Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  "It's not a man – it's a fox," he screamed, clinging to her thighs. "Can't you see it's a fox?"

  His mother and the fox laughed together at the childish absurdity. Saliva dripped from the beast's yellow teeth.

  "Don't be such a silly boy," his mother said, thrusting him forward with an adult's irresistible force. "Go along with your nice uncle and have a lovely time."

  Betrayed, weeping, doomed – Jim was propelled into the fox's grasp. Its hand was hard and strong, covered with hairs which looked and felt like strands from a brown doormat. Jim's mother was already turning away, uncaring, as the fox dragged him towards the hill. In just a few seconds the fox and he were alone in one of the quiet places, where stone walls hid them from the rest of the world.

  The fox wasted no time. It turned on him, its mouth yawning widely enough to engulf his head, so widely that he could see the pink uvula doing a funny little dance at the entrance to its throat.

  That was what gave the game away – one Disney touch too many!

  Jim had seen the fox before, or creatures rather like it, in dozens of half-remembered cartoons, and he knew it was only a drawing on a sheet of transparent plastic. He knew it had no ability to hurt him – and with that abrupt realisation the dream became a lucid one, giving him control over the course of events. Suddenly he was safe, and had power, enormous power which he could enjoy – just like Alice in the last chapter of the Wonderland book.

  Taking a deep breath he bellowed, "Who cares for you? You're nothing but a cartoon!"

  The force of the shout sent the fox reeling backwards, his face comically aghast and his hair blown into receding red-brown points. Giggling with glee, little Jim turned and sprinted away along the stone path. He had taken only a few bounding steps when the solid-seeming pavement opened up in front of him, forming a gaping black pit. As Jim went helplessly over the edge and began the downward plunge he realised that the beautiful little hill, so plentifully encrusted with stone, was hollow.

  And the things waiting for him inside it had no place in children's cartoons…

  Nicklin opened his eyes wide and stared at the underside of the bunk above. His first thought was: What the hell was all that about? The dream had not exactly been a nightmare – it had been too preposterous to ram the icy dagger of terror all the way through his guts – but it had been a disturbing one nevertheless. He had little or no time for historic Freudian theory, yet he had an uncomfortable feeling that the odd dream had been laden with symbolism. And it was quite remarkable how, after more than three centuries, the Disney style – his particular brand of anthropomorphism, which hinted at an underlying fear of all wild creatures – could still exercise such a powerful influence over the unconscious minds of children and adults alike.

  It suddenly came to Nicklin that he was seeing the base of the bunk above in the meagre daylight which seeped through a tiny circular window. Furthermore, the camper had stopped moving and there were sounds of activity from outside. He put an eye to the window and saw that the caravan had come to a halt in what appeared to be a sports field. There was little in the way of facilities – just some forsaken goalposts, a scoreboard and a small pavilion. The roofs of a few dwellings could be seen above the somewhat scrawny hedge which marked the field's perimeter. In the distance the tops of several tall buildings projected up from layers of morning mist, slim pastel streaks against the sky. A star-like point of light glowed on one of them, trembling in the moist air, evidence that a photocast station was in operation.

  Millennium City, Nicklin thought, sinking back on to his pillow as he identified the location. Where he came from the town was the butt of many jokes because of the discrepancy between its grand name and the red-grimed wasteland of open-cast bauxite mines, purification plants and railroad sidings. He was in no hurry to leave his bed for the privilege of seeing more of Millennium City or its inhabitants. Gentle snores from other bunks suggested to Nicklin that his new companions were of a like frame of mind.

  He expected that they would all soon be rousted out to begin erecting the big marquee, but for the present he had the symbolism of the strange dream to think about. Why had a fox been part of the cast? Was it merely because of the menacing fox character in the half-remembered Disney version of Pinocchio? And what was the significance of that most implausible geographical feature – the hollow hill? Could it have represented the womb? Had it had something to do with his mother's presence? Nicklin had not dreamed of her in a long time, and it was strange that his unconscious mind had chosen to portray her as one who was prepared to hand him over to a monster. Monster … mons … mons veneris … Montane! Had Nicklin, in the dream, been handed over to and swallowed up by a small mountain – Montane? Had his mother, his betraying mother, represented Danea Farthing, whom he had only last night begun to suspect of…?

