I must admit that you really had me going for a while, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he thought ruefully. But now that I’ve peeped at the universe I do believe that it, too, is all part of the Big Joke. And what next? Why, I think the most sensible thing to do right now would be to bugger off somewhere and have another beer…
By late afternoon Nicklin was beginning to tire of exploring Beachhead City on foot. The beneficial effect of the eight or so glasses of beer he had consumed during his wanderings was wearing off, giving way to a drowsy apathy. He had never expected to develop any attachment for his cramped new sleeping quarters, but now he yearned to squeeze himself into the bunk bed and simply lose consciousness.
Drawing on his sketchy knowledge of the city centre, he headed in a direction he believed would let him intercept the transit to Cinnamon Brow, where the mission was stationed. He was walking past a window display of 3D television sets when the row of solid images abruptly changed. In place of graphs showing some kind of production figures there appeared the head and shoulders of a pink-faced, well-padded man who was giving the world a confident smile. A slight prominence of his teeth seemed to add aggressiveness to his expression.
I know that face, Nicklin thought, his memory stirring. The spaceship man… Rick Renard… Renard… Reynard!
Nicklin’s stride faltered as into his mind there flashed the likeness of the Fox from Disney’s Pinocchio—toothy, slavering, menacing, nose like a shiny black olive perched on the end of his snout. The dream! That damned dream with the fox in man’s clothing and the garden which covered a hollow hill. What had it to do with spaceships? Nicklin experienced a coolness along his spine as the leviathan heaved once more in the black swamps of his subconscious. For one pounding instant he seemed on the verge of understanding the whole bizarre scenario, then there came the maddening sensation which accompanies the escape of elusive memories, the sense of a door slamming in the mind just as the grinning quarry slips through to the other side.
Irritated by the incident and hoping he was not going to become obsessive about it, Nicklin went on his way, growing more tired with every step.
Darkness had slid across the world by the time he got back to tin mission, and although he was still weary he now wanted something to eat before bed. He had gone all day without food, mainly because his miserly allowance would not have covered the cost of a decent meal.
The site was a vacant section in the kind of area where low-cost housing struggled for territorial control against light engineering units and anonymous storage buildings. How Montane selected such places and got authorisation to use them was something Nicklin had yet to learn, and he cursed the general lack of amenities as he stumbled across the rutted ground with little more than the luminosity from the ribbed sky to guide him. Why had Montane never learned that it paid to think big? Or that money attracts money? The mission should have taken over the biggest and most prestigious stadium in the city, and made a show of installing its workers in the best hotels. That way—quite apart from matters of high finance—Nicklin could have had a first-class meal before retiring to bed, instead of the uninspiring stodge served up by Carlos Kempson, the so-called cook who had replaced Dee Smethurst.
When he reached the marquee and its retinue of vehicles he discovered that Kempson’s trailer—which had been dubbed the chuck-up wagon—was locked. Mildly annoyed, he glanced about him and became aware that someone was speaking inside the marquee, although its interior lighting was not switched on. He walked to the entrance, looked inside and discovered that Montane was quietly addressing a group of his followers. They were sitting in the front two rows of one section, illuminated only by a single portable lamp. Montane had not gone up on the stage, but was standing on the flattened grass just in front of his audience. To Nicklin the scene looked oddly furtive, reminiscent of a meeting of early Christians in pagan Rome.
“…much more serious than I thought it was,” Montane was saying. He paused as Nicklin entered the marquee, and some of his listeners looked around to see what had caused the interruption. A few made noises which indicated that they regarded Nicklin’s presence as an intrusion, but Montane silenced them with a damping movement of his hands.
“Come and join us, Jim,” he said. “This is a ways-and-means session, and God knows we need all the fresh ideas we can get, regardless of the source.”
Choosing not to be offended by the last words of the sentence, Nicklin—his curiosity aroused—advanced along the left aisle. As he neared the group he saw that Danea Farthing was sitting in the second row. He sidled into the third row, sat down directly behind her and blew gendy on the back of her neck.
“Hello, darling,” he whispered. “I got back from town as soon as I could—I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”
Her only response was to hunch her shoulders and lean forward to distance herself from him. Smiling with malicious satisfaction, Nicklin made himself at ease and directed his gaze towards Montane.
“For the benefit of anyone who has come in late,” Montane went on, a certain dryness in his voice showing that he wanted Nicklin’s full attention, “we are discussing an extremely serious new setback in our plans for the future.
“As you all know, eleven or twelve days ago—when this globe we inhabit made what people have begun to refer to as the Big Jump—Orbitsville lost contact with everything that had previously existed outside the shell. That included all the interstellar ships which were either approaching Orbitsville or were already docked outside all the portals.
“At the time, I saw no reason to be concerned over the disappearance, because it had never been my intention to buy a fully operative vessel. Even a ship nearing the end of its certification would have cost something in the region of two million monits—a price which was far outside our limited resources. I should say at this point that none of you is to blame for our not having built up the necessary funds. You have all worked hard, and the fault lies entirely in the way I directed your efforts.”
Corey, old son, them is the truest words you ever spoke, Nicklin thought, but a murmur of disagreement arose from the audience. Montane—a homely figure in his short-sleeved tan shirt and off-the-peg slacks—swallowed visibly and nodded in gratification. Nicklin, realising the man was under a considerable degree of stress, began to sense that what he was hearing was no ordinary pep talk.
“Some time ago I chose what seemed a reasonable alternative, under the circumstances,” Montane continued. “I contacted a leading repair yard, right here in Beachhead, and took an option on an obsolescent Type 93 passenger ship. Apparently its owners had put it into land-dock for a major overhaul, but had gone out of business before the work was completed.
“It was not the ideal ship for our needs, but the asking price was only three-quarters of a million, plus approximately another 200,000 for completing the refurbishment. We haven’t got all the money yet, but I had hopes of reaching the target before next winter.”
All you needed was a few more heliumheads like me. Nicklin shifted impatiently in his chair. So what happened next?