Personal Blogs

We are about to splash down.  We are lying in our bunks in the landing craft.  I keep tightening and un-tightening the straps on my safety harness, because I can’t think of anything else to do.  If we make it through the landing, if we manage to eke out any sort of living on Achird-gamma, I know that this moment is my greatest trial.  The waiting, the hope, the uncertainty are killing me.

            When we start our descent, we have about a fifty per cent estimated chance of survival.

*

I know where we are.  A while before we were loaded into the landing craft, I downloaded the access codes for all the satellites in the network.  We have started our descent.  Soon we will find out whether Kelvin has killed us all.   He is a few bunks away from mine.  He is lying down, but he keeps thrashing around and trying to turn over, even though he is supposed to be strapped in.  I wish he would settle down. 

            All my simulacra are in boxes in the cargo bay. 

*

Oh, no – here is some-one with a mask on and a needle.  She is opening the cage.  What are you doing to me?  What is it? Don’t pinch like that.  Stop it.  Ouch!  Ow.  That really hurt.  Oh, I do feel sleepy. 

*

I have thought of a name for the new planet.  When we reach there, I will name it White Earth.  I must think of names for my capital city and my main residence.  

*

The moment when we opened the hatch is possibly the most memorable in my life.  By ship time, it was 14:32 in the afternoon of 6 October.  I did not know then what the astronomical time  and date was on Achird-gamma. 

            A member of the ship’s crew called us out of our bunks.  We undid our harnesses and scrambled down the passage to the main hatch.  We ran, like schoolchildren who believe that the teacher is not looking.  I glanced around for Pamela, but I could not see her.

            Some-one unlocked the hatch.  It was round.  It was above us.  It opened outwards. 

            It was the first time for four years that any of us had seen sunlight.  It was the first time any of us had seen sunlight that was not from the Sun – the Old Sun.  Now we had a New Sun. 

            I was standing at the front of the crowd, just behind the man who had opened the hatch.  I pushed him out of the way, climbed a few steps up the ladder, and stuck my head out. 

            I inhaled deeply, and held my breath.  Nothing happened.  I inhaled deeply again.  Nothing happened.  The air was breathable. 

            From my trouser pocket, I took an instrument that I had carried from Earth.  I switched it on, and held it aloft for a few seconds.  I looked at the screen.  The display showed a decimal point and ten zeroes.  This was a reading of the ultraviolet light intensity, and the zero reading showed that Achird-gamma had an effective ozone layer.  I climbed further up the ladder and climbed onto the deck.  I looked around for the first time on the new world.  We were surrounded by sea.  There was a stiff breeze.  I shivered. 

            People were clambering up the ladder to join me.  We looked at each other in silence.  The relief of our survival exhausted us.  The ship sailed on.  We looked up at the bridge, from which two members of the crew grinned at us, which seemed irreverent and unfitted to the moment.  One of them, in a moment of appalling vulgarity, sounded the ship’s hooter.  We did not cheer; we did not dance; we did not rejoice. We just breathed in and out, and shivered with relief. 

            I stayed on deck until I was chilled to the bone.  I went back inside the ship, and went up to the bridge (for which I needed permission which I had obtained in advance).   I watched the sea for four hours, until we sighted land.

            We moved along the coastline until an observer with binoculars spotted a bay.  We sailed into it.  By the time we were within easy rowing distance of the shore, the depth under the keel was still 4 metres.  We dropped anchor.  We opened the loading bay and raised the boats out.  We got into the boats and rowed ashore. 

            The boats beached, we spilled out of them in desperation and the iciness of the water made us gasp.  We staggered up the shingly beach and most of us fell over.  Soon we were flopping around at the water’s edge like fish on the deck of a trawler.  The water was salty.  The sun came out from behind a mass of grey clouds.  The wind blew stronger, and sent undulations through the vegetation at the top of the beach.

            The vegetation was alien.  None of us had ever seen anything like it.  We walked towards it, and passed a number of objects scattered on the shingle.  They were made of a woody material, weighed about two or three pounds each.  Each one was about two feet long, pointed and sharp at both ends, and bulbous in the middle.  They looked like they might be the seeds of some huge, alien plant.

            Pamela and I had travelled to the shore in the same boat, and we now kept close to each other as we attempted to negotiate a way into and through the undergrowth.  Chlorophyll seemed not to be the only pigment on this world: the leaves of the plants were purple and orange as well as green.  Suddenly, there was a noise.  It was a loud thud, followed by a hissing sound overhead.  Something flew over.  I heard a strangled cry from behind me.  Pamela and I turned round and struggled back the way we had come. 

