The Book of Strange New Things (21 page)

‘I didn’t know Bing Crosby was back in fashion,’ he said.

‘Those artists are beyond fashion,’ declared Grainger, with undisguised fervour. ‘Nobody wants mindless dance music anymore, or cheap, sleazy rock.’ She imitated an arrogant rock star striking a chord on his phallic guitar. Disdainful though the gesture was, Peter found it attractive: her thin arm, slamming against the invisible guitar strings, pushed her bosom out, reminding him how soft and malleable the flesh of a woman’s breast was. ‘People have had enough of all that,’ she said. ‘They want something with class, something that’s stood the test of time.’

‘I’m all for that,’ he said.

Once they were safely sealed inside the vehicle and driving into the wilderness, Peter raised the issue of communication again.

‘You wrote to my wife,’ he said.

‘Yes, I sent her a courtesy message. To let her know you’d arrived safely.’

‘Thank you. I’ve been writing to her myself, whenever I can.’

‘That’s sweet,’ she said. Her eyes were on the featureless brown horizon.

‘You’re sure there’s no possibility of organising a Shoot for me in the Oasan settlement?’

‘I told you, they don’t have electricity.’

‘Couldn’t a Shoot run on batteries?’

‘Sure it could. You can write on it anywhere. You can write a whole book if you want. But to actually send a message, you need more than a machine that lights up when you switch it on. You need a connection to the USIC system.’

‘Isn’t there a . . . I’m not sure what to call it . . . a relay? A signal tower?’ Even as he uttered the words they sounded foolish. The territory stretching into the distance ahead was stark and empty.

‘Nope,’ she replied. ‘We never needed anything like that. You’ve got to remember that the original settlement was right near the base.’

Peter sighed, leaned his head hard back against the seat. ‘I’m going to miss communicating with Bea,’ he said, half to himself.

‘Nobody’s insisting you go and live with these . . . people,’ Grainger reminded him. ‘That’s your choice.’

He kept silent, but his unspoken objection might as well have written itself on the windscreen in front of them in big red letters: GOD DECIDES THESE THINGS.

‘I
enjoy
driving,’ added Grainger after a minute or two. ‘It relaxes me. I could’ve driven you there and back every twelve hours, easy.’

He nodded.

‘You could’ve had daily contact with your wife,’ she carried on. ‘You could’ve had a shower, a meal . . . ’

‘I’m sure these people won’t let me starve or get filthy,’ he said. ‘The one who came out to meet us looked clean enough to me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and revved the accelerator. They jumped forwards with a gentle whiplash effect, and a quantity of damp earth was thrown up behind them.

‘I’m not suiting myself,’ he said. ‘Suiting myself would mean taking you up on your generous offer. I have to consider what’s best for these people.’

‘God knows,’ she muttered, then, realising what she’d just said, graced him with a big self-conscious smile.

The landscape was no more colourful or varied now that the sun had fully risen, but it had its own sober beauty, in common with all endless vistas of the same substance, whether it be sea, sky or desert. There were no mountains or hills, but the topography had gentle gradients, patterned with ripples similar to those in wind-swept deserts. The mushroom-like blossoms – whiteflower, he supposed – glowed brilliant.

‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Grainger, matter-of-fact.

The sky’s colour was elusive; the gradations were too subtle for the eye to discern. There were no clouds, although occasionally a patch of air would shimmer and become slightly blurry for a few seconds, before shivering back into transparency. The first few times Peter observed this phenomenon, he stared intently, straining to understand it, or perhaps appreciate it. But it just made him feel as though his eyes were defective, and he quickly learned to shift his gaze elsewhere whenever the blurring began to occur. The roadless earth, dark and moist and sprinkled with pale blooms, was the most restful sight. Your eyes could just relax on it.

Overall, though, he had to admit that the scenery here was less beautiful than he’d seen in, well, quite a few other places. He had expected mind-boggling landscapes, canyons shrouded in swirling mists, tropical swamps teeming with exotic new wildlife. It suddenly occurred to him that this world might be quite a dowdy one compared to his own. And the poignancy of that thought made him feel a rush of love for the people who lived here and knew no better.

‘Hey, I’ve just realised!’ he said to Grainger. ‘I haven’t seen any animals. Just a few bugs.’