  The whirlwind of confusing questions and simplistic, amateurish associations abruptly collapsed in Nicklin's mind, deprived of its motive power by the aridity of the real world. It was an objective fact that Danea had been avoiding him ever since he had joined the mission; and there was no doubt at all that she had been talking too freely to the tall one with the flashlight – what was her name? – Christine. Why had he not sought Danea out yesterday and forced the issue? Why, in the name of the Gaseous Vertebrate, had he delayed so long before deciding to confront Danea and get everything straight between them?

  Feeling cold and sick, impelled by an urge to learn and verify the worst, Nicklin got out of his bunk. Ignoring the sonic shower cubicle, he pulled on the clothes he had worn the previous day and went out into the morning sunlight. The first thing he noticed was the marquee spread out over a large area of grass, but no work was actually being done to erect it. A number of people were gathered near the expanse of lazily rippling material, some of them arguing with each other.

  As Nicklin was stepping down from the camper, two men and two women detached themselves from the larger group and strode towards the sports field's entrance. They were carrying suitcases and had some extra items of clothing slung over shoulders or arms. The leader was Dee Smethurst, the plump archetypal cook, whose face bore an expression of outrage.

  "It's you I feel sorry for, mister," she said to Nicklin as she passed by. "I don't hold anything against you."

  Her companions nodded, their sun-hats bobbing, and they went on their determined way before Nicklin could ask what the cook had meant. The driver of a taxi which was waiting beyond the field's single gate got out of his vehicle to greet them. Nicklin heard one of the four say something about a railroad station, confirming that he had just witnessed a small desertion among Montane's followers.

  Puzzled, he took his own sun-hat out of his pocket, spread it into a circle and jammed it on to his head before walking towards the larger group. He now felt keyed up, yet cool and balanced, ready for anything – the epitome of the new urbane Jim Nicklin who had been too big for Orangefield to hold. The state of mind lasted until he saw Danea Farthing, and not one second longer.

  She was dressed in black again, but with a circular skirt instead of pants, and the sight of the lean-hipped figure in among all the ordinary faceless people did peculiar things to Nicklin's pulse. The sensation of all resolve draining out of him was almost a physical one, evocative of childhood dismay on finding hot urine running down his legs. The Danea effect in reverse, he thought. What am I going to say to her?

  He began to force a cold smile as he drew close to Danea, but felt his mouth curve up at the corners – giving him his old happy hayseed expression – and he settled for a look of calm seriousness. For one craven instant he hoped she would evade him, but her eyes met his without hesitation.

  "There you are, Jim," she said smiling warmly. "Where have you been hiding yourself?"

  He responded with a nod, less confident than ever, wondering if he was about to make a fool of himself because of an attack of lover's paranoia. "Can we talk?"

  The men and women standing within earshot did not a
ctually nudge each other, but an unmistakable frisson went through them, and their reaction saddened Nicklin. It was all the confirmation he needed.

  "What do you want to talk about?" Danea enquired, with more brightness than was strictly necessary.

  "Not here." He glanced around the others, taking in their frozen grins and casually averted eyes.

  "I'm supposed to be helping here, but…" Danea shrugged and fell in beside him as he began walking towards the goalposts in an empty quarter of the field. "Well, how did you sleep last night? I heard we stopped for something out in the middle of nowhere, but I slept right through it, myself. Did you get up?"

  "Didn't Christine tell you I was there?"

  "What do you…? Why should she?"

  The blue ribs of the Orbitsville sky pulsed at the edges of Nicklin's vision. "You and Christine tell each other everything, don't you?"