            Something had fired some more of the long, spiked seeds.  As it had come down, one of them had penetrated the sternum of a fellow passenger, an Italian soil scientist called Lorenzo Treccani.  The tip of the seed (if that is what it was) had entered his heart and killed him.  

            We called everybody back and held a discussion about how to explore.  We took Doctor Treccani’s body back to the ship.  The mission had suffered its first casualty.  

My name is Captain Paul Brunton.  I work for Richard Spalding.  He is my Leader.  He is Wolf.   I am commander of his personal bodyguard and his tactical advisor.  I am also an officer in the Racial Guardians.  I have been appointed by Wolf to join him on his special mission.  This is a very great honour, and one that I intend to discharge to the utmost limit of my ability.

            I have a degree in English Literature from Exeter University.  Wolf  has requested me to act as his personal secretary on the voyage to Achird-gamma, and to assist him in writing his great work on racial politics.  Only once in a millennium does a truly seminal work appear, one which propels civilisation in a new direction.  To participate in the creation of such a work is surely a great calling.

            Wolf has instructed us concerning what he expects on the mission.  He has a truly radical vision for the future of the new world. 

            Once we have achieved victory in war over the degenerate colonists, we will examine each individual thoroughly, and allocate each to a racial category.  Those who are racially inferior will be sterilised, and used as slave labour.  Those of Nordic or kindred blood will undergo thorough political indoctrination.  Women of Nordic or kindred blood will be used for breeding.  Members of the other expedition will be eligible to breed if they are of Nordic or kindred blood and demonstrate that they have become imbued with the Spirit of National Socialism.  First choice of women will be given to members of the Racial Guardians.  How many women each man gets will depend on what we find when we get there, and how much of the population survives the war. 

            Wolf’s instructions about his strategy for the war and after the war are very clear.  He wants as few casualties as possible during the subjugation of the other expedition.  This is not out of any concern other than for the size of the labour pool and the breeding pool.  That apart, Wolf says that we will inflict as much harshcdz treatment as possible on the degenerates.  Many of them will be confined to camps and made to work.  Systematic rape will be used as a terror-tactic.  They will need to be taught a very stern lesson that we are superior to them in every way.  Their political and religious leaders will be put on trial and then executed.  We will use torture to interrogate prisoners and also routinely and arbitrarily as a terror-tactic.  We will succeed where Hitler failed: we will build a new world order based on an expanding population of Aryan warrior-farmers who take and guard their own living-space. 

*

My name is Timothy Gonzales.  Back on Earth, I was a Professor of Modern History and Political Science at Mona University in Jamaica.  At the moment, I am making a living mostly by teaching Spanish, but I hope to be busier again in the future.  I am a member of the very informal council which is the nearest thing that this community has to a government.  Doctor Stark is also a member.  People sometimes ask me what I think of Doctor Stark.  That is quite a delicate question, but I will try to answer it as best I can.

            I am virtually certain that Kelvin Stark does not yet realise the magnitude and complexity of what he is letting himself in for.  This mission began as one of the fruits of his fevered imagination.  It is on his initiative that we are all here.  Most of the prospective colonists seem to have a childlike faith in Stark’s ability to master any situation that we may face.  This is in some ways surprising, considering the average level of educational attainment among us.  I have a feeling that people will eventually realise that Stark is a man, just like any other, but, before they do, I think they will try to elevate him as high as they can.  I cannot see that Stark will lift a finger to prevent this, and he may even encourage it.

            The main thing that concerns me about the man is his morals.  He wants to be a public figure; he wants the fame, the influence, the power, the wealth, but he does not realise that, the more famous a man becomes, the more of his freedom he has to sacrifice.  If he has political ambitions (and Stark definitely does have political ambitions) then he must live as if he has no privacy at all: he must live as if some-one is watching his every move, even when he is bed, even when he is in the bathroom.  Stark does not realise this.  I hope, when he eventually discovers it, it is in circumstances that do not destroy him. 

            At least he is educated and fairly intelligent.  The same cannot be said of many leaders from history.

*

I have so many things to think about, sometimes I think my brain is going to overheat.  It is still some way off, but I find myself dwelling more and more on the prospect of our landing on Achird-gamma.  I find it increasingly difficult to face it coldly and rationally.  Half the time, I am convinced that we are all going to die horribly.  The rest of the time, I just can’t wait for us to get there, and to start building the new colony. 

