“You mean they wouldn’t run the pipework that short distance?”
“Pricey, very, very, pricey.”
“Hmm,” I frowned. “We’ll let you know.”
George finished his Halmatrope, shook my palm firmly, grinned and left. This gave us just enough time for a quick snack and for us to regain our composure.
Henry was a little late, almost an hour in fact, and did not seem to be aware of it. He was certainly not apologetic as he greeted us with a wave of his enormous arms. We offered him a Halmatrope and explained our ideas to him.
“Planning,” he said, sinking so deep into our chair we had to look down on him.
I told him how our enquiries at the Bepommel Office of Enterprise had assured us that our house lay outside the disincentive zone and the size of our proposed extension and our Species Rating was within the discrimination margin.
“You never know,” he said mysteriously.
“What do you mean?”
“Planning is a funny business. You never know, you can be half way up out of the ground, minding your own business, when an inspector turns up and slaps an ‘Alien Intrusion Order’ on you.”
I was about to remonstrate hotly on how we expressly wanted our extension to blend in using vernacular materials and local craftsmen when he leaned forward and slapped a huge forearm on me.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered conspiratorially out of the corner of his mouth, “I have a cousin in the Office. Won’t cost much.”
We showed Henry round the house and I gave him my wife’s sketches of our proposals. He made notes and “tutted” and shook his head now and again. We sat him down once more with another Halmatrope.
“Well?” I asked tremulously.
“No problem.”
“Oh,” I beamed.
“Probably take most of the year.”
“Ah. And the stonework. Can you match it?”
“Might be a slight hitch there. You see, this is Late Couth from the top of the quarry in its early days. The colouring is rich, the stitchwork is fine and it takes a beautiful polish on the lintels and sills. You can even spot the odd darts and pleats if you look close. Now your new, freshly quarried Couth is right down from the Early Couth strata, when your Couths had a fuller figure and took less trouble on the seams. Most of the colours have faded if, in fact, they were ever up to much. But,” his great arm once again dropped on me, “I think I can find some second-hand Couth that’ll be just the job. Cousin of mine is demolishing an old cottage in the middle of Bepommel.”
“Oh, how sad. What’s going up in its place?”
“They’re whipping up a Coniman Takeaway in mock Mollusc.”
My wife and I shuddered. What a small place the Universe was becoming. We waved goodbye as Henry drove off, promising to commence work as soon as possible. I limped back indoors, rubbing my aching body.
That afternoon, when we had finished a light lunch, we drove off through Bepommel and beyond, through lightly forested slopes of fast-growing Trake. Every so often we passed great clearings where the felled Trake trunks were piled high, waiting to be used for firewood. The bark made a tasty beverage and the odorous resin could be used to trap insects for savoury snacks. At length my wife spotted the sign “Pallion Marinade”. We had not seen our Pallions for three months, visits were discouraged as they interfered with the process. They had been left at the Cosmodrome when we first arrived on the planet, in a special pound, so we had only spoken to the proprietors on the ’screen, which normally never does anybody justice. We drove down the track and became aware of the smell first and then we heard a baying, gurgling howl. We rounded a bend in the track and saw before us tank after tank of soaking Pallion. We looked at each other in dismay. We parked and the two Montalbans crept up to us, grimy, covered in Pallion down and smelling awful. One spoke to me. I recognized her from the ’screen.
“We have your two naughty girls in the shampoo and dry suite. They’ll be so pleased to see you,” she said.
“I should think they will,” I thought, “if they’ve only seen you for the last three months.”
The other Montalban crept off. Why is it, I wondered, that Pallion stockades, breeding banks and holiday suites are always run by two or three Montalbans, never the whole set? She returned with our Pallions, Mink and Pixie. They both jumped up at us as if we had only seen them yesterday, but the smell was awful, in spite of the shampooing.
