by Karl Beecher
“And how was your journey here, Mister Douglass?” asked Hanson. “Pleasant, I hope?”
“Oh, um… yes, it was perfectly—”
“Good, good,” said Hanson.
They left the hangar through a doorway and emerged outside. Before Colin’s eyes could fully adjust to the light, he caught sight of several men lined up on the street, each pointing some kind of device at him.
He was assaulted by a violent array of flashes and sounds the like of which he’d never heard before.
27
“Oh, I must apologise,” said Hanson. “That must have given you one heck of a fright.”
Colin blinked and rubbed his eyes. His vision had become a fuzzy, multi-coloured mess and he panicked, worrying he’d been shot by some futuristic weapon that simulated an LSD trip. Thankfully, his vision quickly came back into focus. He watched a collection of blurred outlines turn into the sharp image of six men standing before him. Like Hanson, each also wore a suit, though they all had more rumpled looks about them.
“You see,” Hanson continued, gesturing at the dull, grey sky, “as planets go, I hear most other worlds are brighter than ours. Here on Procya, it’s pretty dull most of the time. That’s why we use flashes on our cameras.”
He pointed to the line of men. Colin saw that each of them held what looked like a bulky pen with a small flashbulb on the top. Some of them also carried a flat pad, which resembled a slate but was much thicker and sturdier-looking. The men wrote on the pads using the pen-like devices.
They began to call out to Colin.
“Mister Douglass,” asked one of them. “How are you feeling?”
“Mister Douglass,” said another. “What’s it like to be on Procya?”
“Mister Douglass!”
“Mister Douglass!”
The chorus grew louder as they piled on questions.
Hanson held up his hands. “Now, hold on fellas,” he chuckled. “Let’s give Mister Douglass a chance here.”
As if on command, the men immediately quietened down.
“Sorry, Mister Douglass. Our reporters are real keen to talk to you, but enthusiasm gets the better of them sometimes.” Hanson turned to the gang. “Isn’t that right, Holbork?”
One of the reporters smiled coyly. “Afraid so, Mister Hanson, sir.”
“Now, Mister Douglass,” said Hanson, “we’re going to get you in a car just as soon as we can and off to the hospital. You wouldn’t mind answering a few of these gentlemen’s questions first, would you?”
“Questions?” said Colin. “They want to ask me questions?”
“Why, sure. Plenty of folks around here have been real excited to see you arrive.”
“They have? Why?”
“Well, let’s just say we’ve got a lot of people around here keen to help strangers in need.”
Hanson took Colin’s arm and then gestured at the reporters, who leapt into journalistic action.
“Mister Douglass, what can you tell us about your illness?”
“Mister Douglass, how do you like Procya so far?”
Colin felt someone grab his other arm. It was Tyresa, and she looked apprehensive.
“Perhaps we ought to give Mister Douglass a little while to settle in,” she said, tugging at his elbow.
“Oh, nonsense,” replied Hanson, tugging Colin the other way. “I’m sure a few questions won’t hurt.”
“True,” said Tyresa. She squeezed his arm hard and glared at him. “But we wouldn’t want him to say anything out of turn now, would we?”
“I think you overestimate the sensitivity of Abramans,” grinned Hanson.
Colin looked between the two. On one side: his guide and protector. On the other: a representative of the planet that was going to save his life. He needed them both.
Oh dear.
“Maybe,” he uttered meekly, “just a couple of questions?”
Tyresa had managed the encounter with the reporters as best she could. With one hand firmly gripping his arm, she’d fed Colin some suitably bland responses which nevertheless sent the reporters into uproarious laughter. Even Tyresa knew she wasn’t that funny. After a few minutes, Hanson had dispersed the reporters and ushered his guests into his car. They were soon cruising down a country highway.