‘Yeah, it’s kind of . . . low diversity here,’ she said. ‘Not much scope for a zoo.’

‘It’s a big world. Maybe we’re just on a sparse little bit of it.’

She nodded. ‘Whenever I go to C-2, I could swear there’s more bugs there than at the base. Also, there’s supposed to be some birds. I’ve never seen them myself. But Tartaglione used to hang around C-2 all the time, and he told me he saw birds once. Maybe it was a hallucination. Living in the wilderness can do scary things to the brain.’

‘I’ll try to keep my brain in reasonable condition,’ he promised. ‘But seriously, what do you think really happened to him? And to Kurtzberg?’

‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Both of them just went AWOL.’

‘How do you know they’re not dead?’

She shrugged. ‘They didn’t vanish overnight. It was kinda gradual. They would come back to the base less and less often. They became . . . distant. Didn’t want to stick around. Tartaglione used to be a real gregarious guy. Blabbermouth maybe, but I liked him. Kurtzberg was friendly too. An army chaplain. He used to reminisce to me about his wife; he was one of those sentimental old widowers who never remarry. Forty years ago was only yesterday for him, it was like she’d never died. Like she was just slow getting dressed, she’d be along any minute. Kind of sad, but so romantic.’

Observing a wistful glow transfiguring her face, Peter felt a pang of jealousy. Childish as it might be, he wanted Grainger to admire him as much as she’d admired Kurtzberg. Or more.

‘How did you find him as a pastor?’ he asked.

‘Find him?’

‘What was he like? As a minister?’

‘I wouldn’t know. He was here from the beginning, before my time. He . . . counselled the personnel who were having problems adjusting. In the early days, there were people who didn’t really belong here. I guess Kurtzberg tried to talk them through it. But it was no use, they bailed out anyway. So USIC tightened up the screening process. Cut the wastage.’ The wistful glow was gone; her face was neutral again.

‘He must have felt like a failure,’ suggested Peter.

‘He didn’t come across that way. He was the chirpy type. And he got a boost when Tartaglione came. The two of them really got along, they were a team. They were a hit with the aliens, the natives, whatever you want to call them. Making big progress. The natives were learning English, Tartaglione was learning . . . whatever.’ A couple of insects flew against the windscreen, their bodies disintegrating on impact. Brown juice scrawled across the glass. ‘And then something came over them.’

‘Maybe they caught some sort of disease?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a pharmacist, not a doctor.’

‘Speaking of which . . . ’ said Peter. ‘Have you got some more drugs to give the Oasans?’

She frowned. ‘No, I didn’t have time to raid the pharmacy. You need clearance for stuff like that.’

‘Stuff like morphine?’

She drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘I haven’t told you what I think.’

‘You think we’re handing out narcotics here. It’s not like that. The drugs we give them are medicines. Antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, simple analgesics. I’m confident they’re being used for the correct purpose.’

‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to get a handle on what these people have and don’t have. They don’t have hospitals, then?’

‘I guess not. Technology isn’t their forte.’ She pronounced it ‘for-
tay
’, with almost mocking exaggeration, the way Americans tended to when quoting French.

‘So they’re primitives, would you say?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

He leaned his head back again and reviewed what he knew about his flock so far. He had only met one of them, which was a small sample by any standards. That person had worn a robe and cowl which looked as though it was probably hand-made. His gloves and boots . . .? Again, probably hand-made, albeit to a sophisticated standard. You’d need a machine to sew leather so neatly, surely? Or perhaps just very strong fingers.

He recalled the architecture of the settlement. Complexity-wise, it was in a class above mud huts or dolmens, but it was hardly high-tech manufacture. He could imagine each stone being fashioned by hand, baked in rudimentary ovens, hauled into place by sheer human – or inhuman – effort. Maybe, inside the buildings, undiscovered by the likes of Grainger, there were all sorts of mechanical marvels. Or maybe not. But one thing was certain: there was no electricity, and there would be nowhere to plug in a Shoot.