“The smell will fade,” the older Montalban reassured us, “and you can bring them back for a boost in a couple of years. Nothing will touch them now. I can guarantee it.”
I could guarantee it too. It was with great reluctance that I forced myself to touch them. We ushered them into the back of the Stromba and, opening all the windows, we set off home.
We had promised Henry that we would clear the foliage from the end of the house where the extension was to be. If nothing else it would probably make a good meat. In the event it tasted delicious raw, so we ate as we cleared and, before we knew it, it was almost dark and we had cleared much more than was necessary.
“Never mind,” I said, sitting on a lump of stone that had been exposed, “this can be a patio for guests, in fact we can eat out here ourselves when it’s not too hot.” I looked down at the lump of stone I was sitting on. It had markings on it. “It’s a sundial,” I said. “I wonder where the gnomon is.” We kicked around the low foliage at the base of the dial. It was enormous once one saw it clearly and perfectly round in a rough sort of way, with a smooth upper surface. My foot struck something sharp. I picked it up. “The gnomon!” I cried. It was ornately cast in Obloscone. I remember, back in Conima, my grandmother had an Obloscone hat for important occasions. The metal was obtained from tiny traces absorbed by Palanxas plants. Being adept at absorbing trace elements, if a field of Palanxas was sown over a faintly Oblosconic bedrock, in time, the roots could be harvested and the Obloscone leached out in microscopic quantities. It is perhaps a sad reflection on early Conimunculi values that the best that could be done with this rare and precious substance was to make it into headwear for the astonishingly rich. It was not then known, of course, that Obloscone was plentiful and easily refined on Provender and casually used for exterior purposes where durability rather than strength was required. Nevertheless, when its additional aphrodisiac properties, through skin absorption, were discovered, every scrap vanished. We were lucky to make this find, I was about to set it back in its appointed groove on the dial when my wife observed that if we left it there some Drool would probably make off with it. She picked it up and held it. I, of course, had already been handling it. We looked at each other and with one mind returned to the house, accelerating rather rapidly as we approached, taking the gnomon with us. We would have one made of a more inert substance for garden use we decided later, quite exhausted.
It was a cool but clear morning, so I ventured to take the Pallions out for their first walk up into the hills above our house. We walked carefully along the path through the nearby vibrating foliage, so beloved by the Halmatrope, which Mr Dobson told us was called Putrage. Mink and Pixie seemed quite perplexed as the plants nudged and jostled them all the way. I hoped the fresh air might reduce their smell a little. When we emerged beyond the Putrage I paused to look down on our house nestling below in a slight dip in the slope, with its lagoon stretching far in front of it and the smoke from the kitchen Gaga drifting aimlessly up into the cool, still air. One of Provender’s moons was still faintly visible, its mottled orange and green surface paled by the misty early morning atmosphere. What a contrast it was to the brown lump which Conima’s once golden moon had become after centuries of waste disposal. What a brilliant solution it must have seemed when the first bulk transporters, powerful enough to ferry out the planet’s entire waste problem to the arid airless deserts of its moon were developed. For two centuries the surface was piled high with everything Conima no longer needed. The first inklings of repercussions occurred when a random laser measurement sho
wed that the moon’s orbit was beginning to decay because of the weight of unprocessed waste, unable to change in any way on the inhospitable surface. In five more years, the scientists warned, it would dump the whole lot back on top of Conima. I presume that at this very moment they are desperately transporting it all to some other unfortunate satellite.
As I strode on up the hill Mink and Pixie raced ahead, scattering every predator for miles as their smell permeated the air. I thought I saw just the top of Mr Skeg’s head vanish behind a tree, but otherwise all was silent and at peace. This was just what we had come to Provender to find. I called to Mink and Pixie; they were out of earshot, savouring their freedom no doubt, I waited until I was well and truly hungry but still they had not returned. “They’ll find their way back,” I thought and strode back home.
