Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  "…understand that when we say everything outside the shell has disappeared, we mean everything! At close range, all interstellar and interportal ships which were in dock have vanished, plus several of the latter which were en route between portals. And not only ships – docking cradles, cargo handling gear, passenger transfer tubes, even radio and TV antennae. Anything which was projecting beyond the boundary line of Optima Thule has been sheared off – with a perfect mirror finish on the metal sections, incidentally – and has vanished from our awareness."

  Professor Carpenter paused to take a sip of water. "At what we might style as intermediate range, the outer planet of our own local system – Napier – has vanished. All this is trivial, however, compared to the fact that – on the cosmic scale – every star known to us can no longer be observed, every galaxy known to us can no longer be observed.

  "To my mind, there is only one possible interpretation of those facts, incredible though it may seem – and that is that Optima Thule has been repositioned."

  "I can't believe this," a grey-haired woman said, shaking her head with an air of sadness. "You claim to be a qualified scientist, and yet you sit there and try to make us believe that our world – Orbitsville – has been moved!"

  "I am a qualified scientist," Carpenter replied, in the measured tones of one who was determined not to be provoked. "And I did not say that Orbitsville had been moved. The word I used was 'repositioned'. It is obvious that no movement in the conventional sense of the word was involved – the repositioning was achieved instantaneously."

  His words were followed by a babel of voices as all the holomorphs tried to make points at the same time. Nicklin gave up trying to follow the various threads of argument and lapsed into a reverie until the televiewer scene changed. The group at the table dissolved, to be replaced by an outdoors shot – a view of Portal 1 at the centre of Beachhead City. It was recognisable because of the statue of Vance Garamond, the discoverer of Orbitsville, at the edge of what appeared to the casual eye as a circular black lake.

  The camera advanced until it was poised at the edge of the aperture then rotated forwards, simulating a leisurely dive into space. When it steadied the corner of the Whites' living room was filled with an intense blackness which was stippled with hundreds of glowing specks. Professor Carpenter could be heard in voice-over, commenting on the complete absence of familiar star patterns and the presence of totally alien constellations.

  As always, Nicklin found the view of the outside universe to be something of a disappointment. Orangefield was less than a thousand kilometres from Beachhead – an easy enough journey by air – but he had never taken the trouble to go there, and hence had never seen the stars in actuality. For him, those remote flecks of light had very little relevance to the problems, pressures and pleasures of everyday life. His family had been on Orbitsville for six generations, and the course of their lives had not been affected in any way by stars or patterns of stars…

  "And what about Earth?" another man was heard to say.

  "We no longer know where Earth is. We don't know how to get there." Carpenter sounded as though he was deriving a perverse satisfaction from the negatives. "Therefore all contact with Earth has been lost, probably for ever. That also goes for Terranova, of course."

  Who cares about Earth or Terranova? Nicklin thought. Museum pieces! Staring into the near-featureless blackness was beginning to make him feel drowsy. He decided to give it just another five minutes, time enough to be sure that Cort Brannigan had vacated his premises, then he would take his leave of the Whites and get back to important business. It was the task of the astronomers to find out why the universe looked different – in the meantime he had a juice extractor and a bicycle wheel to repair, jobs which had been promised for that very afternoon.

  Nicklin allowed his eyelids to close, creating an exquisite feeling of relaxation in his eyes. The sensation was so pleasant that he was immediately aware of the risk of lapsing into sleep, something which would be embarrassing in front of the tireless Whites…

  "Just look at old man Jim," Cham White said loudly, his voice reaching Nicklin across murmurous summer meadows of contentment. "Working for ten minutes has worn him out."

  Nicklin roused himself with a start. "Sorry, sorry – I got very little sleep last night." The lie came unbidden to his lips.

  "What was the matter?" Nora said, showing a neighbourly concern. "Tummy troubles?"