The car’s interior was luxurious in an old-fashioned kind of way. It was also spacious, with seating space on the leather chairs for far more than just the three of them. Colin remained fairly quiet, and Tyresa followed his example. That was easy enough when Brock Hanson was in the vicinity. He sat opposite her and Colin, alternating between giving commands to the driver over the car’s intercom, making pleasant small talk with his guests, and taking calls on a handheld communicator. The man couldn’t seem to switch himself off, constantly talking, asking people how they were and cracking polite, lame ‘jokes.’ As far as Tyresa could tell, it was mostly pretence. His remarks felt insincere, even awkward on occasion. His delivery felt scripted and automatic. Maybe he was an android.
Either that or a politician.
When Hanson answered what must have been his fourth call, Tyresa leaned over to Colin while their host chatted loudly on his communicator.
“Y’okay?” she whispered.
Colin nodded.
Tyresa gestured around. “How’d you like the car?”
“Different,” he said hesitantly. “Certainly very different from the sparse décor and curved lines of Ceti.” He pointed to examples of the car’s rich ornamentation. “This is the first car I’ve been in with flock wallpaper and wall-mounted lamps. It’s rather like a stately mobile home. Very quaint. I expect you find it quaint too, for different reasons. I mean,” he chuckled mockingly, “a car that runs on wheels. How primitive.”
But Tyresa was barely listening, instead, watching Hanson from the corner of her eye. Who was this guy? What was he after?
“How about you?” said Colin. “Is something bothering you?”
“No, I’m fine,” she replied. No sense worrying Colin about things.
A few minutes later, the car arrived at a city. It was typical Abraman architecture: big, stone buildings covered with a ridiculous amount of carvings and baroque design work.
Colin seemed to take great interest in the passing scenery. “I say,” he piped up. “Are we in the historical sector or something?”
Hanson, who’d been reading a message on his communicator, looked up puzzled. “Hmm, what’s that?”
“The buildings here look very fancy,” said Colin. “All stone and mortar, slanted roofs and spires. Some of the bigger ones even look like miniature castles. Very lovely. Where I come from, we’d call it Gothic style. I wondered if these were all historical buildings.”
“Oh no,” replied Hanson. “Most cities on Procya are built like this. It’s standard Abraman style.”
“Really?” Colin marvelled as the car swept past a stone tower. “Amazing. I hadn’t expected this. It’s all rather different from Ceti, I can tell you. Over there, it’s almost nothing but skyscrapers of glass and steel.”
“Yes,” chortled Hanson. “Building habitats out of metal is very much looked down on here. All quite ungodly. Most regions have strict regulations: materials are brick, stone, or timber, the maximum height is regulated, as is the building style. Nothing to dilute the spiritual purity of the environment.” He looked at Tyresa, one of the rare occasions he’d actually acknowledged her presence. “I’ve heard of the monstrous structures of the Alliance. Forgive me for saying, but it sounds like a lot of architectural chaos to me.”
Tyresa sensed he was making a dig. Well, she wasn’t going to bite. At this present moment, she was playing the role of a diplomat.
“That’s right,” she replied. “Our cities are hardly beautiful. All those shapes and styles thrown together like that. It’s just the price we have to pay for having freedom and diversity, I suppose.”
Hanson said nothing in reply. He just smirked and bowed his head. Professor Phrizbott would be pro
ud of her.
“Well,” said Colin, “whatever the reasons are, the end result is admirable. It must be delightful to live somewhere like this. And the clothes too!” He pointed at some of the locals lining the streets. “The men all in dapper suits. The ladies in sensible dresses. No styles here which could burn your retinas.”
“I’m glad it suits you,” said Hanson. “Perhaps you might be tempted to settle down here in our humble community? I understand you have no permanent residence right now.”
Colin didn’t answer. He just smiled thoughtfully to himself. He wasn’t seriously considering it, was he?
Before anyone could say anything else, Colin became even more animated. The car had entered a commercial district, and Colin’s mouth dropped. Outside lay a great square of grass and trees surrounded by a horseshoe of grandiose stone buildings.
“How wonderful! It’s like the lid of a posh biscuit tin,” said Colin. “I mean, if you ignore those computer consoles and that animated sign over there—and the cars too, I suppose—then it’s like something from the Victorian Era.”