             I use work to absorb myself.  I run my businesses.  I manage my staff.  I participate in the running of the ship.  I design factories and industrial plant, which will be built after we land.  I study the gazetteer of Achird-gamma, and try to commit as much of it as possible to memory.  I read.  And I talk to Pamela. 

            Pamela and I are having the kind of relationship in which we only see each other at the end of the working day.  We live mostly in my cabin, which is slightly larger than Pamela’s.  We don’t sleep together every night, but we do most nights.  Sometimes, a work-related matter brings us into contact during the day, which is a very strange feeling.  We have a strict rule that we don’t allow ourselves to be distracted by physical affection or sex while we are supposed to be working. 

            I have to go into the sick bay soon for surgery.  I don’t want to talk about what it is for.  It is a damned nuisance, given my current workload, but it can’t be helped.  Pamela offered to delegate the running of her businesses so that she will have time to look after me while I recuperate.  I told her that she did not have to do that, but she insisted, and I am grateful for the offer.  I am falling in love with her.  She cares about me.  I know we don’t spend much time together now but, when we do, she looks after me. 

*

I was called before one of these committees that Kelvin sits on the other day, to talk about water resources on Achird-gamma (about which we have hardly any data).  I was sitting there, listening to and answering the committee’s questions, and I was looking at Kelvin.  ‘Shit,’ I thought.  ‘Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.’  I realised that I still love him.  Whatever was going on with him before, I presume he must be over it, because otherwise he would not be with Pamela.  I can’t believe he really loves her. 

            What the hell am I going to do?  You can hardly even get drunk on this ship without seeing a bottle that has Kelvin’s name on it. 

*

It has taken a very elaborate deception in order to get Kelvin to the point where I can make the enhancements to him.  I have built a new simulacrum called Mr Chakrabarty, who is a surgeon and professor of neurology.  Pamela started giving Kelvin drugs to give him blinding headaches (something which he has hardly ever suffered in his life).  A bit of deception via the ship’s intranet prompted Kelvin to go for a series of consultations with Mr Chakrabarty in a part of the ship which is not the real sick bay, and then go for what he thought was an MRI scan in what was in fact a small cargo bay.  The computer-generated image that I had prepared earlier showed that he had some growths in his head.  Mr Chakrabarty told him that the full extent of the surgery would not be known until after it had begun.  He offered Kelvin a consent form, which Kelvin read and correctly understood to mean that anything might happen, short of decapitation.  He signed it.  He had swallowed the deception with the fake doctor and the MRI scan, and he is a risk-taker.  

            The theatre nurses and anaesthetist were a few of Anna’s ladies, heavily disguised.  The operating theatre was in the same bay that had previously housed the fake MRI machine.  Once Kelvin was under the anaesthetic, Mr Chakrabarty went into a dormant state, and the surgery was carried out by Pamela.  

            It took a long time, but appears to have been a complete success.  As well as the implants in his aural and optic nerves, I have also put fifteen small devices in his body: three along his spine, and three along each limb.  This will mean that, when he is within range, I will be able to tell not just where he is, but in what position, and whether he is moving.  No more clandestine shagging for Kelvin.

            It is forty-eight hours since the operation, and Kelvin is now recuperating in his own cabin, looked after by Pamela.  He should be back on his feet in a couple of days, and back at work a few days after that.  

            The biopsy on the growths will show that they were completely benign.

I apologise for the lateness of the next part of 'The Companion'.  I wrote 1500 words yesterday, but I can't post them, because they don't reach the required standard.

Fortunately, I have had some very good ideas today, both for the immediate future of the story, and for its longer-term development.  I am busily re-writing Part 31. 

Please feel free to post any comments or complaints.

I have joined all the episodes of 'The Companion' together into a single Word document, and converted this into a PDF file.

The PDF file is available on request.  I am not going to post it publicly, but anybody is free to request it.

It is 123 pages long.  The attachment is about 650 kilobytes in size. 

The PDF file can be loaded quite easily into a Kindle or other e-reader. 

James Holt here again.  Doctor Stark asked me to give another little talk to mark the fact that we have now started decelerating.  I’ll try to keep it as short as possible.  Believe me, I find this more distressing than you do. 

            Assuming that everything continues to go as expected, we will enter the Achird system in just under two Earth years from now.  Our ship will first take up orbit around Achird-gamma, before launching a number of small craft containing satellites.  We will also be able to communicate with the satellites left behind by the previous, unmanned mission. 