He wondered how God would feel about him announcing, right here in the car, that he really, desperately needed to know whether Bea had written to him, and that Grainger must therefore turn the vehicle around and drive all the way back to the base. To Grainger, it would look like a failure of nerve. Or maybe she’d be touched by the ardency of his love. And then again, maybe what seemed like a backwards step would in fact be God pushing him forward, God using the delay to put him in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Or was he just straining to find a theological justification for his own lack of courage? He was being tested, that much was obvious, but what was the nature of the test? Whether he had the humility to appear weak in the eyes of Grainger, or whether he had the strength to push on?

Oh Lord
, he prayed.
I know it’s impossible, but I wish I could know whether Bea has written back to me yet. I wish I could just close my eyes and see her words before me, right here in the car
.

‘OK, Peter, this is your last chance,’ said Grainger.

‘Last chance?’

‘To check for a message from your wife.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘There’s a Shoot in this vehicle. We’re still in range of USIC reception. Another five, ten minutes of driving, and we’ll lose it.’

He could feel himself blushing, with a big daft smile so broad it made his cheeks ache. He felt like hugging her.

‘Yes, please!’

Grainger stopped the vehicle but did not switch off the motor. She flipped open a hatch in the dashboard and pulled out a slim contraption of plastic and steel, which unfolded to reveal a monitor and miniature keyboard. He made the inarticulate noise of surprise and admiration that was called for in the circumstances. There was momentary confusion as to which of them would take responsibility for switching the thing on, and their fingers met on the back of the console.

‘Take your time,’ said Grainger, settling back in her seat and turning her face towards the window, in a display of respect for his privacy.

For nearly a minute – sixty agonising seconds – nothing manifested on the Shoot except a computerised promise that a search was under way. Then the screen filled up from top to bottom with unfamiliar words: Bea’s words. God bless her, she’d responded.

Dear Peter, she wrote.

I’m upstairs in our study. It’s six o’clock in the evening, still full daylight, indeed nicer than it’s been all day. The sun is at a low angle now, mild and buttery yellow, streaming through the window straight onto the wall-hanging/collage that Rachel & Billy & Keiko made for me. Those kids must be teenagers by now, but their wonderful depiction of the ark and its animals is still as cute and eccentric as when it was first done. The way Rachel used bits of orange wool for the lion’s mane never ceases to charm me, especially when it’s lit up by the evening sun as it is now. One of the giraffes’ necks is dangling down, though; I’ll have to stick it back into place.

I only just arrived home from work – bliss to be sitting down at last. Too tired to have a shower yet. Your message was waiting for me when I rushed upstairs to check.

I can understand that you would be eager to go and live with the Oasans ASAP. Of course God is with you and you shouldn’t delay unnecessarily. Try not to sacrifice common sense, though! Remember when that crazy Swedish guy at our Bible study dedicated himself to Jesus? He said his faith in the Lord was so strong that he could just ignore the council’s eviction notice, and God would organise a miraculous last-minute reprieve! Two days later he’s on our doorstep with his bin-bag of possessions . . . I’m not implying you’re a nutcase like him, just reminding you that practicalities are not your strong suit and that bad things can happen to ill-prepared Christians just as they can happen to anyone else. We need to strike a balance between trusting in our Lord to provide, and showing due respect for the gift of life and this body we’ve been lent.

Which means: when you do go to live with your new flock, please make sure you’ve got (1) some way of calling for help if you’re in trouble, (2) an emergency supply of food and water, (3) DIARRHOEA MEDICATION, (4) the compass co-ordinates of the USIC base and the Oasan settlement, (5) a compass, obviously.

Peter glanced up at Grainger, just in case she was reading over his shoulder. But she was still gazing out the window, feigning deep interest in the landscape. Her hands were loosely clasped in the lap of her gown. Small hands, well formed, with pale, stubby-nailed fingers.

He was embarrassed that, apart from a bottle of green water filled from the tap, he’d taken none of the precautions Bea was urging him to. Not even the diarrhoea pills she’d bought for him specially. They would hardly have weighed down his rucksack, those pills, and yet he’d removed them. Why had he removed them? Was he being as foolish as the crazy Swede? Maybe he was indulging a stubborn pride in his minimal baggage, his statement of single-minded intent: two Bibles (King James and New Living Translation, 4th edition), half a dozen indelible marker pens, notebook, towel, scissors, roll of adhesive tape, comb, flashlight, plastic wallet of photographs, T-shirt, underpants. He closed his eyes and prayed:
Am I drunk on my own mission?