‘It just didn’t make sense to keep a room full of freezers running with nothing in them, year after year,’ he elaborated. ‘Especially before we got our energy usage properly sorted out.’ Austin was Australian, by the sound of him, or perhaps a New Zealander; athletic, muscular, with movie-star good looks apart from an untidy scar gouged into his jawline. He and Flores had been absent from Severin’s funeral service, as far as Peter could recall.
‘You’ve done very well, lasting all this time,’ said Peter.
‘Lasting?’
‘Not needing to switch the freezers on. Until now.’
Austin shrugged. ‘In the future, as this community grows, we’ll need a morgue for sure. In the future, we’ll probably have murders, poisonings, all the thrills and spills you get when your population passes a certain point. But these are early days. Or were.’
The freezers groaned on.
‘Anyway . . . ’ sighed Austin, and unlatched the drawer containing the deceased, as though Peter had finally requested to see Dr Everett and shouldn’t be kept waiting. Austin pulled at the handles and the plastic crib slid out, exposing the naked body as far as the navel. Matthew Everett’s head was nestled on a wipe-clean pillow and his arms lay supported on banana-shaped cushions. He was a presentable middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent vertical frown creasing his brow, and dimpled cheeks. His eyes were almost but not quite closed, and his mouth hung open. There was a pale dusting of frost on his tongue, and subtle ice-twinkles on his pale flesh. Other than this, he looked well.
‘Of course we’ve had a few deaths over the years,’ conceded Austin. ‘Not many; well below average for a community this size, but . . . it happens. People have diabetes, heart conditions . . . Their pre-existing pathology catches up with them. But Matt was healthy as a horse.’
‘My horse died,’ said Grainger.
‘Beg pardon?’ said Austin.
‘I used to have a horse, when I was a kid,’ said Grainger. ‘He was wonderful. He died.’
There was nothing to say to that, so Austin pushed the drawer shut again and fastened the latches. Once again, Peter was struck by the simplicity of the technology: no computerised locking system to be placated with a keypad or a coded swipe-card, just a drawer with a couple of handles. He realised all of a sudden that this simplified design was not the result of cheapskate make-do, a weird mismatch between USIC’s colossal wealth and a penchant for outmoded discards. No, these freezers were new. And not just new, but custom made. Some obstinate designer had paid extra for nineteenth-century practicality, had bribed a manufacturer to leave out the computerised sensors, microchipped programs, flashing lights and smart options that an up-to-date mortuary freezer would contain.
Dr Austin washed his hands in a sink, using a cake of astringent-smelling soap. He dried himself with an ordinary clean towel, then unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and popped it in his mouth. He held the packet out to Peter, a generous gesture since gum was an imported item.
‘No thanks,’ said Peter.
‘God knows why I eat it myself,’ mused Austin. ‘Zero nutritional value, a ten-second hit of sugar, and your salivary glands give your stomach the message that there’s food on the way – which there isn’t. Complete waste of time. And bloody expensive here. But I’m addicted.’
‘You should try ???????,’ said Peter, recalling the pleasant sensation of this plant between his fingers, the burst of sweet juice on his tongue as his teeth first pierced its tough hide, the delicious pulp that yielded hints of fresh flavour even after half an hour of chewing. ‘You’d never want gum again.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘???????.’
Austin nodded tolerantly. Probably adding Speech impediment to his mental file of the pastor’s health issues.
Silence fell, or what passed for silence in the USIC morgue. Peter thought that the freezers were groaning a bit less noisily than before, but maybe he was just acclimatising to the sound.
‘Did Dr Everett have family?’ he asked.
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Austin. ‘He didn’t talk about it.’
‘He had a daughter,’ said Grainger quietly, almost to herself.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Austin.
‘They were estranged,’ said Grainger.
‘It happens,’ said Austin.
Peter wondered why – given that this meeting wasn’t exactly abuzz with convivial chatter – somebody didn’t just hand over a dossier on Everett and set a deadline for the funeral address.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I imagine I’ll be doing a funeral service?’
Austin blinked. The concept had caught him by surprise. ‘Uh . . . Maybe,’ he said. ‘Not for a while, though. We’re keeping him at negative temp. Frozen, in other words. Until another pathologist arrives.’ He glanced over to the mortuary drawers, then out the window. ‘The big concern, of course, is whether there’s anything in this environment that might cause people to become ill. That’s been a concern from the start. We’re breathing air we’ve never breathed before, eating food that’s totally new to our digestive systems. So far, all the evidence suggests it’s not a problem. But only time will tell. Lots of time. And it could be very bad news that we’ve now got a man who had no health problems whatsoever, no reason for him to die, and he’s dead.’
Peter began to shiver. He’d worn as much clothing as he could tolerate nowadays, even within the USIC base – his dishdasha, a loose sweater, jogging pants, tennis shoes – but it wasn’t enough to withstand the chill of the mortuary. He wished he could fling open the window, let the comforting balmy atmosphere swirl in.
‘Have you done a . . . uh . . . ’ The word had slipped out of his vocabulary. Without even intending to, he sliced at the air with an invisible scalpel.
‘Autopsy?’ Austin shook his head ruefully. ‘Matt was the one who had the skills in that area. That’s why we’ve got to wait. I mean, I can do autopsies if they’re straightforward. I could’ve determined a cause of death for Severin; that was no mystery. But if you’ve got no clues, you’re better off with an expert. And our expert was Matt.’
No one spoke for a minute. Austin seemed lost in thought. Grainger stared down at her shoes, which tapped restlessly in the air. Flores, who hadn’t uttered a peep since introducing herself, gazed out the window. Maybe she was dumbstruck with grief.
‘Well . . . ’ said Peter. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Can’t think of anything off-hand,’ said Austin. ‘We were actually wondering if there’s anything we can do to help you.’
‘Help me?’
‘Not with your . . . ah . . . evangelising, obviously,’ the doctor smiled. ‘But medically.’