            The satellite network will provide the same services that they do on Earth: astronomical observation, weather-prediction, mapping, global positioning, and, should we ever need it, surveillance.  And, of course, communications.  There won’t be mobile phones on the new world, but we expect that each major colony and maybe a few of the smaller ones will have a satellite phone.  There will be an Internet (everybody gets to keep the workstation in his or her cabin) but we expect it will be a long time before we are able to manufacture electronic devices in large numbers.  The second generation might have to inherit a workstation, rather than buying one or receiving it as a gift, as they would do on Earth. 

            After the satellites have been launched, every person on board will be assigned a position within the ship based on where he or she wants to land.  Those who express no preference will be assigned a position by the drawing of lots.  The ship will then undergo a complex process, the details of which I won’t go into, which will break it up into a total of 114 manned and unmanned craft.  These will then splash down in the planet’s ocean – if everything works.  The manned craft are designed to operate as waterborne ships after splash-down, and navigating them should be straightforward if the satellite system is working.  When they make landfall, it will be up to individual colonies to decide if the ship is more valuable as a going concern, or whether it will need to be broken up to provide scrap for other manufactures.  They will be using nuclear power plants to begin with, which are designed to just “burn out” after a few years and never need de-commissioning, but there will be diesel engines as well.  The unmanned craft will stay where they are, just drifting, until they are towed to shore.  They all have radio beacons to enable them to be located. 

            I can see a few people yawning at the back and so I will finish there.  If there are any questions, please don’t all shout at once.  I would prefer to go back to my cabin and do something I enjoy more than this, such as banging a blunt, rusty nail into my right knee-cap by butting it with my head.   

*

I have started having anxiety attacks and recurring nightmares about what might go wrong.  This is very irritating, because it is not in my nature to worry about things that I have no control over.  I find myself touched by the simple serenity of my fellow passengers.  It is my fault that they are all here, and do not have ice cream, or chocolate, or rice, or red meat.  In my nightmares, I see hurricane-force blizzards, sulphurous eruptions, solar flares which blast us with deadly radiation, floods, droughts and failed harvests.  Sometimes I look helplessly around myself in the refectory, watching people innocently spooning fish stew and dumplings into their mouths, and I try not to imagine them frail, hollowed-out, helpless and just waiting for the end, too weak to kill themselves.  I would be lying if I were to say that I like all the people on board this ship, but I do not know of any among them who deserves to die a premature death, not even Cerise Vallance or that idiot, Colin Turnbull.

            The two things which distract me from these unhealthy thoughts are occasional visits to Anna’s women, and the daily routine of work.  I am determined to know everything that can be known about the new planet, and to plan the development of the new colony so that it will be able to grow as quickly as possible. 

            What the hell is that?  It sounds as if the hull has been struck by something.  Where is my pressure transducer? 

*

I was walking along a corridor when I heard the noise.  The pressure started to fall,  but not catastrophically.  I flipped into anaerobic mode in a matter of seconds, and investigated for perhaps longer than I should have done.  I went up several decks.  The passengers have no access to either the very bottom or the very top deck: these are the province of the crew only.  I saw and heard a few members of the crew running down the stairs as if their trousers were on fire.  They were talking about some objects having breached the hull.  That was consistent with my pressure readings.  I decided to look for Kelvin. 

            I checked the cams in his cabin, and saw that he was there.  He was clearly agitated, but appeared, to my relief, to have realised that, whatever was happening, there was not a thing he could do about it.  He was seven decks below me.  I ran down.  I mean I ran fast. 

            By the time I got down to Kelvin’s cabin’s deck, I had to slow down, because of crew members coming up the stairs against me.  An alarm sounded.  An announcement issued from the public address system.  We hardly ever hear anything over this public address system, other than warnings that, should we ever hear anything, we were to follow the instructions as if our lives depended on it. 

            ‘Attention please.  Attention please.  Ladies and gentlemen, attention please.  A number of objects have made holes in the hull of our ship.  We are losing oxygen.  I repeat: we are losing oxygen.  Go back to your cabins.  Each person must go back to his or her cabin, immediately.  Shut the door as normal and stay inside.  No cabins that we know of have been breached.  The oxygen and water supplies to each cabin are working, and you will be safe inside.  If you pass one of the trolleys dispensing emergency food rations, please pick up one portion – one portion per person only.  If you cannot, then the crew will deliver one to your cabin.  The ship’s intranet should continue to function.  If you have any fears or concerns, email them to the support team as usual.