Hanson looked over at Tyresa with a smile. If smiles could be turned into words, his would have translated as: looks like I’m gaining the upper hand here. Luckily for Tyresa they couldn’t, because the smile she shot back would have contained enough blasphemy and cursing to have her burned at the stake.
“Oh, look,” continued Colin. “A baker’s shop! It looks just like the one in my town when I was a boy. Would it be possible to take a quick look at these lovely shops, just for a minute?”
“Why sure,” replied Hanson affably. He pushed a button on his armrest. “Driver, pull up just here, would you?”
The car stopped beside the row of shops, and the three stepped out onto the street. Flanking the bakery was a tailor’s shop and a sweet shop. Colin picked the tailor’s and went and stared excitedly through its window at a gentleman having his measurements taken.
“A measuring tape!” said Colin, overjoyed. He nudged Tyresa. “I bet you don’t use those on Ceti.”
“Why bother?” she said. “Our clothes automatically adjust themselves to the wearer’s size.”
Hanson chuckled. “A poor substitute for custom tailoring, dear lady.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Colin.
He then scuttled over to the window of the sweet shop, and Tyresa followed him. Mothers and their children crowded the inside, choosing from a colourful array of jars. A lady in a fancy dress soon emerged with her two little boys, a pair of smiling sprouts each carrying a small paper bag. The lady was smiling at the joy of her little brood, but when she spotted Colin and Tyresa—standing there in their garish foreign clothing—the smile evaporated. Her eyes met Colin’s.
“Good morning,” he said amiably.
The lady said nothing. Her expression was hostile, just as Tyresa expected. The smallest of her kids, a round-faced boy of four or five, smiled back and proffered his bag of sweets towards Colin, but the mother grabbed his arm.
“Come on now, children,” she snapped, ushering them away.
Colin watched them depart, then looked confusedly at Tyresa. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Tyresa whispered in his ear. “That’s more like the welcome I was expecting.”
Colin looked around at the other passers-by. He seemed, finally, to notice the expressions on their faces, the kinds of expressions Tyresa had seen whenever she passed through an Abraman planet. It was a look you might give to some pitiable, flea-ridden dog that nevertheless might be dangerous. Certainly, they passed by as though Colin and Tyresa were infectious.
“You must excuse us,” said Hanson. “We don’t get a whole lot of strangers coming to our world. My people are a little wary of new faces. But I promise you, once you win their trust, you’ll never find firmer friends.”
Yeah, thought Tyresa, so long as you convert to their religion.
Then, a mischievous idea struck her.
She pointed to another one of the shops. “Oh look, there’s the baker’s. You should take a look, Colin. See if it really is like the one from home.”
Colin’s excitement rose again and he peered inside from the sidewalk. Inside it was typical Abrama: smooth stone walls and dark brown timbers. Behind the counter, sat row upon row of golden loaves of all shapes and sizes, served up by a red-faced, rotund baker.
Tyresa nudged him. “Just like the one from home, eh, Colin?”
He smiled and nodded. “Pretty close.”
Tyresa pointed at a sign beside the door written in the native language. “Excuse me, Mister Hanson—”
“Doctor Hanson, actually,” he said, chuckling and trying to affable. “I don’t like to stand on ceremony too much, dear lady, but I paid a lot for that title and I’m trying to get my money’s worth!”1
Hilarious.
“Ri-i-ight. Doctor Hanson, could you translate that sign for me?”
“Why sure. It says, ‘No heretics.’”
Naturally, she already knew that.
“Interesting. And what does ‘heretics’ mean, exactly?”
Hanson shrugged, as though it should be obvious. “People who deny the reality of the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory).”
“Really,” said Tyresa, as though learning this for the first time. “You mean non-believers cannot buy food here?”
“Oh, they sure can. Look.” He pointed to another sign with an arrow pointing to the side of the shop. “Let me show you.”
He was falling for it. Hanson must have been so blinkered and embedded in his beliefs that he didn’t see what Tyresa was doing. He led them towards an alleyway beside the bakery.
“See?”
