Five - In Place Of Manna
What's happened?
She dreamed and she dreamt; thenthe clock woke her, blowing in her ear, turning her outside in...
Kate sat up.The sudden light flooded her mind with barbaric colours, warring redsand greens, embattled pinks and blues, screaming orange. She squintedthrough their stirred haze at the picture window, its vision of agolden strand, gentle waves and gentler sky, a lone palm.
And swallowed.
It was themorning after, the night before a giddy mass of lopsided images:Byron swinging from a stair-rail, Byron with his face painted, Byroncaged...
‘What'shappened, Kate?’ she asked herself. She reached over to the wallconsole and punched the INFO key. The tiny screen lit with figures,unfamiliar symbols that marched right to left, assembled fromminiature yellow squares.
She scratchedher head. ‘I must be regressing...’ Maybe she'd go back to sleep;but it didn't seem such a great idea. ‘Come on brain- function!’The symbols resolved into recognizable letters and numbers. ‘Better.Now...’
Earth orbit.
Her mouth tasted foul. Cigarettes,she remembered.
‘I don't smoke cigarettes,’Kate told the screen.
‘Droover K?’
‘Yeah...who is it?’
Silence.
The window flickered and died.
Byron's rollies, bushy strands oftobacco, gaudy papers, and an oily taste on the tip of the tongue,the lips unsweetened, his, Friendly's soggy kisses all down herspine.
‘Oh.’
She dialled the captain. Nothing.
‘Am I theonly one awake?’ There was a robe on the deck, a paperback novel.She picked both up.
‘Sal's.’She put the robe on, flitted through the novel's printed pages. ‘Whyam I talking to myself? Kate? Hm?’
She dropped thebook onto her sister’s bunk, , itsshifting cover a melange of eyes peering at her.
Tossing her unruly fringe out ofher face Droover padded along the corridor and rapped on thecaptain's door. Nothing. ‘Amy? Hey, speak to me.’ Another voice,she thought, I need to hear another voice, one to reassure me. ‘Amy!’The door was unlocked and slid easily open. A film of blacknessengulfed her senses, beyond its receding tide the smell of vomit.‘You had a party and didn't invite me...’ rambled Kate. ‘Whereare you?’
Some other world, the captain'sdead lips told her.
‘Oh,’ she said again.
‘Have you seen her?’ askedKate, hugging the robe tightly, a desire in her bones.
‘Who? Sally? She's out cold,won't come round for hours.’ The skinny cook looked apologetic.‘You want something to eat?’ he offered.
She said yes. ‘I'm starving. Arethere sausages?’
Abdul brightened, relieved perhapsthat his preoccupation was not wholly out of place in thecircumstances. ‘Six kinds,’ he boasted.
‘And hot coffee?’
‘As much as you can handle.’
‘Okay!’ Kate too was cheered,the business of eating a welcome distraction. She needed time toadjust, take it all in. They, the crew, were in trouble.
She followed fleet-footed Abduldown to the galley. ‘Down,’ he would often say, ‘so all thedelicious smells drift up.’ And Kate had to agree.
There was a lethargy about herlimbs as she descended. The cluttered galley shone, alive with brassand chrome.
Luke Farouke(Amy had dubbed him Abdul, although she couldn’t remember why)pulled a chair out for her, grinning like a poacher with a deer inhis sights.
‘Did you see her, before weflew?’
‘Captain Jones? No, I thoughtshe was with you and Sal.’
Kate shook herhead, rested it in her hands. ‘I lost Sal,’ she said; ‘somewhere.I'm not sure; but Amy wasn't with us, at least not for long. I don'tknow, my mind's full of blanks.’
‘Then you must have spent sometime with her,’ Abdul speculated, ‘eh? Drinking her whisky?’
She grimaced. ‘Where's thosesausages?’
‘Two minutes.’ He steppedacross the kitchen threshold - an invisible line all save himselfwere forbidden to break - and poured her coffee. ‘Drink. This's myspecial memory-restorer blend. You'll see.’
She took his advice, heavinglungfuls of sausage odour, and saw on the table before her a thimble.‘What's this?’
‘Present,’ Abdul said frombehind a curtain of steam. ‘A little something I picked up inKopa.’
‘It's pretty. ..’
‘It has special powers.’
‘Really?’ Kate placed thesteel thimble on her middle finger. ‘What can it do?’
‘When the moon is right,’ thecook revealed, ‘it can turn you into a panther.’
