Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  It had taken a few seconds for the significance of the statement to penetrate Nicklin's mind. To him the flight to New Eden was a preposterous fantasy, one which had no hope of being realised, and he had given no thought to the practicalities involved. Had he considered the matter he would have seen at once that, while the crossing of hundreds of light years of interstellar void could be accomplished routinely, dropping down through the final hundred kilometres to achieve landfall gave rise to unusual problems.

  The great majority of spaceships constructed in the previous two centuries were designed to ply between Earth and Orbitsville – from the parking orbits of the former to the docking cradles of the latter – and therefore had no provision for transferring personnel to and from the surface of an unprepared world.

  Montane had always anticipated the difficulty and expense of equipping his starship with a pinnace, and now – suddenly and unexpectedly – the problem had ceased to exist. "It's an omen, Jim," he had said. "This is the Lord's way of telling me not to despair, that He is still tending His flock."

  The sheer irrationality of that proposition had dissuaded Nicklin from trying to argue. The Lord, it seemed, had not tended very hard in the case of Apryl Fugaccia. A penniless hairdresser of Scandinavian stock, she had professionally met the elderly billionaire, Ves Fugaccia, in a Beachhead salon. He had been captivated by the newly minted gold of her Nordic good looks, and she had been equally drawn by the prospect of wealth and limitless opportunities for travel and adventure. She must have counted herself among the luckiest people in the universe when, on their first wedding anniversary, Fugaccia had granted her dearest wish by presenting her with a starship of her very own. Only a comparative handful of exploration craft had been built – the Orbitsville syndrome had seen to that – and the enormous expense involved had been yet another proof of her husband's boundless love. So infatuated had Apryl been with the notion of becoming a planetary first-footer that she had sneaked on board her new toy while it was land-docked at Portal 9, and had donned her HESS (Hostile Environment Survival Suit) without first mastering the intricacies of its breathing-gas regulatory system. Her body had been found in the left-hand seat of the pinnace's cockpit.

  How Montane could construe such a pathetic sequence of events as evidence of the existence of a caring Almighty was a source of puzzlement to Nicklin. To him it was a prank worthy of that greatest of all tricksters, the Gaseous Vertebrate, but he had refrained from making any comment, and had continued quite happily with his duties as second-in-command of the mission. For the present those duties consisted of little more than living with Montane and Kingsley in the decaying Fugaccia mansion and waiting for the rest of the team to arrive.

  In particular, he was waiting for the arrival of Danea Farthing. He had devised a new plan for dealing with her, one which would take time to put into effect, but which had the merit of promising to make her humiliation – when it finally came – all the more complete.

  The thought, enlivened his stride as he reached the base of the hill and began to climb. Clearing a way through the vegetation had been easier here because the hill was plentifully endowed with stone steps and paths, exactly as in his dream. He wound his way to the crest on meticulously fitted hexagonal paving and found Montane and Kingsley standing in a broad but shallow excavation which was the result of their combined labours.

  Its floor resembled streaky brown glass copiously studded with nodules of grey and white, reminding Nicklin of a gigantic slab of nut candy. The discovery of the fused-earth and rock carapace below the topsoil had bothered Montane at first, because it delayed his progress, but he had been consoled by the thought of the excellent protection it afforded the ship. Seventy years would have been a long time for any metal artefact – even one constructed from electron-sated alloys – to resist the chemical ravages of damp earth.

  "Good morning, navvies," Nicklin called out. "How are the calluses today?"

  Montane looked up from the drawing he was studying and responded to the greeting in amicable tones. He had been in Nicklin's company almost continuously for three months, while they were finding Ves Fugaccia's heirs and negotiating the purchase of the property, and understood that the best way to preserve their enmity was to masquerade as friends. Kingsley, the huge ex-farmer, who had no time for such strategies, confined himself to giving Nicklin a barely audible grunt.

  "You're an engineer," Montane said, beckoning to Nicklin. "Take a look at this drawing and tell me what you think."

