“This is a very big step you’re contemplating,” Montane commented as he began to prepare the tea. “You fully understand, I take it, that the money you transfer to the mission will be in the form of a donation?”
“What else could it be?”
“My point is that you won’t be buying a holding in some kind of commercial enterprise—a starship construction company, let’s say—a holding which you could dispose of at some future date should you wish to do so.”
“You’re saying I won’t be able to get my money back.”
“I’m saying precisely that.” Montane set out two antique-looking china cups and saucers. “And the amount involved is bound to be quite large.”
“Oh, well—in for an orb, in for a crescent,” Nicklin said, immediately regretting his attempt at flippancy as he noted the seriousness of Montane’s expression.
“There’s a lot more than mere orbs and cents at stake here,” Montane replied. “I’m very happy for Danea and you, of course, and I wish you every happiness together, but—”
“My feelings about her aren’t going to change, and even if they did—which they aren’t—I don’t see that it would have any bearing on any financial agreement between you and me.” Nicklin was surprised to hear himself speaking with a degree of forcefulness which he had rarely achieved before—especially with a stranger—and he tentatively identified the Danea effect again.
Montane halted in the act of opening a jar of milk capsules. “I apologise, Jim. I intended no slur on Danea or you. I accept that you love each other, although it was all rather sudden by my personal timetable, but will you give me a direct answer to a direct question?”
“Of course.”
Montane set the jar down and turned to face Nicklin. “Are you a believer, Jim? Do you truly believe in God and in the message I bring to mankind on His behalf?”
“I…” Nicklin looked into the calmness of the grey eyes and for once in his life understood the futility of lying. He turned his head from side to side, slowly, once.
Unexpectedly, Montane gave him a broad smile. “If you had tried to fool me on that one, I’d have booted you out of here, Jim—regardless of how much money it cost the mission. I can only work with people I respect, and who respect me. Milk?”
“One,” Nicklin said as Montane picked up the small jar. “I’m glad we cleared the air, but I’m a bit surprised.”
“At my taking on a non-believer? These are very special times, Jim. Naturally, I would prefer it if everybody I came in contact with was a disciple of the Lord, but this is an imperfect world and I have to use any instrument that He sends in my direction. The mission will benefit in two ways from your joining us—firstly, from your generous donation to our funds; secondly, from your practical skills. Danea tells me you are an excellent engineer.”
“Technician might be a better word, and only in a small way.” Nicklin accepted a cup of tea, and as he sipped it the feeling that something was amiss returned to him. Was it that Danea had warned him about speaking of his atheism to Montane? She had indicated that Montane would be deeply displeased, but in the event the man had proved to be quite indifferent. She had also said that no “paying guests” were permitted to come along for the ride, and that too was incorrect. It appeared she was not as familiar with her leader’s views as one might have expected…
“Well, I’m pleased to accept you into my team, and I’m sure you’ll be a useful member regardless of whether we style you engineer or technician,” Montane said. “And now we ought to sort out some necessary details—does it embarrass you to talk about money?”
“It’s one of my favourite subjects.”
“Good! Money is very important to us.” Montane came to sit on an old adjustable chair opposite Nicklin, a move which brought him close to the metal coffin. He placed his cup and saucer on it while he angled the seat to a more comfortable position. As an avowed materialist, Nicklin tried not to show any reaction, but using a loved one’s coffin as an occasional table struck him as being vaguely distasteful. Unfortunately for him, he also saw the little domestic absurdity as being very funny—especially for a religious leader—and he was not at all certain of being able to control his amusement.
“Milly would have liked being helpful around the place,” Montane explained, apparently prompted by some kind of near-telepathy as he retrieved his tea. “This way we’re still man and wife—if you see what I mean—until she is properly laid to rest.”
“I quite understand,” Nicklin muttered, staring fixedly into his cup and fighting the urge to laugh. Why, O Gaseous Vertebrate, does life never serve anything up to us absolutely straight? Why does every drama have to contain its element of the ludicrous? Why does every leader have to have a squeaky voice or a boil on his bum? Is it your way of hinting to us that everything might be part of a big joke?
“You’re looking a bit pensive, son,” Montane said. “Is there anything on your mind?”
“Nothing too weighty,” Nicklin assured the older man. “Just odd thoughts about this and that. It isn’t every day that a man begins a brand-new life, you know.”
Although he had put just about everything he owned into the hands of the Portal One Bank, it took Nicklin longer than he had expected to vacate his premises. He kept finding last-minute jobs to do, personal minutiae to preserve or destroy, all kinds of trivial items which somehow could not be abandoned without leaving notes for future users. When he had arranged for Danea to pick him up at midday it had seemed that he was allowing ample time in which to pull out, but now a distinct undertone of panic was creeping into everything.
The weather had changed during the night. Opaque grey clouds had come sifting in from the west, and the breeze which had sprung up was strong enough to activate the whistle trees on the far bank of the stream. They had curled their leaves and were emitting a mournful, ruminative keening which reminded Nicklin of the sound effects in a bad melodrama. There had been no rain as yet, but the air felt cool, moist and heavy.
Luckily, this was one of the days on which Maxy Millom was not due to put in an appearance, so Nicklin was spared the interrogation which would have been inevitable. He had the pleasure of penning Maxy a note which informed him that he was no longer in employment, then he concentrated on the series of less rewarding chores.
Everywhere he went he was conscious of being observed by Zindee. She had been in bed and asleep the previous night when he had paid the Whites a courtesy call to let them know he was pulling out. He had told Cham and Nora practically nothing about his true motivations, but on the instant of hearing the news from her parents Zindee would have understood that it was all to do with Danea Farthing. She was out there somewhere as he worked, near by, covertly watching him while she weighed up the changes that were going to be wrought in her life. He very much wanted them to part as good friends, but there was little point in his going to the Whites’ house and trying to speak to her—if everything was going to be all right Zindee would come to him.
Fifteen minutes before midday, magically, all the necessary chores had been completed. He made one last lour of his apartment, the library and the workshop, then locked the place up. He put the keys and all documents required by Mr Figg into a pocket, carried his single suitcase across the footbridge and set it on the ground to await Danea’s arrival. Zindee was bound to realise that he was on the point of leaving, but she remained out of sight. The first of the rain began to fall, huge tumbling drops which popped audibly into the dust, and he took shelter under a tree.