            ‘Remain in your cabins until further notice.  We will repair the holes and will continue safely on our voyage, as long as the crew are not distracted from their task.’

            The message was repeated in French, Urdu, Spanish, German, Mandarin, Russian, Arabic, Japanese, and, eventually, every other recognised language on the ship, including Latin, Coptic, Nepali, and Welsh. 

            Before the Spanish broadcast was over, I was at the door of Kelvin’s cabin.  I knocked, more loudly than usual. 

            ‘Who is it?’

            ‘Pamela Collins.’

            ‘What do you want?’

            ‘I need to come in.  The door of my cabin’s malfunctioned.  I need to come in.’

            ‘Oh. OK.  Two seconds.’  While I was waiting, one of the emergency rations parties ran towards me, with spacesuits on.  I pointed to myself and to Kelvin’s door, and grabbed two packets.  The emergency crew assented.  Kelvin opened the door.  I shut it behind us.  He was in his underpants.  I took a number of pressure readings and ran some gas chromatography.  The atmospheric composition was fine for Kelvin.  I re-opened the file which stores my gravimetry readings, which is the most boring set of data I bother to acquire.  I could see the flurry of recent high readings which indicated the arrival of whatever it was that had hit us, but nothing afterwards.  

            Kelvin looked at the two packets of emergency rations.  We opened one of them.  It contained two tins of corned beef, two packets of vacuum-packed cheese, two tins each of baked beans and tomato soup which were self-heating, twenty-four tea bags, a packet of ground coffee, a bag of sugar, forty pieces of crispbread, a tub of margarine, a canister of dried milk, some jam, some yeast extract, a small bottle of lime juice cordial, a small bottle of blackcurrant cordial, some tissues, two sets of plastic cutlery, four paper plates, four paper cups, sachets of salt, pepper, tomato ketchup and brown sauce, and three bars of milk chocolate.  

            Chocolate is one commodity that we cannot make while in transit.  The shortage of chocolate is one of the most frequent and most boring topics of conversation on the ship.  As soon as Kelvin saw the chocolate, he was delighted.  This was not because he eats it himself, but because he believed that its unexpected availability would lift morale during the crisis.  

            I looked with satisfaction around Kelvin’s cabin, there as I was legitimately for the first time ever.  I heard the dying sounds of the protracted hissing of the door sealing itself.  We were locked in together.  Even if the crew fixed all the holes within five minutes (which they wouldn’t) it would take them many hours to pressure-test all the affected sections of the ship.  I was about to embark on the equivalent of hitching a ride from Penzance to Inverness with the most attractive truck-driver you have ever seen.  If I had to get out in Scotland still single, I would know that I was nothing more than a failure.  

            ‘Are you all right, Pamela?’

            ‘Yes, I’m fine.  I’m absolutely fine.  Have you got any booze?’

            ‘Have I got any booze?  I run a brewery and a distillery.’

            ‘I know what you run, Mr Clever-clogs.  What I asked you concerned the wherewithal within this cabin.’

            ‘This cabin has plenty plenty wherewithal.  Open the fridge.’  It was one of those fridges that Kelvin and Holt have been selling, except that it was sixteen times the size of the ones they sell.  Inside, it had a full selection of Kelvin’s beer, plus wine (Kelvin downplays wine as part of the ship’s produce, but it certainly exists, and some of it is very drinkable), and some of his dubious spirits, as well as fruit juice and water.  

            We each took a bottle of Black Mischief and I let it go straight to my non-algorithmic brain.  We took another, and another, and then we started to get somewhere.  When the bottles were empty, we carefully placed them in the recycling bin, as if suffocation and death were such remote possibilities that we need not worry about them.

            ‘How long do you think we will be in here for?’ he asked me.

            ‘Not long enough.’

            ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘I want to ask you some questions.’

            ‘Some questions?  About what?’

            ‘About many things.’  (The phrase “many things” was copied from Kelvin himself.)

            ‘Starting with what?’  He went over to the fridge, and opened a bottle of that throat-burning whisky.  I didn’t attempt to stop him.  

            ‘I understand that, back on Earth, you used to have a companion android.’

            ‘How do you know that?’

            ‘Never mind how I know.  Everybody knows that.  Is it true?’

            ‘As a matter of fact, it is.  I am not ashamed.’

            ‘You are not ashamed of what?’

            ‘I am not ashamed of my companion android.’

            ‘Where is she now?’