  "Yes." Nicklin seized on the suggestion with gratitude and began to elaborate on it. "I ate a chunk of apple pie just before bed, and I made the mistake of putting a slice of cheese on it."

  "Apple pie, eh? Have you started taking cookery lessons?"

  "No – it was a little gift from May McVickar." Nicklin listened to his own words with growing dismay. Why did he get himself into this kind of situation? And what had possessed him to appoint May McVickar as his fictional benefactor? She lived only a couple of kilometres away, and was quite friendly with the Whites, and the two women could easily meet and begin chatting and comparing notes within the next day or two. In fact, with his luck, the silly old bitch could arrive on the Whites' doorstep at any minute…

  Nicklin was casting around in sudden alarm for a way to get off the subject of apple pie when he became aware of an unusual sound from outside the house, one which was beginning to conflict with the voices of the televiewer. It was growing in volume, and was so incongruous in the rural quietness of the area that several seconds went by before he was able to resolve it into separate components. There was brassy marching music overlaid with an amplified male voice which, although the words could not yet be distinguished, sounded like that of a politician or an evangelist.

  "Seems like we've got visitors," Nicklin said, rising to his feet and making for the door. "This I must see."

  He gave the Whites a perfunctory wave and escaped from the house into the vertical rays of the Orbitsville sun. Its warmth seeped through his hair and spread like hot oil on the crown of his head, making him wish he had brought a hat. He shaded his eyes and peered through curtains of midge-clouded brilliance. On the road beyond the stream was a slow-moving procession of about ten vehicles, a mix of campers and trucks, all of them painted powder blue. On the side of each, pulsing in photoactive orange dyes, was the message: COREY MONTANE is leading you home.

  "Oh no," Nicklin whispered, "not another bible thumper! Please, O Gaseous Vertebrate, not another holy roller!"

  Denial of his prayer came in the form of a crashingly distorted announcement, the gist of which was that evangelist Corey Montane would be visiting Orangefield for three days. His intention was to bring salvation to any of the locals who had the good sense to heed his preachings. All the others would, naturally enough, be doomed.

  The speaker's words faded and became even less decipherable as the cavalcade began to pass out of sight behind a stand of whistle trees. But before intelligibility was lost altogether Nicklin picked out a fragment – "Orbitsville is a tool of the Devil."

  That's just great, he thought bitterly as he began walking towards his own property. It looked as though for the next three days he would be under the threat of having his privacy invaded by earnest heliumheads. And worse, the therapeutic calm of the village green, where he liked to stroll in the evenings, was likely to be shattered by noisy sermons, appalling music and collectors of cash. There was one feature that all religious missions, all purveyors of spiritual peace, all renouncers of worldly gain had in common – somebody had to collect the cash.

  All thought of what was going on in the outside universe had been displaced from Nicklin's mind. Frowning and looking disconsolate, as befitted one who had found genuine cause for concern, he made his way home through the lush green grass.

  CHAPTER 3

  Helping to erect the marquee had left Corey Montane feeling tired and slightly shaky, and now he was sitting on a canvas chair outside his camper, refreshing himself with a pot of his favourite tea. As he sipped the fragrant brew he
allowed his gaze to drift around the shops, inns and occasional private dwellings which ringed Orangefield's central green. The scene – with its imported oaks and chestnut trees – was one of idyllic, nostalgic tranquillity.

  Throughout history different sections of humanity had formed their own visions of the perfect setting for the jewel of life, ranging from the sentimental New York of Frank Capra to the serene Antarctic demesnes of the twenty-first-century poet, Richard Caine… But for an astonishing number of people the ideal would always closely approximate what Montane was seeing now. In the charmed age which the surroundings lovingly recreated, cigarettes did not cause cancer, it was no sin to eat butter and cream, nuclear weapons were unthought-of, and work brought fulfilment and not hypertension. Hefty, bearded cricketers might be on their way by steam train to contend with the local team; a distant mechanical murmur might be the Wright brothers tinkering with some impractical machine in their corrugated-iron workshop.