  "I used to fix egg-beaters," Nicklin replied. "Spaceships are a bit out of my line."

  "Take a look at the drawing!"

  Nicklin shrugged and did as ordered. The photocopy paper was old and creased, but the original drawing had been even older – a fact which was obvious from the numerous wrinkles and smudges which had been reproduced along with the linework and text. It had been issued by the Nissan-Vickers company of Birkenhead, England, and showed the three principal elevations of a spaceship. The ship had the classical Starflight configuration – three equal cylinders joined together in parallel, with one projecting forward by almost half its length – but it was distinguishable from a standard vessel because of the pinnace. Needle-nosed and streamlined, shaped by a different set of operational requirements, the pinnace was slung in its flying attitude beneath the central main cylinder.

  The title box of the layout established it as the general arrangement of the Explorer-class vessel Liscard, but it had been used as the basis for a later and entirely different kind of drawing. Superimposed on the flawless computer graphics of the original were hand-drawn outlines, obviously the work of a landscaping contractor, depicting the rounded earthwork which now covered the starship. Clustered about each of the elevations were thumbnail sketches giving details of path and wall construction, and there were notes about the plants to be sown in various areas.

  "Apparently Fugaccia wasn't much of a one for keeping records," Montane said. "This was the only drawing available, and I was lucky to get it."

  "You should have it framed."

  Montane indicated a pencil mark he had made on the side view of the hill, directly above the nose of the ship. "I'd say this is where we are – what do you say?"

  "You might be right, but until we get some fairly acc – " Nicklin paused and looked again at the drawing. "Corey, this thing doesn't even tell you which way is north!"

  "So?"

  "So we might be standing above the arse end of the ship."

  "Oh!" Montane looked abashed for a moment, then his face brightened. "All the more reason to shift dirt, my boy – get yourself a spade and start digging."

  With the arrival of machine tools imminent it was pointless to squander muscle power, Nicklin knew, but arguing with Montane in his present state of mind would have been even more futile. Besides, the formerly slight bulge above his belt had become quite noticeable during three months of inactivity, and a spell of hard work would do him no harm at all. He looked about him, wondering if he could find a legitimate task which would be less of a bore than digging, then seized a pick and began to demolish a low stone wall.

  The invasive vegetation had been unable to find many good footholds here, and he was able to work without too much hindrance from vines. There was a kind of black satisfaction in obliterating another man's patient craftsmanship, in being an instrument of disorder, and he found it easy to lose himself in the repetitive physical effort. And as he worked he was very much aware of being in a borderland.

  Four kilometres to the east was the town of Altamura, its buildings visible as a sparse scatter of confetti in the green immensity that was Orbitsville. It had been founded more than a hundred years earlier by a batch of settlers from southern Italy – a hard-working people who had fully expected their new home to become a prosperous regional centre as the tide of immigration rolled on past it. But actuality and the dream had not coincided; the successive waves of settlers had never materialised. In fact, the well-delineated edge of civilisat
ion had receded slightly, leaving Altamura in a no man's land between the known and the unknown.

  There had been no particular reason for men and women to turn back from the area. It had simply happened that way. The tracts of land to the west of Altamura – which Nicklin could survey each time he raised his head – were every bit as rich and inviting as any other part of the Big O, but the mathematics of chaos had dictated that the outward surge of humanity would falter and lose impetus just there.

  "There are too many places to go, and not enough folks to go to them," the Fugaccias' local agent had said philosophically, giving his summation in a strong Italian accent. "That's why the town has been slowly dying ever since it was born – a pure demographic fluke."

  A talkative man, one who obviously relished storytelling, he had gone on to paint a hectically coloured picture of life in that part of the frontier.

  "Mind you, that doesn't mean there's nobody west of the Irsina river. Some pretty weird characters have headed out that way from time to time. Some of them were pure misfits – sort of hermits by trade, if you know what I mean – but quite a few had the police on their tails when they went.

