The Book of Strange New Things(51)

‘I’m sorry if this is inconvenient,’ he said. He was standing in the shade of USIC’s accommodation wing, just outside the exit door nearest his own quarters. His rucksack hung on his back, already slippery with sweat.

‘It’s not inconvenient,’ she said. Her damp hair, exposed to the attentive air, began to emit faint, spidery plumes of steam. ‘And I’m sorry I was grouchy on the way back this morning. The sight of religious passion always freaks me out.’

‘I’ll try not to be too passionate this time.’

‘I meant the alien,’ she said, pronouncing the word without any sign of having taken Peter’s little lecture to heart.

‘He didn’t mean to unnerve you, obviously.’

She shrugged. ‘They give me the creeps. Always. Even when they keep real quiet and don’t get too close.’

He ventured out of the shade and she stepped aside, away from the vehicle, allowing him access to the trunk, which she’d swung open for him. The engine was purring in readiness.

‘You think they mean you harm?’ he said.

‘No, it’s just the sight of them,’ she said, turning her head towards the horizon. ‘You try and look at their face and it’s like staring into a pile of entrails.’

‘I thought of foetuses myself.’

She shuddered. ‘Puh-lease.’

‘Well,’ he said cheerily, stepping up to the vehicle, ‘that’s us off on the wrong foot again.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he observed Grainger sizing up his rucksack as he unhitched it from his shoulders. She did a slight double-take as she registered that it was his only luggage.

‘You look as if you’re going hill-walking. Your little knapsack on your back.’

He grinned as he tossed the bag into the trunk.

‘Val-de-reee!’ he sang in a mock-operatic baritone. ‘Val-de-raa! Val-de-reee! Val-de-ra-ha-ha-ha-ha . . . ’

‘Now you’re making fun of one of my idols,’ she said, placing her fists on her hips.

‘Sorry?’

‘Bing Crosby.’

Peter looked at her in bemusement. The sun was still quite near the horizon, and Grainger was silhouetted in front of it, the crooks of her arms framing triangles of rosy light. ‘Uh . . . ’ he said. ‘Did Bing Crosby sing “The Happy Wanderer” too?’

‘I thought it was his song,’ she said.

‘It’s an ancient German folk tune,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a Bing number. It was all over the airwaves last year.’

He scratched the back of his head, taking pleasure in the bizarreness of everything today: the endless sky with its outsize sun, the playground under the gazebo, his strange new parishioners waiting for another taste of the Gospel, and this dispute over the authorship of ‘The Happy Wanderer’. The air took advantage of his raised arm to find different entry points into his clothing. Tendrils of atmosphere licked him between his sweaty shoulderblades, twirled around his nipples, counted his ribs.

‘I didn’t know Bing Crosby was back in fashion,’ he said.

‘Those artists are beyond fashion,’ declared Grainger, with undisguised fervour. ‘Nobody wants mindless dance music anymore, or cheap, sleazy rock.’ She imitated an arrogant rock star striking a chord on his phallic guitar. Disdainful though the gesture was, Peter found it attractive: her thin arm, slamming against the invisible guitar strings, pushed her bosom out, reminding him how soft and malleable the flesh of a woman’s breast was. ‘People have had enough of all that,’ she said. ‘They want something with class, something that’s stood the test of time.’

‘I’m all for that,’ he said.

Once they were safely sealed inside the vehicle and driving into the wilderness, Peter raised the issue of communication again.

‘You wrote to my wife,’ he said.

‘Yes, I sent her a courtesy message. To let her know you’d arrived safely.’

‘Thank you. I’ve been writing to her myself, whenever I can.’

‘That’s sweet,’ she said. Her eyes were on the featureless brown horizon.

‘You’re sure there’s no possibility of organising a Shoot for me in the Oasan settlement?’

‘I told you, they don’t have electricity.’

‘Couldn’t a Shoot run on batteries?’

‘Sure it could. You can write on it anywhere. You can write a whole book if you want. But to actually send a message, you need more than a machine that lights up when you switch it on. You need a connection to the USIC system.’

‘Isn’t there a . . . I’m not sure what to call it . . . a relay? A signal tower?’ Even as he uttered the words they sounded foolish. The territory stretching into the distance ahead was stark and empty.

‘Nope,’ she replied. ‘We never needed anything like that. You’ve got to remember that the original settlement was right near the base.’

Peter sighed, leaned his head hard back against the seat. ‘I’m going to miss communicating with Bea,’ he said, half to himself.

‘Nobody’s insisting you go and live with these . . . people,’ Grainger reminded him. ‘That’s your choice.’