  At times like this it was easy for Montane to understand why so many inhabitants of Orbitsville opted to live in low-tech communities. It pained him, therefore, to remember that his natural human response to all he saw was part of the terrible danger which Orbitsville held in store for all of God's children. It was the bait in the Orbitsville trap…

  "You all right, Corey?" The speaker was Nibs Affleck, who had approached from the direction of the marquee, where the adjustment of turnbuckles was still going on. He was a serious-eyed young man whose florid complexion was the legacy of a long spell of alcoholism. He had joined the crusade a year earlier and had found in it enough inspiration to enable him to fight free of his habit. As a result, he was fiercely loyal to Montane and showed his gratitude by being solicitous – embarrassingly so at times – about his mentor's health.

  "I'm fine, Nibs," Montane said, glancing up from under the flat cone of his sun-hat. "Just a little tired, that's all."

  "You should leave jobs like putting up the tent to the rest of us."

  "You may be interested to learn that being sixty years old does not qualify one for a wheelchair." Montane smiled to show that he was not offended. "Besides, you know our rules. Nobody is so high and mighty that he is excused his share of work – and that includes me.

  Affleck shuffled his feet and looked miserable. "I didn't mean you were…"

  "It's all right, Nibs – you were just being thoughtful and I thank you for that. Now, will you do me a favour?"

  "You bet, Corey!" Affleck said eagerly, his round face brightening. "Just name it!"

  "This town actually has a daily newspaper – a real Mark Twain job, by all accounts – and I might consider advertising in it. I'd appreciate it if you would go and get me a copy."

  "You bet, Corey!" His eyes glowing with simple happiness, Affleck turned and bounded away across the green.

  Montane watched his progress with troubled eyes. Affleck was a good-hearted, industrious man, but he was an innocent – not the kind of disciple the crusade was desperately short of. What Montane really needed was a team of smart fast-talkers with the talent for raising large sums of money, the sort of men and women who – with a mesmeric combination of business acumen and evangelistic fervour – could induce rich men to part with fortunes. It was quite difficult to find millionaires on Orbitsville, because the acquisition of great wealth involved the manipulation and control of others, and it was no easy matter to do that to individuals whose birthright it was to trek off into the interior, at any time the mood took them, and claim the equivalent of a county, or a country, or even a continent. And such wealthy people as could be lured out of their strongholds were disinclined to hand large sums of money over to what they saw as ingenuous Jesus freaks.

  There had been a time when Montane had believed that he would be able to attract the sort of funding necessary for the success of the crusade, that God would speak through him and touch the hearts of men – but that had been six years ago. He almost groaned aloud when he thought of how much time had gone by since his awakening, and of how little had been achieved…

  For the first fifty years of his life Corey Montane had been a conventional and unremarkable inhabitant of Pewterspear 97. The numerical suffix given to any place-name referred to the nearest portal, and that was as close as Orbitsville had come to devising a zip code system. The fact that Pewterspear had a number close to 100 meant that the city was almost as far from Beachhead as it was possible to get, but that had not troubled Montane. He had liked being well away from the great urban centres of commerce and industry. He had owned and run a small home bakery, which yielded a modest but comfortable income from the sale of a variety of spicy meat pies and elaborate Danish pastries. His wife, Milly, and grown-up daughter, Tara, had helped in the business in a relationship that was nearly always harmonious. He enjoyed a range of outdoor pursuits – principally flying light aircraft – and was well liked in the town.