  "They're still out there. Maybe some have banded together, maybe some are raising their own broods in their own way. Sometimes you see smoke in the distance … sometimes you find a cow or a sheep with its hind legs missing … sometimes you find a man or a woman, or even a child – unfortunates that have had very bad things done to them…

  "That's why people around here carry weapons when they go far out of town – and I advise you to do the same."

  Recalling the agent's words, Nicklin found it difficult to reconcile them with the prehistoric peacefulness of high summer which lay over the surrounding land. Intellect told him that Orbitsville had to have a darker aspect, that where all men were free to live as they pleased some would choose paths whose very existence was denied by anyone who wanted to go on treasuring his night's sleep.

  On the positive side, however, was the fact that he had lived for more than thirty years without once encountering the really bad stuff, the moral equivalent of anti-matter. Oh yes, people were shit – that much he had proved – but in general they stopped short of stuff like torture, murder and cannibalism. There was no reason to suppose that the sprinkling of heliumheads, eccentrics and downright crazies who undoubtedly formed part of the population of the Altamura area were any worse than their equivalents in Orangefield county.

  Having attuned himself once more to the bright sanity of the morning, Nicklin worked steadily until he had dismantled about ten metres of wall, then he began levering up the paving slabs of the adjoining path. The work was arduous but satisfying in its own way, and he was surprised to note that two hours had passed when Montane called a break for refreshments.

  Nicklin would have walked back down to the house to eat, but Kingsley opened a coolbag and produced bulbs of iced tea, sandwiches and a selection of fruit. Glad to have been spared the journey, Nicklin seated himself on a pile of rubble and joined in the simple meal. The cold tea, which had never been one of his favourite drinks, tasted better than he would have believed possible.

  "I think I could take to this life of simple toil," he said, after slaking his thirst .

  "I'm pleased to hear it." Montane, now in the role of jovial foreman, nudged Kingsley with his elbow. "You stayed in bed so long we were beginning to think you had died."

  Kingsley guffawed, spilling particles of bread from the corners of his mouth.

  "I was monitoring the news for you, Corey. I know how you like to be kept informed of all the…" Nicklin paused as he suddenly remembered an item which had come in that morning on the audio line from Altamura, one he knew would be of genuine interest to the preacher. "There's been a new development about the green lines."

  Montane eyed him intently. "Yes?"

  "It's connected with the fields. You know, the vertical force fields above the lines?"

  "Yes, yes – go on, Jim."

  "Well, it turns out they aren't as inert as they seemed," Nicklin said. "Apparently they weaken the molecular lattice in any piece of material they pass through. It happens very gradually, but some buildings in … in Lomza, P83, I think it is … are starting to split in half. The buildings straddle one of the lines, and it's gradually chopping them in half – roof beams, walls, floors, foundations, everything. It's acting as if it was a very weak valency cutter."

  "My enemy never rests." Montane went on chewing a piece of banapple, but he was doing it mechanically now, no longer tasting the fruit. Completing the purchase of the ship had relieved him of a burden of anxiety, and he had since been enjoying a relaxed but active life in the open air. He had actually grown younger in appearance during the unplanned break, but within the last few seconds the weight of the years had come down on him again, hard.

  Good job I didn't remember the news about the lines earlier, Nicklin congratulated himself. This way the old boy's digestive juices have been stopped in their tracks. Or should I say tracts?

  "Aw, come on, Corey," he said, "you can't put everything down to Old Nick. Wouldn't it be more like his style to chop buildings up suddenly and let them crash down on people?"

  Montane gave him a sombre stare. "I don't know what's in the Devil's mind – he's playing a very subtle game – but I do know that when it's over none of us will be laughing. And that goes for you, too."

  "I wouldn't dream of laughing," Nicklin said, belying his words with a faint smile.

  "You'd better not," Kingsley warned, jabbing in Nicklin's direction with a forefinger which resembled a gnarled billet of wood. "You start laughing at Corey – I'll break bits off your skeleton."