She giggled,felt the tears loosen, the tears she would have to cry for Amy Jones,their erstwhile captain.
But not now. ‘Real panthers areextinct, like all the big cats; there're only reconstructions.’
‘Ah,’whispered Abdul, delivering a feast of meat and curly onion strips,‘that's what you think. But the real cats, the genuine articles,are making a comeback.’
‘You're talking nonsense.’ Sheate, uncaring.
He sat at the table. ‘There,’he gestured; ‘you're eating like one already!’
‘A panther?’
‘Of course.’ His posturerelaxed, exhausted. ‘You don't need a fork, Droover, just anappetite.’
She glanced at the metal object onher finger. ‘When were we ever in Kopa?’
‘Kate can't remember?’ Abdulstood, fussing. ‘A while ago. I couldn't tell you the exact date.It was Ernie's idea we go there, to see the geysers.’
‘Geysers on Iglan?’ Chewing.
‘Sure - and Kopa offered thebest price for cane sugar.’
Kate was baffled. Wasn't Iglanuninhabitable? Radioactive? A pink-people bond-prison?
She finished her sausages. ‘Onething at a time,’ she said. ‘Pink-people?’
‘What?’ Abdul sat once more.
‘More coffee please...’
The smiling man filled her cup.
She drank...
‘Droover K?’
‘Yeah...who is it?’
'Thepink-people are innately radioactive; they glow, and have sweettooths.'
‘And the geysers?’
‘A side-show.’
She peered at the empty plate. ‘Wecan never shake hands then, Abdul...’
But she was alone, and shivering.
‘Where is everyone?’ Salwanted to know.
‘This is it,’ Frank told her.‘Spritzer's locked himself in the machine-room and the radio's downbetween here and Byron Friendly. We'll have to wait till hesurfaces.’
Sally slumped in a couch, grim.‘Wonderful. So, Monica, you're the medical among us. What killedthe captain?’
Monica Hat looked about her at theexpectant faces. Frank's hand touched hers. ‘I don't know,’ shemumbled.
‘Don't know?’ The co-pilot wasangry.
‘Right,’ she said louder.‘It's beyond my experience; we'll have to go Earthside for anexpert opinion.’
‘That's your diagnosis?’ Salinquired sarcastically.
Monica exhaled. ‘Yes...’
‘And Ernie? The same for him?’
‘We've got to find his bodyfirst,’ Frank interjected.
‘Yeah,’said Abdul; ‘but that's Friendly's job.’ He bit hairy fingersunconsciously, as if lubricating them. ‘Won't Spritzer fix theradio link, Frank?’
The bigger man rolled hisshoulders. ‘Maybe.’ He stared at his feet, the suddenlyodd-looking shoes upon them.
‘Maybe not,’ finished Abdul.He smiled ruefully. Spritzer Rich was always doing his best to tripsomebody up. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘isn't there a moreimmediate problem? Sal, you should know...’
She agreed. ‘Kate's volunteeredto make the trip to Radio,’ she said. ‘As acting captain I haveto stay with the ship until all the legal ramifications are workedout.’
‘Shouldn't that be automatic?’queried Frank. ‘I mean, didn't Amy make the necessaryarrangements?’
Kate leapt from her seat, themovement her first, and quick as a frightened bird. ‘Are youkidding! Amy Jones never arranged anything over and above the nextport of call, the next bar, the next drink.’ She paced before them.‘Ring-pull Jones they called her on Sarpendon; rainwater, CaptainRainwater she was on Luna!’
The others were quiet.
Then, ‘We loved her too, Kate,’said Monica.
‘Right, we're of one mind. Sishere pays a visit to the Licencing Bureau; the rest of us wait forher call and manoeuvre the ship as and when we have to. In themeantime,’ she paused, ‘I suggest we start thinking about acargo.’
‘And Amy Jones?’ asked Frank.
‘Is dead,’said Abdul. ‘She can wait, Ernie too. What matters now is thefuture, our future, and just what the hell we're going to do if thepowers-that-be discontinue our franchise.’
‘Point taken,’ Frank conceded.‘All the cargoes between here and Endsix'd be worthless if we lostthe fuel-rights to shift them.’ And now his hands appeared swollen,like they'd been injected with water.
And, thought Kate Droover, no onereally knows what's going on. It's all mixed up...
Her skin tingled. The flesh atleast recalled - but was there more than kisses?