MARCH
The early mornings were not so cool now and the mists dispersed quickly, I set off early to look for Mink and Pixie but there was no sign of them. Now and again a foam would pass but it always seemed to squeeze itself elsewhere.
There is a superstition on Provender that foams always squeeze on the Drisks. Enormous numbers of Drisks descended on Provender centuries back when their planet became contaminated as a result of an industrial accident. The giant Corto-Probax chemical combine set up a plant to process the huge desert expanses of Muriatic salts into the “whitest whitener” as they described it. They miscalculated the instability of the tiny natural crystals and the excessive heat generated by the plant in full production. This vapourized a tiny amount of Smolene fat in the company canteen which proved to be the catalyst in triggering off a chain reaction across the planet. All the tiny Muriatic salt crystals absorbed the heated atmospheric water vapour and expanded into gigantic sesquiplicate crystals. The unstoppable reaction left the planetary surface uninhabitable and the atmosphere so dry that the Drisks’ lungs withered and shrank. All the Drisks that could left in one of the most sudden and immense diaspora of recorded history, settling in groups in almost every habitable system. Their planet first became a giant glittering orb with innumerable facets and finally stabilized into a vast dodecahedron, considered to be one of the hundred wonders of the universe. As galacto-transporter after galacto-transporter of sightseers marvel at its beauty they tend to overlook the fact that it was the worst example of industrial pollution ever experienced.
The hapless Drisks do indeed seem to bring their own luck with them. I myself have seen foams fighting against the prevailing wind to squeeze themselves on the small community of Drisks to the east of Bepommel, I have no doubt that the final destination of the winter’s freezing green vapours that froze us was to spiral for weeks on end around the Drisks. I had contacted Trevor, a Drisk, on the ’screen the night before. We needed someone to check the lagoon ready for the summer and he came highly recommended by Mr Dobson, even though he does not possess a lagoon himself. The ’screen flickered and went blank several times during our conversation, something which it never normally does, and I was reminded of the Drisks’ general misfortune with technology. However, he was the only Lagoon Expert we knew about in the area. We realized that the Provender approach to work was different from our own and that it was we who must adjust and not them.
Trevor was rather later than expected. We had given up hope entirely and were in the middle of a cold collation when I heard the approach of an exceptionally loud vehicle. It was Trevor, driving one of the earliest Stromba I have ever seen. Never lavish with design, the earliest commercial Stromba looked like something you would fatten Trivets in and with their profanatory power unit they were loud and notoriously unreliable. In short, the last vehicle a Drisk should ever have considered purchasing. Trevor was apologetic. The Stromba had, he said, questioned his orders, deliberately misunderstood his directions and then returned to its garage and refused to come out. I sympathized, explaining how mine had developed the annoying habit of chafing itself on a rock every time it left the garage, and he obviously viewed me from then on as a fellow sufferer, an honorary Drisk.
He followed me to the patio pontoon, remarking on our floating chair.
“A Flasted 49 with adjustable trim and notchable extremity supports,” he enthused, “you don’t see many of those.”
“We brought it with us in our allowable personal house effects.”
“Dodged the tax, eh?”
“Certainly not, we declared it and they classified it as a soft furnishing.”
“Probably never heard of a Flasted 49. I’ve only ever seen them on the covers of luxury catalogues. Does it have a lazarette?”
I lifted the hatch, he was impressed. He leaned forward to touch it but I prevented him and led him away to the filterhouse.
“Any problems?”
“Not yet, but I’ve heard that in a few weeks, when the Grebble mate, every upland lagoon is a mass of spawn. I’ve nothing against Grebble, they taste delicious, but…”
“You don’t need to worry about them,” he reassured me. “Every year there’s a panic but I’ve never yet seen enough Grebble to challenge these units.” He smacked the filter pipework confidently and it started to make a whirring noise.
“What’s that?” I asked. “It’s normally silent.”
