Row, making good progress because there were few shoppers around at that drowsy time of day, the tail-end of the mid-morning lull. He emerged on Buckboard Lane, one of the boundaries of the common, which was comparatively free of vehicles and easy to get across.
The mission’s marquee glowed like a snowdrift beyond the screen of trees. As he approached it he saw that the site, with its rectangular group of cars, campers and trailers, was almost deserted. Several men and women were sitting on the steps of the platform, talking earnestly among themselves, but he knew not to look for Danea among them. For reasons he had not fully understood, she had thought it best to remain out of sight until after his talk with Montane. The most convenient person to ask guidance from was a man who was leaning against a nearby tree, his head concealed beneath an enormous droop-rimmed straw sun-hat. His back was to Nicklin and he appeared to be eating a banapple.
“Hi, there!” Nicklin said. “Can you tell me where I might find Corey Montane?”
The man turned, smiling, and Nicklin saw that he was the black of whom Maxy had spoken. “No might about it! I can tell you where you will definitely find Corey.”
“That’s even better,” Nicklin replied, smiling in return, and doing his best not to stare at the deeply pigmented skin of the man’s face and hands.
“Over there. The silver job with no writing on the side.”
“Thank you.” Nicklin nodded and went in the indicated direction. He was pleased because the black man had treated him with amiable courtesy, as few locals would have done, and it reinforced his feeling that he was throwing his lot in with soulmates—travellers, cosmopolitans, people who had seen a thing or two.
As he neared the silver trailer, Corey Montane appeared in the open doorway and came on to the step to meet him. The first thing Nicklin noticed was that the impression of ordinariness he had projected from the stage was no longer present. It was his face that made the difference when Montane was seen at close range. The features were conventionally handsome and as clearly defined as those of a cartoon character. Nicklin, in spite of having no art training, felt he could have produced a recognisable lightning sketch of Montane. The regular features—ruler-straight nose and square chin, glossy dark hair coming to a widow’s peak—would have taken just a few strokes of the charcoal. Only the eyes would have been difficult, impossible, even for a master portraitist. They were grey, deep-set and full of lively interest, but at the same time they seemed to be focused on some point very far beyond Nicklin. It was as if the mind behind them had weighed him up and found him to be of only transient interest. While Nicklin was there in the flesh that interest would be as complete and sympathetic as Montane could make it, but his true concern was with matters infinite and eternal.
Nicklin liked him immediately, and—against his expectations—felt considerable respect for him. “I’m Jim Nicklin,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hello, Jim.” Montane’s handshake was firm and dry. “Danea has been telling me all about you. Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea? We can talk better in the old bus and it’s a lot cooler inside—at least it would be if the air conditioning was working properly.”
“I can put it right for you,” Nicklin said as he followed Montane into the vehicle. “It’s probably just a matter of—” He broke off on seeing the long silvery box occupying the centre of the floor space.
Montane gave him an appraising, slightly amused glance. “Yes, it’s just what it appears to be- a coffin. Temporary resting place for my wife. Didn’t Danea tell you about my unusual domestic arrangement?”
“Ah… no.”
“She probably didn’t want you to think I was crazy.” Montane nodded towards a cushioned bench, inviting Nicklin to be seated. “We run the mission on strictly democratic lines, you know. One of our principal rules is that accommodation has to be shared out equally, but although there’s enough room in my vehicle for a few more people nobody ever suggests moving in. They pretend it’s out of respect for me, but who would want to share with a casket? Especially one that was occupied…”
Nicklin tried to smile. “Not too many, I suppose.”
“It’s understandable, but my circumstances are far from being normal.”
That has to be the understatement of the decade, Nicklin thought, an ambivalence creeping into his opinion of Montane. The initial instinctive respect was still there, but what man in his right mind toted his wife’s dead body around everywhere he went? Or even anywhere he went? It was bound to be against some statute or other, and had it ever been possible to introduce effective law enforcement on the Big O—in place of the prevalent system of restrained anarchy—Montane would have been in trouble. Something else the man had said was causing tremors of unease far back in Nicklin’s consciousness, but he had no time to identify it.