‘Byron,’ she said to theconsole, its flat screen. ‘Byron, it's me, Kate. Switch your seton.’ A stupid thing to say.
The miniature yellow squaresparaded.
Byron swingingfrom a stair-rail, Byron with his face painted, Byron caged...readthe words.
The digits she ignored.
*
The engineer chewed his lip,teased the fibres apart, set the instrument on the deck. It was toomuch like hard work; a labour of love, this or any engine. A mancould get attached, literally, to the job. The engine fed him, hebreathed its air and rolled its cigarettes. It was beautiful. Hecould appreciate Ernie's art, sense his presence. Byron may havefailed as yet to locate his forerunner's corporeal self, but hisspiritual anima was all around.
He whistled,something he hadn't done in years, and it felt a vital part of him.
Ernie must've been a whistler, hesupposed. It was natural, Byron's inheritance.
He replaced the instrument andclicked the panel shut. A row of red lights advanced along ahorizontal scale. They reminded him of Droover, her tidy vertebrae.
*
Kate stood a moment before the aftlock, wondering how deep Friendly could be, then made her way up tothe bridge where Sal sat waiting in the pilot's chair surrounded by avague corona of lights.
‘I've contacted the Bureau,’her sister informed her, ‘and appraised them of our situation, sothey're expecting you.’
‘Good.’Kate stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Has Spritzer fettled the linkto the engine?’
‘No; he's keeping a low profile.You know what he's like.’
Kate nodded. ‘So Byron's stillin the dark...’
Sally rose and approached heryounger sibling. ‘You've fallen for his alien charms, haven't you?’she jibed, half teasing, half bitter.
‘Oh,’ answered Kate, lookingaskance; ‘he's okay.’
‘Ha!’
‘What? I'm in...’ Droover feltabandoned to the darkness, its slight chill. ‘What's the problem?’
‘Kate?’The voice was Monica's.
‘Who else? Move it!’ Shebanged her fist on the shapeless computer.
‘Sorry...lost the key.’
There was a click and the lightscame on, exploded inside the cockpit. She listened to the clampsdisengage and tried to imagine herself falling. On the computerscreen a red dot separated from a green line. The power-unit's torquejammed in, startling her.
‘All yours,’ said Monica.
Droover punchedthe code for Luna and relaxed. The grey world of her birth blossomedlike a concrete flower before her eyes, overlaid with a plethora ofuseless maps and data she failed to clear. Like insects, metallicflys, she thought. She hated riding the cramped emergency vessel; itreminded her of an elevator, one in which a bunch of amateurcartographers had set up camp. The environment was oppressive. Sheclosed her eyes and tried not to breathe in time with the brokenheater.
‘F*cking Spritzer,’ she said.Soon it was damp and warm. Too warm, hot...
And Luna was twenty minutes off.She drained the stale water as it was offered and let the vessel landitself.
Luna terminal was quiet. Katechecked the bus schedule, saw she had an hour, and cursed her sisterfor not better judging the stopover. But at least it gave her time tofreshen up; even get mildly intoxicated.
No! What was she thinking?
‘I'm adopting Amy's vacantpersona,’ she muttered, those about her disinterested. Their faceswere unfriendly, sated. Their smiles mentioned no worries.
Droover grimaced, feeling like afight...
‘Droover K?’
‘Yeah...who is it?’
'Me. '
She smiled, noticing the steelthimble on her middle finger, pressed into her left palm.
The busrumbled. Thesun outside its window glittered. On the blue-green ocean belowfloated Radio City, its family of islands stretched out beyond: lush,barren, tortured, exotic...a total of nine.
Kate rubbed her eyes and took inthe scene once again. A warning light came on above her.
The bus dived in a broad curve,braked smoothly and coasted into the white and purple depot. Outsidethe window now were eager vendors, coiled steam from food-stalls, thenoise of many feet and the hum of luggage.
She disembarkedamid the clamour, walking briskly to the nearest escalator, ignoringthe news-touts and shoe-shines, those characters that - like mostpeople - would spend their free hours laid out on some beach, real orimaginary. The social system of the city rankled her as it alwayshad. There was no room here for the unknown, risk or adventure. RadioCity was precise in its functioning, overly perfect. For souls suchas Kate Droover's there was only one choice: space - and quick.
But still she missed Earth. Itsruined continents possessed a degree of scope.
