He paused. That was all he wanted to say but he felt he should make some reference to the Maldives. And then felt guilty for feeling he should, rather than wanting to.
Love,
Peter
After he vomited up the coffee, he felt better. He wasn’t much of a coffee drinker at the best of times — it was a stimulant, after all, and he’d weaned himself off artificial stimulants years ago — but the stuff BG had presented him with tasted foul. Maybe it was made of Oasan flowers, or maybe the combination of imported coffee and Oasan water was bad news. Either way, he felt better rid of it. In fact, he felt almost normal. The effects of the Jump were leaving his system at last. He took a long swig of water straight from the tap. Delicious. He would drink only water from now on.
Energy returned to his body, as though each cell was a microscopic sponge that swelled in gratitude for being fed. Maybe it was. He strapped on his sandals and left his quarters, ostensibly to get the hang of his surroundings but also to celebrate feeling vigorous again. He’d been cooped up too long. Free at last!
Well, free to walk the labyrinth of the USIC base. A welcome change from his room, but not exactly the wide open prairie. Just empty corridors, brightly lit tunnels of wall, ceiling and floor. And every few metres, a door.
Each door had a name tag on it — surname and initial only — with the person’s job description in larger letters. Thus, W. HEK, CHEF, S. MORTELLARO, DENTAL SURGEON, D. ROSEN, SURVEYOR, L. MORO, ENGINEERING TECHNOLOGIST, B. GRAHAM, CENTRIFUGE ENGINEER, J. MOONEY, ELECTRICAL ENGINEER, and so on. The word ‘engineer’ came up often, as did professions ending in ‘-ist’.
No sound came through those doors, and the corridors were likewise silent. Evidently, the USIC staff were either at work or hanging out in the cafeteria. There was nothing sinister in their absence, no reason to feel spooked, yet Peter felt spooked. His initial relief at being able to reconnoitre alone, unwatched, gave way to a hankering for signs of life. He walked with increasing pace, turned corners with increasing resolution, and was met each time with the same rectangular passageways and rows of identical doors. In a place like this, you couldn’t even be sure if you were lost.
Just as he was starting to sweat, needled with memories of being trapped in juvenile corrective institutions, the spell was broken — turning another corner, he almost collided, chest-to-chest, with Werner.
‘Whoa! Where’s the fire?’ Werner said, patting his fat torso as if checking that the surprise hadn’t done him any harm.
‘Sorry,’ said Peter.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘That’s good,’ nodded Werner, cordial but in no mood to chat. ‘Stay with it, man.’ A catchphrase or a caution? Hard to tell.
Within seconds, Peter was alone once more. His moment of panic had passed. He could see now that there was a difference between wandering around in an unfamiliar building and being trapped in a prison. Werner was right: he needed to get a grip.
Back in his own quarters, Peter prayed. Prayed for guidance. No answer came to him, at least not immediately.
The alien — the Oasan — had begged him to return to the settlement as soon as he could. So… should he go right away? The claustrophobia that had threatened him in the corridors suggested that he still wasn’t fully back to normal — he wasn’t a panicker, usually. And it wasn’t long since he’d been fainting, vomiting and hallucinating. Perhaps he should continue resting up until he was a hundred per cent sure he was himself again. But the Oasan had begged him to return, and USIC hadn’t brought him all this way for him to lie in bed staring at his toes. He should go. He should go.
The thing was, it would mean being out of contact with Bea for a number of days. That would be hard on both of them. Yet, in the circumstances, there was no avoiding it; the best he could do was delay his departure just a little while longer, so that they had more time to write to each other first.
He checked the Shoot. Nothing.
Come back สีoon, Peรี่er, oh very สีoon, สีooner than you can. Read for uสี the Book of สีรี่range New Thingสี. He could still hear the Oasan’s voice, wheezy and strained as though each word was well-nigh impossible to produce, a bleat from a musical instrument made of preposterously ill-suited materials. A trombone carved out of a watermelon, held together with rubber bands.
But never mind the physicalities: here were souls hungry for Christ, waiting for him to return as he had promised.
But had he promised, in so many words? He couldn’t recall.
God’s answer resounded in his head. Don’t make everything so complicated. Do what you came here for.
Yes, Lord, he responded in turn, but is it OK if I wait for just one more letter from Bea?
Frazzled from waiting, he went out into the corridors again. They were silent as before, still empty, and smelled of nothing, not even floor cleaner, although they were very clean. Not showroom-pristine or shiny, but free of noticeable dirt or dust. Sensibly clean.
He’d been wrong to feel claustrophobic. Only a few of the passageways were enclosed; others had windows, big ones with sunshine beaming in. How could he have missed this before? How had he managed to choose only the windowless passageways? That was the sort of thing crazy people did — instinctively choosing the experiences that confirmed their own negative attitudes. He was a past master of stuff like that; God had shown him a better way. God and Bea.
He walked along, re-reading the names on the doors, trying to commit them to memory in case he ever needed to know where to find someone. He was struck anew by how odd it was that none of the doors was fitted with a lock, just a simple handle which any stranger could open.
‘You planning to steal my toothpaste?’ Roussos had teased when Peter remarked on this earlier on.
‘No, but you might have possessions that are very individual to you.’
‘You planning to steal my shoes?’
Peter had stolen someone’s shoes once, and considered mentioning it, but Mooney interrupted:
‘He wants your muffins, man! Watch your muffins!’
By coincidence, Peter noted the nameplate of F. ROUSSOS, OPERATING ENGINEER on one of the doors, and walked on. Seconds later, he noted another name in passing and then almost lost his balance when it registered on his consciousness: M. KURTZBERG, PASTOR.
Why was he so surprised? Kurtzberg was missing in action, but no one had said he was dead. Until his fate was established, there was no reason to reallocate his quarters or remove his name. He might return anytime.
On impulse, Peter knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder. Again, no answer. He should, of course, move on. But he did not. Within moments, he was standing inside the room. It was a room identical to his own, in design and décor at least. The window blind was shut.
‘Hello?’ he called quietly, to verify that he was alone. He tried to convince himself that Kurtzberg, if he had been here, would have urged him to come in, and although this was probably true, it didn’t alter the fact that it was wrong to enter a stranger’s home uninvited.
But this isn’t a home, is it? he thought to himself. The USIC base isn’t a home for anybody. It’s just one big workplace. Self-justifying sophistry? Perhaps. But no, it was an instinct that went deeper than that. Bea would have sensed it too. There was something weird about the USIC personnel, something Bea could have helped him articulate. These people had been living here for years; they obviously enjoyed a degree of camaraderie; and yet… and yet.