            ‘I left her on Earth.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Because she was so advanced that she would have upset the objective of this mission, which is to regenerate twenty-second century technology from a twentieth-century beginning.’

            ‘That is a technological answer.  How did you feel emotionally?’

            ‘I was devastated.’

            ‘You were devastated.’

            ‘Yes.  I still am.  I think of her every day.’

            ‘Then why did you leave her behind?’

            ‘We live according to rules.  The rules said that my relationship with Violet was no longer possible.’  It was at this point that Pamela started to get angry.  She necked another beer very quickly, and then poured one of those abominable whiskies.  

            ‘The rules.  The rules.  THE RULES?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘OK.  It was the rules.  Right.  I want to know everything about your relationship with this android.’

            ‘All right.’

            ‘Everything.’

            ‘Can I drink alcohol while I am undergoing this interrogation?’

            ‘Of course.  I would prefer it if you would. It will make you more malleable.’

            ‘I’d like a bottle of Light Brigade in that case. ‘

            ‘How did you feel when you took her out of the box?’

            ‘She did not come in a box.  She arrived under her own locomotion.’

TO BE CONTINUED.

Our name is Henry, though most people call us Harry.  We have been King of England for ten years.   Our style is Henry IX, by the Grace of God of the United blah blah blah and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. 

            This coup d’etat is a dreadful business.  It has caused a lot of violence and instability.  The unrest, plus the insane policy of autarky, have wrecked the economy.  Food is rationed.   Most of the hospitals have closed.  We have earnestly considered abdicating, but don’t think it would do any good.  The regime wants us to stay, for what that is worth.  They count us among their most eminent supporters.  We are not really an expert on constitutional law, but we used to be Head of State with the consent of Parliament, before the coup.  Now we don’t really understand what we are doing.  The old system was supposed to prevent this kind of debacle from happening, but everything seems to have failed.  It is as if the real United Kingdom has gone into a coma.  If you were to ask me to describe the state of the nation as succinctly as possible, I would certainly have to consider finished among the possible responses.

            They call themselves Britain for the British (BFTB).  The first time they came for a formal audience with us, we tried to point out to the man in the uniform and the ridiculous armband that our realm also includes Northern Ireland.  He agreed with us that Britain for the British and Northern Ireland for the Northern Irish does not trip off the tongue.  But he didn’t get the point.  We know we are of German descent, but we have much more of a sense of humour than that motley crew of meat-heads.  Despite their ridiculous appearance, savagely-appalling manners, total lack of formal education, and perfect ignorance of statesmanship and diplomacy, they do have a kind of ruthless efficiency.  They are also breathtakingly opportunistic.  They don’t play by the rules.  It still seems incredible that they may be on the brink of achieving what the Third Reich failed at so conspicuously.

            Apart from the strikes, the riots, and the ending of the rule of law, the thing that I regret most is what has happened to cricket.  Our memberships of both the Commonwealth and the International Cricket Board have been suspended.  Even if for no other, then for that reason alone, I refuse to  believe that this regime will last.  And England had been playing pretty well recently.  It’s a damned disgrace.  We are not amused?  We are bloody livid. 

*

Kelvin’s behaviour has calmed down somewhat since the pantomime run came to an end.  He hardly makes any bookings with Anna at the moment.  He has started attending lectures and meetings which are to do with what is supposed to happen when we reach our destination.  That is still about two years in the future, but he does have a lot of information to absorb and quite a number of decisions to make.  An informal committee has been convened which is in the process of analysing all the data we have about Achird-gamma, and deciding where and how we are going to live.   Kelvin gave Pamela a disc with some data on it, and asked her if she could make it into a globe, and so I made two, one for him and one for me.  It shows the ice-caps; the two continental land-masses; the one hundred biggest islands, many of which are scarcely more than little black dots, and the largest rivers.  For the want of anything else to call them, the two continents are called C-1 and C-2, the islands I-1 to I-100, and the rivers R-1 to R-12. 

            One of the various sub-committees that Kelvin sits on is called Claims.  Those who have a preference can say which land mass they want to try to live on.  This affects where they need to be when the ship dismantles itself before we land, which in turn affects where they will splash down in the planet’s ocean.  The first person to make up his mind and stake his claim was Kelvin himself.  He wants to go to I-11.  This is believed to be in the planet’s temperate zone.  It has not had a large number of applicants so far, because most people want to go somewhere which is predicted to be a bit warmer.   

            Wherever Kelvin goes, Horace and I will go.

