“At the third stroke it will be one… thirty-two… and forty seconds.
“Beep… beep… beep.”
He checked around the small ship. He walked down the short corridor. “At the third stroke…”
He stuck his head into the small, functional, gleaming steel bathroom.
“it will be…”
It sounded fine in there.
He looked into the tiny sleeping quarters.
“… one… thirty-two…”
It sounded a bit muffled. There was a towel hanging over one of the speakers. He took down the towel.
“… and fifty seconds.”
Fine.
He checked out the packed cargo hold, and wasn’t at all satisfied with the sound. There was altogether too much crated junk in the way. He stepped back out and waited for the door to seal. He broke open a closed control panel and pushed the jettison button. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before. A whooshing rumbling noise died away quickly into silence. After a pause a slight hiss could be heard again.
It stopped.
He waited for the green light to show and then opened the door again on the now empty cargo hold.
“… one… thirty-three… and fifty seconds.”
Very nice.
“Beep… beep… beep.”
He then went and had a last thorough examination of the emergency suspended animation chamber, which was where he particularly wanted it to be heard.
“At the third stroke it will be one… thirty… four… precisely.”
He shivered as he peered down through the heavily frosted covering at the dim bulk of the form within. One day, who knew when, it would wake, and when it did, it would know what time it was. Not exactly local time, true, but what the heck.
He double-checked the computer display above the freezer bed, dimmed the lights and checked it again.
“At the third stroke it will be…”
He tiptoed out and returned to the control cabin.
“… one… thirty-four and twenty seconds.”
The voice sounded as clear as if he was hearing it over a phone in London, which he wasn’t, not by a long way.
He gazed out into the inky night. The star the size of a brilliant biscuit crumb he could see in the distance was Zondostina, or as it was known on the world from which the rather stilted, sing-song voice was being received, Pleiades Zeta.
The bright orange curve that filled over half the visible area was the giant gas planet Sesefras Magna, where the Xaxisian battleships docked, and just rising over its horizon was a small cool blue moon, Epun.
“At the third stroke it will be…”
For twenty minutes he sat and watched as the gap between the ship and Epun closed, as the ship’s computer teased and kneaded the numbers that would bring it into a loop around the little moon, close the loop and keep it there, orbiting in perpetual obscurity.
“One… fifty-nine…”
His original plan had been to close down all external signalling and radiation from the ship, to render it as nearly invisible as possible unless you were actually looking at it, but then he’d had an idea he preferred. It would now emit one single continuous beam, pencil-thin, broadcasting the incoming time signal to the planet of the signal’s origin, which it would not reach for four hundred years, travelling at light speed, but where it would probably cause something of a stir when it did.
“Beep… beep… beep.”
He sniggered.
He didn’t like to think of himself as the sort of person who giggled or sniggered, but he had to admit that he had been giggling and sniggering almost continuously for well over half an hour now.
“At the third stroke…”
The ship was now locked almost perfectly into its perpetual orbit round a little known and never visited moon. Almost perfect.
One thing only remained. He ran again the computer simulation of the launching of the ship’s little Escape-O-Buggy, balancing actions, reactions, tangential forces, all the mathematical poetry of motion, and saw that it was good.
Before he left, he turned out the lights.
As his tiny little cigar tube of an escape craft zipped out on the beginning of its three-day journey to the orbiting space station Port Sesefron, it rode for a few seconds a long pencil-thin beam of radiation that was starting out on a longer journey still.
“At the third stroke, it will be two… thirteen… and fifty seconds.”
He giggled and sniggered. He would have laughed out loud but he didn’t have the room.
“Beep… beep… beep.”
Chapter 11
“April showers I hate especially.”
However noncommittally Arthur grunted, the man seemed determined to talk to him. He wondered if he should get up and move to another table, but there didn’t seem to be one free in the whole caféteria. He stirred his coffee fiercely.
“Bloody April showers. Hate hate hate.”
Arthur stared, frowning, out of the window. A light, sunny spray of rain hung over the motorway. Two months he’d been back now. Slipping back into his old life had in fact been laughably easy. People had such extraordinarily short memories, including him. Eight years of crazed wanderings round the Galaxy now seemed to him not so much like a bad dream as like a film he had videotaped from the TV and now kept in the back of a cupboard without bothering to watch.
One effect that still lingered though, was his joy at being back. Now that the Earth’s atmosphere had closed over his head for good, he thought, wrongly, everything within it gave him extraordinary pleasure. Looking at the silvery sparkle of the raindrops he felt he had to protest.
“Well, I like them,” he said suddenly, “and for all the obvious reasons. They’re light and refreshing. They sparkle and make you feel good.”
The man snorted derisively.
“That’s what they all say,” he said, and glowered darkly from his corner seat.
He was a lorry driver. Arthur knew this because his opening, unprovoked remark had been, “I’m a lorry driver. I hate driving in the rain. Ironic isn’t it? Bloody ironic.”
If there was a sequitur hidden in this remark, Arthur had not been able to divine it and had merely given a little grunt, affable but not encouraging.
But the man had not been deterred then, and was not deterred now. “They all say that about bloody April showers,” he said. “So bloody nice, so bloody refreshing, such charming bloody weather.”
He leaned forward, screwing his face up as if he was going to say something about the government.
“What I want to know is this,” he said, “if it’s going to be nice weather, why,” he almost spat, “can’t it be nice without bloody raining?”
Arthur gave up. He decided to leave his coffee, which was too hot to drink quickly and too nasty to drink cold.
“Well, there you go,” he said and instead got up himself. “Bye.”
He stopped off at the service station shop, then walked back through the car park, making a point of enjoying the fine play of rain on his face. There was even, he noticed, a faint rainbow glistening over the Devon hills. He enjoyed that too.
He climbed into his battered but adored old black Golf GTi, squealed the tyres, and headed out past the islands of petrol pumps and on to the slip road back towards the motorway.
He was wrong in thinking that the atmosphere of the Earth had closed finally and for ever above his head.
He was wrong to think that it would ever be possible to put behind him the tangled web of irresolutions into which his galactic travels had dragged him.
He was wrong to think he could now forget that the big, hard, oily, dirty, rainbow-hung Earth on which he lived was a microscopic dot on a microscopic dot lost in the unimaginable infinity of the Universe.
He drove on, humming, being wrong about all these things.
The reason he was wrong was standing by the slip road under a small umbrella.
His jaw sagged. He sprained his ankle against the brake pedal and skidded so hard he very nearly turned the car over.