Taking a street at random shemeandered, oblivious to the crystal-cut and animate walls around her,the individual and corporate vanities which adhered to every surface,fixed or movable, overlapping like posters and bills, shop-signs andlogos...an identity multifarious, that of themselves, a deliberateconfusion. The city, she knew, could adopt any guise; trouble was,most of them were pretty...
And then there was the absence oftraffic.
She thought ofthe ancient, tumbled metropolises squatting like parked, rustedspacecraft on the forgotten land, their deserted conurbations oncethronged, bursting, streets packed with stinking cars, buildingschoked with bodies doing real work, not the ersatz variety so popularamong the sanitized dwellers of this tame jungle. There was no rawexcitement here, no fires or robberies; there were onlyreconstructions, illusory dramas acted out in illusory bars andcafes. Radio City was a dream city; happy and careful andeven-tempered, a city lacking stealth and bite, a homologous joke.
People were gunned down aroundher, but she was left standing, unappreciative of this thematicculture...
‘Are you lost?’ inquired apoliceman, brass buttons shining, helmet pushed back over red hair.
‘Is thatpossible?’ she came back,testy.
He (It?) appeared surprised; anovelty, and his to profit by. ‘If one tries,’ he answeredsmartly, the accent Irish. ‘May I be your guide?’
He had in tow a wheel, a kind ofspectral rickshaw. Droover considered the speed it would lend her andagreed.
‘Where to, then?’ thepoliceman asked, seating himself one side of the magnetic apparition.
‘Central 68,’ she said, and,imitating his action, they were moving.
The Licencing Bureau occupied thethirtieth floor of an oval structure that reminded Droover of anantique mirror. Its facade borrowed shape and colour from thedissimilar edifices surrounding it, lower conglomerates in whoseformless laps it reclined, as if on show. And as an administrativecentre it was. But shapes could be misleading. The thirtieth floor,for instance, was down; like most of Radio it displaced languidocean.
Kate entered the lobby and paused.Beneath her, visible through the glass floor, milled hundreds ofbuffalo. A square section lifted and she stepped within its fancy,arms folded as the seamless, image-thick box was lowered.
'What floor please?'
She told it.
A wind ruffled the animals' mattedhides and dusty clouds grew like mushrooms at their feet, but Katecould, neither smell nor feel the commotion.
A door opened, a window in thedry, grassy landscape that offered a view as if back through time,for beyond stood rows of metal desks and busy appendages, the clatterof mechanical, oily typewriters spilling past the unglazed frame.
Droover, frowning, paced along themanifested aisle toward the heavy, carved and hinged panels at itsfarther end.
Every face in the room was agirl's...some glanced up; some to one side; others giggled.
Puzzled, and not a little annoyed,she knocked on the imposing entrance and waited. The gouged reliefsbored into her skull a full minute (she counted) and then swung away,admitting her. The office held a large wooden desk, a high-backedleather chair that rocked, its occupant facing a blank screen. Thedesk was swathed in coloured paper, sheets toppling floorward, thatsurface blue-veined like roof and walls, a cheeselike marble on whichKate Droover walked: up to the desk, her rubber soles squeaking. ..
Among thediscarded sheets were sowed numerous freshly-sharpened pencilsvarying in thickness and length.
‘I believe I'm expected,’ Katesaid brusquely. ‘I represent the merchantman Mucho Tomcat.’
The chair turned, the man in itshort and amused. ‘In this life,’ he told her, ‘you believewhat you can.’
She avoided his eyes.
‘So Jonesfinally had one too many, eh?’ he went on. ‘That's difficult tocredit!’ He stood and came round the front of the desk, leant backon it. ‘Anyway, fate dealt her a bum hand; but that's over. It'stime to start again if you don't want to see the entire venture gounder. But there're a few minor details to be cleared up first.’Reaching behind him he grabbed a pencil from amid the variehuedlitter and spun it in his fingers, all the while smiling at Kate, whowas static, patient, thinking of the crew, her duty to them.
A tense silence lingered...
‘Yes?’ she said finally. ‘Whatminor details?’
The man's smilebroadened. He raised the pencil to her throat and dragged its bluntend slowly downward till it met the zipper of her blouse, whiting herskin. There it halted. He pushed from the desk. She remained passive.The pencil moved once more, counted down the plastic teeth,descended, their clicking like that of the typewriters dimly echoingthrough the heavy doors, far and near and measured.
His smile, she decided, wassickening.
The pencil passed below herbreasts, exposing them, and lodged in her navel, where he gave it atwist. Then his greedy mouth was on her, nipping at flesh.