“Do you think,” she said, savouring every word, “I didn’t know that?”
And there we have it, he thought. Danea, of all people, has no reason to doubt my sexuality—and yet something told her what to say. Something about me tells all of them what to say. When they want to put me down, or when the opposite is the case and they want to… Nicklin blinked as his thoughts led him unerringly to the solution of another little mystery, one which had been quietly but persistently tugging at an obscure corner of his mind.
On the morning Danea had driven out to his place, the morning he had ceased being an ugly duckling and had become a swan, she had referred time and time again to his prowess with women. It had been a keynote of her conversation. Tell me the truth, Jim—just how many women have you taken for a walk up here? Words spoken in tones of rueful admiration. Words spoken by a woman acknowledging her helplessness while under the spell of a charming roue. Words that throughout his adult life he had craved to hear!
Danea had known exactly what to say, because something about him always gave the game away. On the evening of that first meeting on Orangefield common she had looked at him, and had done a perfect cold reading on him, and known at once how to go about robbing him of everything he owned. Not only that—she had known how to make him enjoy being plucked and trussed and handed over to Montane. In the space of only a few hours he had gone from duckling to swan to oven-ready turkey, and had loved every moment of it!
“You’re good, Danea,” he said simply. “You’re very good at what you do.”
As he was turning away he thought he saw, perhaps for one fraction of a second, a stricken look in Danea’s eyes, but if he had learned one lesson it was not to trust his judgement in such matters. That look had probably been manufactured just for his benefit—showing a master’s painstaking attention to the very last and finest detail. Danea had made it clear what she really thought of him—and it had turned out to be much the same as what all other women thought of him—and the only important thing now was deciding what to do with the rest of his life.
He could never again face up to all the good burghers of Orangefield, even though it would have been so nice to be in Zindee’s wise-beyond-her-years company once more; and he had no intention of staying on in Millennium City. The best plan might be to head for the anonymity of Beachhead, but he had no more than ten orbs in his pocket, not even enough for the rail fare. A murmur of voices reached Nicklin from the group by the marquee and his face began to burn as he guessed Danea had rejoined her friends, possibly to regale them with new details of how she had handled the simpleton from Orangefield.
He had to get away from the scene of his mortification as quickly as he possibly could. For that he needed some money, and the only source he could think of was Corey Montane. It was hard to think of a greater humiliation than going cap in hand to the sanctimonious Fagin who had cleaned him out, but if Montane wanted to go on with his man-of-God impersonation he might be willing to part with a hundred or two. Especially if he were threatened with trouble!
Nicklin tried to imagine himself bursting into Montane’s camper with an iron bar in his hand, and his misery intensified as he realised how preposterous the notion was. Violence simply was not in his nature, no matter how much he might be provoked, and he could not even envisage going to the police or the local news media. Montane had been very careful to establish that there was no connection between Nicklin’s personal relationship with Danea Farthing and his donation to the mission’s funds. The most Nicklin could hope to achieve by kicking up a public rumpus would be to multiply the number of people who saw him as a prize ass.
As he was walking towards Montane’s vehicle it occurred to him that, considering all that had happened to him, he was reacting more like an automaton than a human being. He was being a bit too civilised and passive, even for Jim Nicklin, but there was a strangeness somewhere deep inside him—an ineffable psychic tremor which hinted at emotional earthquakes to come. It was advisable for him to make what practical arrangements he could while the blessed numbness persisted.
Finding the middle door of Montane’s camper open, he went up the steps and into the vehicle without preamble. Montane was sitting on the side bench, cup of tea in hand, watching a small television set which he had placed on his wife’s coffin. Even though it could not have been more than five or six kilometres to the local photocast station, the image of a newsman was poor, thanks to mist in the intervening air. The sound quality was reasonable, however, and Montane seemed totally absorbed by what was being said.
He raised his free hand in a mute hello to Nicklin, then pointed at a chair, inviting him to sit down. Feeling that he had already been placed at a tactical disadvantage, Nicklin reluctantly lowered himself into the seat. His knees were almost touching the coffin, and as he gazed at the silvery surface he found himself speculating about its contents. Had the body of Milly Montane been specially treated to prevent decomposition? Or was he sitting right up against a box full of… ? He aborted the thought with all possible speed and turned his attention to the newscast in which Montane was so engrossed.
“…stressed that they could only make an educated guess at this stage, because radio links between all portals have not yet been fully re-established,” the announcer was saying. “It does appear, however, that the mysterious green lines are a global phenomenon. They have been reported in the vicinity of more than twenty portal cities, and experts who have been extrapolating the figures think that the lines are roughly 950 kilometres apart, all the way around the Orbitsville equator.
“The mind boggles, doesn’t it? Mine certainly does, but a good boggle has never done anybody any harm—that’s what I always say.
“We’ll bring you more on that story later, but now we are returning to our panel discussion on the economic effects of what some scientists are already referring to as the Big Jump. With the portal communities now effectively cut off from each other, many manufacturing centres are denied access to their markets. If the present situation continues, the greatest growth industry of all time is likely to be the construction of interportal spaceships.
“With us to talk about the problem is Rick Renard, who has scarcely been off the air in the last few days, because—as you are no doubt aware—he is the owner of the Hawkshead, the starship which vanished while disembarking at Portal 36. Mr Renard is already forming a consortium for the design and building of…” Image and voice faded together as Montane reached out and switched off the television.
“Good morning, Jim,” he said. “Tea?”
Nicklin continued staring into the lifeless grey screen, hardly aware that the other man had spoken. Something uncanny had happened to him while he was listening to the photocast, something outside all his previous experience. At the mention of Renard’s name there had been a heaving—that was the only word he could apply to the sensation—in the deepest levels of his consciousness… a leviathan had stirred briefly in some black prehistoric swamp of his mind…
Renard! The name threw off expanding circular echoes of itself. Reynard! That means fox. But this fox doesn’t want to eat small boys-he wants to build spaceships. The fox and the spaceship! It sounds like one of those cute pubs, and what has that got to do with… ?
“Are you with me, Jim?” Montane said, giving him a quizzical look. “I’m offering you a cup of my best tea.”