Stark against the horizon towered two silos or chimneys, he wasn’t sure which. Obviously not the Big Brassiere, judging from the shape, but what it was he couldn’t guess. No smoke coming out, so maybe they were silos after all. Might this be one of the many things that Grainger had explained to him, as she escorted him off the ship? The conversation they were supposed to have had, which he had so embarrassingly forgotten, threatened to grow to mythical proportions: a grand tour of everything, with scripted commentary answering all conceivable questions. He should bear in mind that there was a limit to how much she could have passed on to him at first sight.
He walked towards the silos for ten, twenty minutes, but they didn’t get any closer. A trick of perspective. In cities, the buildings and streets gave you a more accurate sense of how far or near the horizon was. In natural, unspoiled landscapes, you didn’t have a clue. What looked like a mile or two might be several days’ journey.
He should conserve his energy. He should turn around and make his way back to the base. Just as he’d made this decision, however, a vehicle drove into view, coming from the direction of the silos. It was a jeep identical to Grainger’s, but as it came closer he could see it wasn’t Grainger at the wheel. It was the big, butch-looking woman who’d been talking to BG in the mess hall earlier on. She smoothed the car to a standstill right nearby and wound down the window.
‘Running away from home?’
He smiled. ‘Just exploring.’
She gave him the once-over.
‘You done?’
He laughed. ‘Yes.’
She tipped her head in a get-in gesture and he complied. The interior of the vehicle was messy – there wouldn’t have been room for him in the back – and humid, without air conditioning. Unlike Grainger, this woman evidently didn’t feel the need to exclude the Oasan atmosphere. Her skin was shiny with sweat and the spiky tips of her bleached hair drooped with moisture.
‘Time for lunch,’ she said.
‘Seems we just had lunch,’ he said. ‘Or was that breakfast?’
‘I’m a growing girl,’ she said. Her tone tipped him off that she was aware she was hefty but couldn’t care less. Her arms were well-muscled and her bosom, encased in a bra whose underwiring pushed against the fabric of her white T-shirt, was matronly.
‘I was wondering what those are,’ said Peter, indicating the silos.
She glanced up at the rear-view mirror as they got under way. ‘Them? They’re oil.’
‘Petroleum?’
‘Not exactly. Something like it.’
‘But you can convert it into fuel?’
She sighed ruefully. ‘Well now, that’s a question that’s got other questions hanging off of it. I mean, which way do you go? Design new engines to work with the new fuel or monkey around with the fuel so it works with the old engines? We’ve had some . . . discussions about that, over the years.’ The way she pronounced the word ‘discussions’ suggested a personal stake in the matter, and a degree of exasperation.
‘And who won?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘The chemistry guys. They figured out how to adapt the fuel. It’s like . . . changing the design of the butt so the butt fits the chair. But hey, who am I to argue.’
They drove past the yellow gazebo. Moro had left, but the other four were still hard at it.
‘Do you ever exercise there?’ Peter asked. The woman still hadn’t volunteered her name and it felt awkward to ask it now.
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘But my job is more physical than some other people’s, so . . . ’
‘You’re a friend of BG’s?’ said Peter. They would be back at the base within seconds and that would be it, conversation over.
‘He’s a fun guy,’ the woman said. ‘They should have called him BS. You never know what will come out of his mouth. Keeps things interesting.’
‘Where did he stand on the fuel question?’
She snorted. ‘No opinion. That’s BG! It takes a lot of muscle to be that weak.’ She slowed the vehicle down and parked it neatly in the shade of the main building. ‘But he’s a great guy,’ she added. ‘We get along great. Everybody gets along great. It’s a great team.’
‘Except when you disagree.’
She reached forward to pull the key from the ignition. Her upper arm, just below the shoulder, sported a tattoo. ‘Sported’ was probably the wrong word, since the tattoo involved the vestiges of a name, rendered illegible under a later design of a snake crushing a rodent.
‘Best not to think about winning and losing here, Mr Preacher Man,’ she said, swinging the door open and heaving her body out. ‘Take a deep breath and count to a million.’