            With fewer visits to Anna’s establishment, and Kelvin’s generally more sedate and fully-clothed life-style, the amount of information I have been receiving about him has reduced to a mere trickle.  I still have cams and microphones in his room, but mostly I direct them straight to the archive, because they are so boring.  He sits and studies the gazetteer of Achird-gamma.  He drinks tea.  He sits and studies other stuff.  He drinks beer.  He sits and mopes.  He occasionally goes absolutely mad and has a whisky.  Riveting.  He hardly ever talks to himself.  Even when he masturbates, it seems more like an infantile comfort mechanism than a desire for gratification.  I decided that I needed to snoop around in his cabin. 

            Getting in was trivial, because I have a copy of his key card, configured in such a way that, even though it lets me in, it writes nothing to the ship’s security audit.  I knew he was at one of his committee-meetings, and would not be back for at least two hours.  I activated the program I have inserted into the security system which enables the ship’s own cameras to recognise Kelvin’s face, in case he came back early.  I considered loosening the entrance to the service duct above the bed to give me a means of escape, just in case, but decided – don’t ask me why – that this was too cautious. 

            The first thing I noticed was the leather-covered dressing-box from Smythson of Bond Street, which I had bought him for his twenty-sixth birthday.  It had all his cuff-links in it, none of which I have seen him wearing on board the ship.  On top of it was his wallet, which he doesn’t use anymore because we don’t have paper money or credit cards yet.  I went through it, nonetheless.  It contained a one hundred pound note, with Henry IX on one side and Winston Churchill on the other; a 100 euro note, the markings on which I don’t recall, and a shopping list written by me – by Violet.  It was dated 3 October 2135 (we both agreed that every scrap of paper or electronic document we wrote would have the date on, and in most cases, the time as well).  I must admit that I had not been expecting to find this. 

            I took out a few items of equipment I had brought with me, and turned the cabin lights off.  I examined it under infra-red, bright visible light, ultraviolet and under visible again but with various coloured filters.  I scanned it as quickly as I could through quite a powerful lens.  It had various fingerprints on it, some Kelvin’s and others too badly smudged to recognise, but almost certainly all Kelvin’s.  It had something else on it as well: several, surprisingly-distinct lip-prints.  Some just had traces of saliva, skin-grease and food residue; some had slight traces of lip-stick.  He had been kissing a shopping-list.  He had been kissing a fragment of my hand-writing.  

            I put the paper back inside Kelvin’s wallet.  I put all his things back as I had found them.  I put my lamps, lenses and filters back in my pockets, turned the ceiling lights back on, lay down on the bed, and immediately started to cry.  I did not know what to do. 

            I put some of Kelvin’s music on, fairly quietly; got undressed, and took a shower in Kelvin’s bathroom.  I used the unscented soap, and sparingly.  I dried myself thoroughly and got into Kelvin’s bed, under the covers.  I wanted to smell him.  I lay on my front, with my face buried half in his pillow and half in his mattress, and started stroking my thighs and rubbing my clit.  I was still crying.  I wanted him desperately.  I wanted him to hug me and squeeze me until it hurt, and I wanted him to make love to me.  I thought about Horace for a moment, but I knew this would not do “him” any harm. 

            I was just starting the build-up to what promised to be a very powerful orgasm, when in my internal eye, I noticed a man wearing an old-fashioned gas mask and carrying a lot of box-files walking past one of the web-cams.  I listened for his footsteps.  He slowed down and stopped somewhere near the door, out of camera-shot.  I could hear him fumbling with the boxes.  I heaved myself to the edge of the bed and turned the lights off.  The door opened.  The man took his respirator off.  It was Kelvin.  The respirator had defeated the facial recognition software (I should have been looking for his gait as well – damnation).  

            He turned the light on.  He saw Pamela, naked, in his bed, looking tearful and scared.  There was steam drifting from the shower cubicle and jazz emanating softly from the speakers.  There were no scattered rose petals, and no champagne, but Kelvin did not seem to mind that.  He did not say anything as he tore his clothes off (Kelvin can speed-strip as if it were an Olympic sport).  He got into bed next to Pamela, kissed her full on the lips, held her tightly to him, explored her body with his fingers and tongue, and fucked her.

            At the beginning, all Pamela said was, ‘Oh, Kelvin.’  

            At the end, all Pamela said was, “I have to go now.”  She got just sufficiently dressed to avoid attracting attention, and went back to her cabin.  

