Millennium City, Nicklin thought, sinking back on to his pillow as he identified the location. Where he came from the town was the butt of many jokes because of the discrepancy between its grand name and the red-grimed wasteland of open-cast bauxite mines, purification plants and railroad sidings. He was in no hurry to leave his bed for the privilege of seeing more of Millennium City or its inhabitants. Gentle snores from other bunks suggested to Nicklin that his new companions were of a like frame of mind.
He expected that they would all soon be rousted out to begin erecting the big marquee, but for the present he had the symbolism of the strange dream to think about. Why had a fox been part of the cast? Was it merely because of the menacing fox character in the half-remembered Disney version of Pinocchio? And what was the significance of that most implausible geographical feature—the hollow hill? Could it have represented the womb? Had it had something to do with his mother’s presence? Nicklin had not dreamed of her in a long time, and it was strange that his unconscious mind had chosen to portray her as one who was prepared to hand him over to a monster. Monster… mons… mons veneris… Montanel Had Nicklin, in the dream, been handed over to and swallowed up by a small mountain—Montane? Had his mother, his betraying mother, represented Danea Farthing, whom he had only last night begun to suspect of… ?
The whirlwind of confusing questions and simplistic, amateurish associations abruptly collapsed in Nicklin’s mind, deprived of its motive power by the aridity of the real world. It was an objective fact that Danea had been avoiding him ever since he had joined the mission; and there was no doubt at all that she had been talking too freely to the tall one with the flashlight—what was her name?—Christine. Why had he not sought Danea out yesterday and forced the issue? Why, in the name of the Gaseous Vertebrate, had he delayed so long before deciding to confront Danea and get everything straight between them?
Feeling cold and sick, impelled by an urge to learn and verify the worst, Nicklin got out of his bunk. Ignoring the sonic shower cubicle, he pulled on the clothes he had worn the previous day and went out into the morning sunlight. The first thing he noticed was the marquee spread out over a large area of grass, but no work was actually being done to erect it. A number of people were gathered near the expanse of lazily rippling material, some of them arguing with each other.
As Nicklin was stepping down from the camper, two men and two women detached themselves from the larger group and strode towards the sports field’s entrance. They were carrying suitcases and had some extra items of clothing slung over shoulders or arms. The leader was Dee Smethurst, the plump archetypal cook, whose face bore an expression of outrage.
“It’s you I feel sorry for, mister,” she said to Nicklin as she passed by. “I don’t hold anything against you.”
Her companions nodded, their sun-hats bobbing, and they went on their determined way before Nicklin could ask what the cook had meant. The driver of a taxi which was waiting beyond the field’s single gate got out of his vehicle to greet them. Nicklin heard one of the four say something about a railroad station, confirming that he had just witnessed a small desertion among Montane’s followers.
Puzzled, he took his own sun-hat out of his pocket, spread it into a circle and jammed it on to his head before walking towards the larger group. He now felt keyed up, yet cool and balanced, ready for anything—the epitome of the new urbane Jim Nicklin who had been too big for Orangefield to hold. The state of mind lasted until he saw Danea Farthing, and not one second longer.
She was dressed in black again, but with a circular skirt instead of pants, and the sight of the lean-hipped figure in among all the ordinary faceless people did peculiar things to Nicklin’s pulse. The sensation of all resolve draining out of him was almost a physical one, evocative of childhood dismay on finding hot urine running down his legs. The Danea effect in reverse, he thought. What am I going to say to her?
He began to force a cold smile as he drew close to Danea, but felt his mouth curve up at the corners—giving him his old happy hayseed expression—and he settled for a look of calm seriousness. For one craven instant he hoped she would evade him, but her eyes met his without hesitation.
“There you are, Jim,” she said smiling warmly. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”
He responded with a nod, less confident than ever, wondering if he was about to make a fool of himself because of an attack of lover’s paranoia. “Can we talk?”
The men and women standing within earshot did not actually nudge each other, but an unmistakable frisson went through them, and their reaction saddened Nicklin. It was all the confirmation he needed.
“What do you want to talk about?” Danea enquired, with more brightness than was strictly necessary.
“Not here.” He glanced around the others, taking in their frozen grins and casually averted eyes.
“I’m supposed to be helping here, but…” Danea shrugged and fell in beside him as he began walking towards the goalposts in an empty quarter of the field. “Well, how did you sleep last night? I heard we stopped for something out in the middle of nowhere, but I slept right through it, myself. Did you get up?”
“Didn’t Christine tell you I was there?”
“What do you… ? Why should she?”
The blue ribs of the Orbitsville sky pulsed at the edges of Nicklin’s vision. “You and Christine tell each other everything, don’t you?”
Danea wheeled on him immediately, all trace of heaviness gone from her eyes. “What the fuck is this all about?”
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “I guess it’s about nothing.”
“Look, I’m sorry.” Danea pressed the back of a hand to her forehead, slightly altering the tilt of her black stetson. “I don’t usually talk like that—it’s just that I’ve been so worried. I feel guilty about you, Jim. What happened between us… it was all a mistake.”
Nicklin’s throat closed up painfully, preventing him from speaking.
“I’ve no idea what could have happened to me,” Danea went on. “I don’t know what kind of impression I gave you.”
Nicklin’s memory stirred into action, restoring his power of speech. “You gave me the impression that we could live together in our own camper—but Montane told me that was never on the cards.”
“Do you wear a recorder everywhere you go? Do you record every casual remark then pick it apart afterwards?”
“What?”
“Well let me tell you something for nothing, Mata Hari—I don’t like being spied on by anybody, especially you!”
The sheer irrationality of the attack confounded Nicklin. “I think Mata Hari was a woman,” he said automatically, and on the instant of speaking saw the verbal cudgel he had put into Danea’s hands. Will she use it? Please, O Gaseous Vertebrate, don’t let her sink that low. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and he watched in fascination as surprise, gratification and triumph flitted across her features.