  Danea wheeled on him immediately, all trace of heaviness gone from her eyes. "What the fuck is this all about?"

  "Nothing," he said quietly. "I guess it's about nothing."

  "Look, I'm sorry." Danea pressed the back of a hand to her forehead, slightly altering the tilt of her black stetson. "I don't usually talk like that – it's just that I've been so worried. I feel guilty about you, Jim. What happened between us … it was all a mistake."

  Nicklin's throat closed up painfully, preventing him from speaking.

  "I've no idea what could have happened to me," Danea went on. "I don't know what kind of impression I gave you."

  Nicklin's memory stirred into action, restoring his power of speech. "You gave me the impression that we could live together in our own camper – but Montane told me that was never on the cards."

  "Do you wear a recorder everywhere you go? Do you record every casual remark then pick it apart afterwards?"

  "What?"

  "Well let me tell you something for nothing, Mata Hari – I don't like being spied on by anybody, especially you!"

  The sheer irrationality of the attack confounded Nicklin. "I think Mata Hari was a woman," he said automatically, and on the instant of speaking saw the verbal cudgel he had put into Danea's hands. Will she use it? Please, O Gaseous Vertebrate, don't let her sink that low. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and he watched in fascination as surprise, gratification and triumph flitted across her features.

  "Do you think," she said, savouring every word, "I didn't know that?"

  And there we have it, he thought. Danea, of all people, has no reason to doubt my sexuality – and yet something told her what to say. Something about me tells all of them what to say. When they want to put me down, or when the opposite is the case and they want to … Nicklin blinked as his thoughts led him unerringly to the solution of another little mystery, one which had been quietly but persistently tugging at an obscure corner of his mind.

  On the morning Danea had driven out to his place, the morning he had ceased being an ugly duckling and had become a swan, she had referred time and time again to his prowess with women. It had been a keynote of her conversation. Tell me the truth, Jim – just how many women have you taken for a walk up here? Words spoken in tones of rueful admiration. Words spoken by a woman acknowledging her helplessness while under the spell of a charming roué. Words that throughout his adult life he had craved to hear!

  Danea had known exactly what to say, because something about him always gave the game away. On the evening of that first meeting on Orangefield common she had looked at him, and had done a perfect cold reading on him, and known at once how to go about robbing him of everything he owned. Not only that – she had known how to make him enjoy being plucked and trussed and handed over to Montane. In the space of only a few hours he had gone from duckling to swan to oven-ready turkey, and had loved every moment of it!

  "You're good, Danea," he said simply. "You're very good at what you do."

  As he was turning away he thought he saw, perhaps for one fraction of a second, a stricken look in Danea's eyes, but if he had learned one lesson it was not to trust his judgement in such matters. That look had probably been manufactured just for his benefit – showing a master's painstaking attention to the very last and finest detail. Danea had made it clear what she really thought of him – and it had turned out to be much the same as what all other women thought of him – and the only important thing now was deciding what to do with the rest of his life.

  He could never again face up to all the good burghers of Orangefield, even though it would have been so nice to be in Zindee's wise-beyond-her-years company once more; and he had no intention of staying on in Millennium City. The best plan might be to head for the anonymity of Beachhead, but he had no more than ten orbs in his pocket, not even enough for the rail fare. A murmur of voices reached Nicklin from the group by the marquee and his face began to burn as he guessed Danea had rejoined her friends, possibly to regale them with new details of how she had handled the simpleton from Orangefield.

  He had to get away from the scene of his mortification as quickly as he possibly could. For that he needed some money, and the only source he could think of was Corey Montane. It was hard to think of a greater humiliation than going cap in hand to the sanctimonious Fagin who had cleaned him out, but if Montane wanted to go on with his man-of-God impersonation he might be willing to part with a hundred or two. Especially if he were threatened with trouble!