Colin and Tyresa looked and saw, about halfway down the dark, grimy alley, a long queue of people standing in front of a grubby little doorway. The people in the queue were dressed in the same style as those out on the streets, but their tatty clothing was of a visibly poorer quality.
A surly-looking man stuck his head through the doorway and chucked a loaf of unappetising, black bread contemptuously towards the woman at the head of the queue.
Tyresa pointed to the queue. “So, these are non-believers I take it? Interesting. Is it normal here to segregate them like this?”
Finally, a look of realisation came over Hanson’s face. He’d recognised Tyresa’s game. The genial expression permanently plastered on his face almost slipped, but he rallied.
“Now, Ms. Jak—”
“Doctor Jak.”
“Of course,” he smiled, amused by the idea of a female postgraduate. “Doctor Jak. I’m pretty sure you already know about our policy towards heretics around these parts.”
“I’m sure Mister Douglass doesn’t. I’m sure he’d like to know. Right, Colin? How ‘heretics’ are segregated?”
“Separated,” he urged. “Heretics are separated here. And that’s perfectly lawful. And holy. Believers shouldn’t be forced to rub shoulders with heretics. Separation is necessary to prevent corruption of the spiritually pure. But never doubt that we do all we can for these people. We love them equally as we do any Abraman. Any heretic is welcome into the ranks of the pure just as soon they embrace the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory). There are those in Abrama—extremists, of course—who would advocate denying them any place. But society is judged by the way it treats its lowest members.” He pointed to the slow-moving snake of people. “As you can see, they are fed, as we are. And they are clothed, as we are. We care for them.”
In the alleyway, a man in the queue turned his head, briefly made eye contact with the three onlookers, then hurriedly looked at the ground.
Tyresa said nothing. Colin’s joyous reaction to Abrama seemed to have evaporated. She watched him turn and look at some of the shops across the street. He eyed a butchers’ shop, filled with row upon row of thick, red cuts of meat and a dozen elegant-looking patrons inside. Above the door hung the same sign prohibiting non-believers, and, at the side of the shop, a long line of poorer-looking custom
ers queuing for their little cuts of grey meat. The same sign prohibiting heretics hung in several other shop windows, and even beside to a public computer terminal.
Hanson, though he hid it admirably, seemed displeased. He ushered his guests back into the car, this time with distinctly less congeniality.
The car drove out of the commercial district. Inside, a frosty atmosphere had descended, and Hanson’s smile was no longer so prominent.
In the silence, Colin processed what he’d seen in the Abraman city. It put him in mind of thumbing through a coffee-table history book, London Through the Ages or something like that. Arriving had been like browsing the first few chapters, filled with pretty, nostalgic pictures depicting some fairy tale past. But then came the later chapters, the ones about London’s poor forgotten underworld of sun-starved back alleys and disease-ridden workhouses. In particular, the wretched face of the man in the queue continued to bother him. The flash of panic as he made brief eye contact. What kind of a place was this?
He was still trying to make sense of this planet and his own feelings when the car finally arrived at Saint Barflet’s Hospital. As they passed through the front gates, the stunning building came into view. This was something he could have seen in no history book: a spectacular, sprawling sandstone complex ten stories high, resembling the most colossal country mansion imaginable. It made Blenheim Palace look like a garden shed.
Curiously, the view served to reassure Colin a little. Surely, if this was a society that could build something so awesome and yet so civilised, then he was in good hands. At the same time, he sensed his memory of the non-believers in the alleyway being pushed to the back of his mind, as though he wasn’t in control of it. It dismayed him, but maybe that was for the best. He had his own problems. And after all, he was a nobody, a caveman. What could he hope to do for them?
The car came to a stop beside the main entrance which was adorned by a huge, multi-columned portico. Hanson guided Colin and Tyresa inside to an interior of stone and painted brick, which reminded Colin of the Pepperton District Hospital, an old building that had gone without refurbishment since Queen Victoria sat on the throne. Throngs of white-coated doctors and uniformed nurses went about their business. Colin noticed passers-by follow the now usual routine of greeting Hanson amiably while casting suspicious glances at the two strangers.
