The Book of Strange New Things(44)

Despite the cannibalism jokes, USIC and the Oasans have what appears to be quite a decent trading relationship. It’s not the colonial model of exploitation that you’d expect. There’s a regular exchange of goods, formal and low-key. The Oasans provide us with basic foodstuffs. As I understand it, the main thing we’ve been giving the Oasans is medicines. There’s not a great variety of plants growing here, which is surprising given the amount of rain. But since most medicines are made from plants I suspect that the scope for discovering/making analgesics, antibiotics, etc, here has been limited. Or maybe this is USIC’s evil plan to get the locals hooked on drugs? I won’t be able to make authoritative statements about that until I know these people better.

Anyway, are you sitting down? – because I have some amazing news that may knock you flat. The Oasans want only one thing (besides medicines) – the word of God. They’ve been asking USIC to supply them with another pastor. Asking?– Demanding! According to the men I just spoke to, they (Oasans) have let it be known, politely, that their continued co-operation with USIC’s activities depends on it! And here’s you and me thinking that USIC was being fantastically generous in offering me this opportunity to come here . . . Well, far from me being here under sufferance, it turns out the whole project may depend on me! If I’d known this before, I would have INSISTED that you came too. But then maybe USIC would have passed me over in favour of someone else, someone less troublesome. There must have been hundreds of applicants. (I still don’t understand Why Me. But perhaps the right question is Why Not?)

Anyway, it’s clear that I’ll be given whatever assistance I require in the setting up of my church. A vehicle, building materials, even labourers. The way things are shaping up, it looks like my yoke is going to be easier than that of just about any missionary since the beginning of Christian evangelism. When you think of Saint Paul, getting beaten up, stoned, shipwrecked, starved, imprisoned . . . I’m almost looking forward to my first setback! (ALMOST)

He paused. That was all he wanted to say but he felt he should make some reference to the Maldives. And then felt guilty for feeling he should, rather than wanting to.

Love,

Peter

After he vomited up the coffee, he felt better. He wasn’t much of a coffee drinker at the best of times – it was a stimulant, after all, and he’d weaned himself off artificial stimulants years ago – but the stuff BG had presented him with tasted foul. Maybe it was made of Oasan flowers, or maybe the combination of imported coffee and Oasan water was bad news. Either way, he felt better rid of it. In fact, he felt almost normal. The effects of the Jump were leaving his system at last. He took a long swig of water straight from the tap. Delicious. He would drink only water from now on.

Energy returned to his body, as though each cell was a microscopic sponge that swelled in gratitude for being fed. Maybe it was. He strapped on his sandals and left his quarters, ostensibly to get the hang of his surroundings but also to celebrate feeling vigorous again. He’d been cooped up too long. Free at last!

Well, free to walk the labyrinth of the USIC base. A welcome change from his room, but not exactly the wide open prairie. Just empty corridors, brightly lit tunnels of wall, ceiling and floor. And every few metres, a door.

Each door had a name tag on it – surname and initial only – with the person’s job description in larger letters. Thus, W. HEK, CHEF, S. MORTELLARO, DENTAL SURGEON, D. ROSEN, SURVEYOR, L. MORO, ENGINEERING TECHNOLOGIST, B. GRAHAM, CENTRIFUGE ENGINEER, J. MOONEY, ELECTRICAL ENGINEER, and so on. The word ‘engineer’ came up often, as did professions ending in ‘-ist’.

No sound came through those doors, and the corridors were likewise silent. Evidently, the USIC staff were either at work or hanging out in the cafeteria. There was nothing sinister in their absence, no reason to feel spooked, yet Peter felt spooked. His initial relief at being able to reconnoitre alone, unwatched, gave way to a hankering for signs of life. He walked with increasing pace, turned corners with increasing resolution, and was met each time with the same rectangular passageways and rows of identical doors. In a place like this, you couldn’t even be sure if you were lost.

Just as he was starting to sweat, needled with memories of being trapped in juvenile corrective institutions, the spell was broken – turning another corner, he almost collided, chest-to-chest, with Werner.

‘Whoa! Where’s the fire?’ Werner said, patting his fat torso as if checking that the surprise hadn’t done him any harm.

‘Sorry,’ said Peter.

‘You OK?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘That’s good,’ nodded Werner, cordial but in no mood to chat. ‘Stay with it, man.’ A catchphrase or a caution? Hard to tell.

Within seconds, Peter was alone once more. His moment of panic had passed. He could see now that there was a difference between wandering around in an unfamiliar building and being trapped in a prison. Werner was right: he needed to get a grip.

Back in his own quarters, Peter prayed. Prayed for guidance. No answer came to him, at least not immediately.

The alien – the Oasan – had begged him to return to the settlement as soon as he could. So . . . should he go right away? The claustrophobia that had threatened him in the corridors suggested that he still wasn’t fully back to normal – he wasn’t a panicker, usually. And it wasn’t long since he’d been fainting, vomiting and hallucinating. Perhaps he should continue resting up until he was a hundred per cent sure he was himself again. But the Oasan had begged him to return, and USIC hadn’t brought him all this way for him to lie in bed staring at his toes. He should go. He should go.