  Nicklin tried to imagine himself bursting into Montane's camper with an iron bar in his hand, and his misery intensified as he realised how preposterous the notion was. Violence simply was not in his nature, no matter how much he might be provoked, and he could not even envisage going to the police or the local news media. Montane had been very careful to establish that there was no connection between Nicklin's personal relationship with Danea Farthing and his donation to the mission's funds. The most Nicklin could hope to achieve by kicking up a public rumpus would be to multiply the number of people who saw him as a prize ass.

  As he was walking towards Montane's vehicle it occurred to him that, considering all that had happened to him, he was reacting more like an automaton than a human being. He was being a bit too civilised and passive, even for Jim Nicklin, but there was a strangeness somewhere deep inside him – an ineffable psychic tremor which hinted at emotional earthquakes to come. It was advisable for him to make what practical arrangements he could while the blessed numbness persisted.

  Finding the middle door of Montane's camper open, he went up the steps and into the vehicle without preamble. Montane was sitting on the side bench, cup of tea in hand, watching a small television set which he had placed on his wife's coffin. Even though it could not have been more than five or six kilometres to the local photocast station, the image of a newsman was poor, thanks to mist in the intervening air. The sound quality was reasonable, however, and Montane seemed totally absorbed by what was being said.

  He raised his free hand in a mute hello to Nicklin, then pointed at a chair, inviting him to sit down. Feeling that he had already been placed at a tactical disadvantage, Nicklin reluctantly lowered himself into the seat. His knees were almost touching the coffin, and as he gazed at the silvery surface he found himself speculating about its contents. Had the body of Milly Montane been specially treated to prevent decomposition? Or was he sitting right up against a box full of…? He aborted the thought with all possible speed and turned his attention to the newscast in which Montane was so engrossed.

  "…stressed that they could only make an educated guess at this stage, because radio links between all portals have not yet been fully re-established," the announcer was saying. "It does appear, however, that the mysterious green lines are a global phenomenon. They have been reported in the vicinity of more than twenty portal cities, and experts who have been extrapolating the figures think that the lines are roughly 950 kilometres apart, all the way around the Orbitsville equator.

  "The mind boggles, doesn't it? Mine certainly does, but a good boggle has never done anybody any harm – that's
what I always say.

  "We'll bring you more on that story later, but now we are returning to our panel discussion on the economic effects of what some scientists are already referring to as the Big Jump. With the portal communities now effectively cut off from each other, many manufacturing centres are denied access to their markets. If the present situation continues, the greatest growth industry of all time is likely to be the construction of interportal spaceships.

  "With us to talk about the problem is Rick Renard, who has scarcely been off the air in the last few days, because – as you are no doubt aware – he is the owner of the Hawkshead, the starship which vanished while disembarking at Portal 36. Mr Renard is already forming a consortium for the design and building of…" Image and voice faded together as Montane reached out and switched off the television.

  "Good morning, Jim," he said. "Tea?"

  Nicklin continued staring into the lifeless grey screen, hardly aware that the other man had spoken. Something uncanny had happened to him while he was listening to the photocast, something outside all his previous experience. At the mention of Renard's name there had been a heaving – that was the only word he could apply to the sensation – in the deepest levels of his consciousness … a leviathan had stirred briefly in some black prehistoric swamp of his mind…

  Renard! The name threw off expanding circular echoes of itself. Reynard! That means fox. But this fox doesn't want to eat small boys-he wants to build spaceships. The fox and the spaceship! It sounds like one of those cute pubs, and what has that got to do with…?

  "Are you with me, Jim?" Montane said, giving him a quizzical look. "I'm offering you a cup of my best tea."

  Nicklin made his eyes focus on Montane's face. "No tea for me, thanks – I need to talk to you."

  "I'm always ready to listen." Montane went on very quickly, not giving Nicklin the chance to continue. "I was right about that green line we found last night. Remember I said it probably went all the way down to the shell? Well, according to the local news there are hundreds of the damned things – and they do go right down to the shell. I don't like it, Jim. This is the Devil's work. What did you want to talk about?"