  "Go on with your lunch, Gerl." Montane soothed the giant by patting him on the knee, and a certain dryness in his voice showed that he was recovering his equilibrium. "I'll give you the nod when I want bits broken off Jim's skeleton."

  End of conversation, Nicklin thought, again obliged to acknowledge the older man's mental wiriness. To show that he regarded Montane's tactic as unsporting, he shifted position until he was sitting with his back to the others, facing down the western slope of the hill. There was no wall or fence to mark the limit of the Fugaccia estate – the foot of the hill shelved into scrub which was punctuated with anvil trees, and beyond that Orbitsville went on for ever.

  Allowing his thoughts to return to Danea Farthing and his plans for her, Nicklin wondered how long it would be before the rest of the mission arrived. He and Montane had flown out from Beachhead to New Taranto, whose airport was the nearest to Altamura, and the whole journey had taken only a day. Gerl Kingsley had set off at the same time in Montane's camper and had completed the trip in five days, but to do so he must have driven like a maniac and almost without sleep. Nicklin had derived quite a bit of amusement from trying to decide whether the big man's haste had been inspired by loyalty to his boss, or by a disinclination to spend many nights alone with Milly Montane and her metal coffin. (Your wife's a nice woman, boss – but she's permanently canned.)

  All the other vehicles had remained at the base camp in Beachhead until four days ago, when Montane had wired the news that all was well. They would be proceeding at the speed of the slowest member, with proper rest halts, and it was hard to predict their time of arrival.

  Deciding not to squander his mental energy on the matter, Nicklin was gazing around him in boredom when he saw something faintly peculiar happen.

  A few paces down the slope from him was a group of yellow flowers, much resembling tulips, and while he was looking directly at them the head of one of the flowers detached itself from its stalk and dropped to the ground.

  With little else to occupy his mind, he wondered idly if such events were commonplace in the botanical world. Orbitsville had many varieties of insects, some with bizarre feeding habits, but surely any bug intent on devouring a plant would tackle it from the bottom. Could there be a type which had a taste for petals only, and which first dragged them back
to the nest?

  As he was tiring of the speculation there occurred a second strange event – a humming, rushing sound close to his left ear, a brief and fluttery agitation of the air. He told himself that it must have been a hornet, but there had been a disturbing hint of power to the sound, and in that instant a preposterous idea was born in his mind.

  "Corey," he said quietly, "this may sound like one of my jokes – but I think we're being shot at."

  "Shot at!" Kingsley tilted his head back and roared with laughter. The fact that his mouth was wide open possibly saved his life, for the bullet which might have shattered his skull passed cleanly through both his cheeks. He clapped a hand to the bloody, star-shaped exit wound and pitched sideways to the ground.

  Nicklin gaped at him, thunderstruck, then realised he was still sitting upright. He hastily bellied down behind the heaps of rubble, losing his sun-hat in the process, fear masked by self-loathing – he had been imbecilic enough to risk death rather than make a chump of himself by needlessly diving for cover. He looked towards Montane, who had also dropped to the ground, and found the preacher staring at him in wide-eyed accusation. Nicklin understood the terror-logic perfectly – he was the one who had talked of shooting, therefore he had caused it to happen.

  What next? What the holy fuck do we do next? The questions were a flurry of drum-beats in his mind. I know! Kingsley will take command of the situation and save us all! Good old Gerl is big and tough and he has farmed wild country all his life and he's probably been shot at hundreds of times and he probably thinks no more of a little bullet wound than he does of a mosquito…

  The thought foundered as Nicklin belatedly became aware of Kingsley's condition. The big man was lying on his side and blood was literally pumping out of his mouth. His tongue was protruding and, although it was swathed in gouting crimson, Nicklin could see enough to tell him that it had been ploughed almost in half. He could also see that good old Gerl was not going to take command of any situation, and his feeling of helplessness increased.