  The chances were that Montane would have lived out his allotted ninety years in the same pleasant and undemanding manner, but everything had changed for him in the space of a few seconds…

  It was a wet morning in the early part of the year – but Montane was not in a mood to find the rain depressing. It was coming down in the form of very large, clean, tumbling drops, each of which created a spiky crystal crown in miniature as it impacted with the pavement. His vision seemed preternaturally clear – the way it could be in the prelude to a migraine – and he saw the crowns in diamond-sharp detail, just as he had done in childhood. He wondered if that could be what had inspired his present feelings of boyhood optimism, in which for him the bad weather was recreating the ambience of Christmas Eve. The section of the street he could see was crowded with shoppers, complete with umbrellas and turned-up collars, who were determined to obtain last-minute Christmas gifts in spite of the rain, and the lighted windows of the other stores were cheerily reflected on the wet ground, adding to the Yuletide atmosphere.

  Montane smiled as he noted yet another similarity to the festive season – business had been exceptionally brisk that morning, so good that it was already necessary for him to replenish his window display. He decided to begin at once – while there was a break in the flow of customers – by slicing up a large veal-ham-and-egg pie, and perhaps a couple of the battenbergs, which sold well under the folksy name of marzipan windows.

  "Milly," he called out, taking a brick-shaped pie out of the refrigerator, "What did you do with the knives?"

  "They're here – in the steriliser." His wife was in the kitchen at the rear of the shop.

  "Would you like to bring them out here?"

  Milly gave a barely audible tut of impatience and he remembered that she was about to go over to the Canterbury to have morning coffee with a few friends. A moment later she came hurrying into the front of the shop with the knives on a tray. And somehow-it was surmised afterwards that wetness tramped in from the street had been responsible – she managed to slip and fall forwards.

  Montane expected anything but tragedy on that nostalgic grey morning, but the sound that Milly emitted as she hit the floor told him at once that something terrible, something totally unreasonable and unfair had happened. It was an appalling sound – part grunt, part sigh – expressive of pain, surprise and fear.

  "Milly!" Montane ran to the end of the counter, looked down and saw his wife lying face downwards on the floor. The tray was beneath her. Face contorting with shock, he dropped to his knees and rolled her over. A knife, which must have turned its point up to meet her descending body, was protruding from just below the left breast.

  She died in his arms, staring up at him with a bemused expression, while the knife-handle – stirred by her heart's last contractions-playfully wiggled and circled amid the growing stain on her tangerine blouse.

  Montane tilted his head back and. howled with grief.

  The hours and days that followed were almost as nightmarish as the initial cataclysmic event. After the police had made some preliminary enquiries and the ambulance
had departed with the body, he turned to his daughter in the depths of his despair, needing support and consolation. To his astonishment, she reacted to him with silent, glacial fury, almost as though he had engineered her mother's death. He was unable to penetrate the barrier she had erected between them, and as soon as the funeral was over she packed a bag and walked out, refusing to give any hint as to where she was going…

  Thinking back to those traumatic days of six years ago, Montane found cause for philosophical wonderment in the fact that his awakening had been prompted, not by the loss of his wife and daughter, but by a geological peculiarity of the Pewterspear area.

  The town was situated in a broad dish-shaped depression which, on the old survey maps, was designated as McIntosh's Bottom. Montane had always been aware of the name, but to him it had been little more than an inspiration for vulgar schoolboy jokes. He had also been aware, though with little interest, that the rocky soil on which the town was built was as little as two metres thick in many places. It was common practice in the local construction industry to support the more massive buildings on short piles which penetrated down to the Orbitsville shell, but that too had been of minimal concern to Montane – until his first visit to his wife's grave.

  He had been kneeling by the still-fresh plot, striving to wrest some degree of reconciliation from the notion that she would become one with the earth. Death was part of a natural cycle … springing from the soil, returning to the soil…

  Then had come the shocking realisation that Milly's body, her sacred body, was suspended only a hand's breadth above the featureless grey sheet of ylem which formed Orbitsville's vast shell. And beyond that, only centimetres away, was the harsh emptiness of interstellar space! There could never be any peace for her, for either of them, in those supremely unnatural circumstances; there could be no gentle absorption into the ancestral unity of a God-given world; there was no rightness to Milly's shallow interment…