“Just a little vibration I expect, soon pass.” He shut the door and we moved back to the pontoon. Drisks can stay immersed for long periods of time between breaths so they are ideal for lagoon maintenance.
“I’ll give it a few more weeks to warm up then I’ll come over and check her through from end to end.”
I thanked him. We knew from experience how soon a lagoon could turn from a pleasure into a liability. In Conima airborne contaminants were the main problem. A passing flock of Drilch, which only excrete over water and then by reflex, could ruin afternoons afloat with friends. Bacterial infestations could raise the temperature sufficiently to melt your floating chair, if left unchecked. Just in case Provender had its own problems we wanted our lagoon tested before our friends descended on us for the summer. There is nothing worse than a lagoon in close proximity to your house that has gone wrong on a hot day.
Trevor left, and I heard him disappear down the valley. Indeed, it was probably possible to hear him drive all the way home. Just as you thought he was out of earshot he would start to get louder again which was either his Stromba straining uphill or possibly mischievously retracing its course for a mile or two just to annoy its owner.
My wife called me. Someone was on the ’screen from Conima. I rushed in but did not recognize the face.
“You don’t know me,” he said, “friend of a friend of Eric and Sybil.” I was still no wiser. “Told me all about you. Sounds just the job. Fancy a piece myself. Weather here’s atrocious. Be there tomorrow. Contact you then. Bye.”
The ’screen went blank. I don’t think I had managed a single word. We had not spoken to Eric and Sybil for years, let alone told them of our whereabouts. I thought no more about him until two days later when I was awoken early by the ’screen. It was the friend of the friend of the friends.
“Morning. I’m here,” he warned.
“At the Cosmodrome?” I mumbled, still sleepy.
“No, at Bepommel, Had an appalling journey. This place is dead. Had to be most insistent to use this ’screen. None of them speak Coniman. Can you pick me up?”
“Where are you?”
“In the middle of the place by that disgusting public ablution pit. Filthiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Quite, quite.” I did not want to hear any more attacks on Provender’s quaint devices so I arranged to pick him up as soon as I could. Before leaving I gulped down a strong black Robusta to wake me up. I opened the garage door and the Stromba went out of its way again to chafe against the rock as it emerged. I did not hurry to Bepommel, the impatience and short temper our Conimunculi guest brought with him were easily absorbed as I knew from the past, I would not allow myself to be affected. Instead, I savoured the strong bitter aftertaste of the Robusta—not m
any have the chance to grow as big as that one had been, not in our kitchen, anyway—and marvelled at the dazzling array of colours in the countryside.
I pulled into the side of the track. There, far, far above hovered a Woolly Throat Piercer, a rare and beautiful sight. These creatures never land. They are conceived and born in mid-air, eat, sleep and everything else in mid-air. Their droppings hover for weeks on end, often sticking together beneath the flocks forming enormous evil-smelling mats which suddenly drop for no reason, often on Drisks. My uninvited guest was waiting, irate and dishevelled near the ablution pit he found so offensive. Already, early-rising Bepommel residents who could not afford ablution suites of their own were slipping round behind the scant weather-worn graffiti strewn boarding.
“At last,” he spluttered. “Thought you’d be here sooner. Whatever happened to the Ferenziculo?” He regarded my Stromba with ill-concealed disgust.
“Whatever happened to you?” I countered. His appearance was not in accordance with his manner.
“Had to use that filthy thing.” He nodded at the ablution pit, obviously unable to even bring himself to utter its name. “Been a long journey. Never seen anything like it before, lost my footing. Some Drisks had to pull me out.” This last detail was evidently the worst part of it.
“That’s fortunate,” I said.
“Hmm,” he grunted with no hint of gratitude. I drove us home.
My wife had stocked up in the market the day before and an enormous breakfast awaited us. The choice still reflected the limitations of the season, in a few more months the markets would be overflowing with Provender’s delicious summer delicacies.
A Year Near Proxima Centauri Page 3