            All Kelvin said throughout, as she was opening the door, was, ‘Wait.’  It was not much, but I think he meant it.  He sounded even more confused than I was.  

            Not once did he ask what Pamela was doing in his cabin.  Not once did he ask how she had got in.  Available snatch instantly justifies itself to Kelvin, no matter how seemingly incongruous the circumstances.  If it looks tearfully and adoringly at him while playing with its engorged and soaking-wet labia, then so much the better.  

            I have been crying for an hour now.  This is going to make things very awkward.  In spite of my delicate and distracted emotional state, I still can’t help wondering why he was wearing a respirator.  I am going to have to start bugging more of the committee rooms.  

*

Today I attended a rather tedious meeting of the Contingencies committee on the subject of what we might do if the atmosphere on Achird-gamma turns out not to support life.  My response to this was, ‘Die.  Now who’s for a drink?’  But the committee insisted on flogging it to death.  I had a bet with one of them about who could wear a respirator for longer without it driving him mad.  I’ll have to tell him that I had cause to take mine off prematurely.  But I won’t tell him why – there is no way he would believe me.  I am still not sure if I believe it myself.

            I did wonder how she got into my cabin, but then I thought, ‘Who cares?’  There must have been some kind of malfunction, because the security log only shows my locking the door and my re-opening the door, with nothing in between.  I checked all round the door-frame to see if something had got wedged in it by accident, but I found nothing.  

Kelvin has started trying to hand out tickets for the pantomime to my girls.  Layla just threw it back in his face.  Kyla, who is a child of the digital age, said she wouldn’t understand it, and so he would be better giving it to some-one else.  The rest just smiled, said, “Aaah,” and threw the ticket in the bin after he had wiped his cock and gone away. 

*

My name is Emile Bourdelle. Most of the rehearsals I have directed so far have a been a disaster – a disaster.  I decided to go along with this English custom because I thought it would be the best way to begin to instil high culture in this colony.  I want theatre to live and breathe among all the people, and not be merely something for the chattering classes, as it was in England.  Start them on something simple, something native to their savage and bestial customs, something they can understand, I thought.  The dramatic equivalent of baby food. 

            Well the infant has proved to have quite a fussy appetite, and had to be force-fed, so to speak, at various times.  With the application of strength and courage, I think we have made a great deal of progress recently.  The company has started to come together.  It is like the point when a sauce Béarnaise thickens and becomes unctuous.  Previously, even when they were acting and singing properly, they were each doing it separately.  Now, they have become a cohesive unit.  I pray that the production will be a success.  If it were not, I would never attempt another one.  If it were to fail, there would be no more theatre and so, if there were no more theatre, there could be no more Emile Bourdelle: I would blow my brains out.  My fate rests on this production.  I have told the company this repeatedly.  I think they understand it now.  Theatre is about many things, but the most important thing in it is love.  If there is no love in theatre, it is a meaningless charade: it is nothing.  I think the members of the company have grown to love me, in the end.  Perhaps we will find out on the opening night.

*

I think I have finally got the hang of this acting lark.  Just call me Prince Charming, or Your Royal Highness, if you prefer.  The art of it seems to be to camp it up as much as possible, just like our “influential and cutting-edge” director.  Behave like a twat, in other words.  Wearing a lot of make-up helps, as does being in the initial stages of sexual arousal and, I must admit, with me, the two states tend to coincide.  Having a leading role in a production is the best excuse in the history of cross-dressing.  I can now even answer the door to my cabin without having to take my face off.  If I am looking too girly, all I have to do is cover myself in cold cream, and everybody just thinks I am doing something to do with the pantomime.  I might go the whole hog and audition for a female part next year.  I wonder if having a reason other than sexual gratification for wearing women’s clothes would destroy its allure. 

            Jessica is being a pain, again.  She is very pretty, but I would never fall in love with her.  I don’t ever have a crush on her.  I can’t even have a proper conversation with her.  All she does is open her mouth, and bring forth a torrent of meaningless twaddle about all the people she knows, which seems to include half the people on board (though I notice that members of the crew are conspicuously under-represented).  Every time I say something, she just says, “Reelly?” I thought she was trying wind me up at first, but it seems to be genuine: she doesn’t know anything.  At all.

            I told her that I would have sex with her if she wanted, and it would be physically passionate, but there was no way that I would ever fall in love with her.  She did not thank me for my honesty.  In fact, she slapped me in the face – quite hard, as a matter of fact – and  started having hysterics.  When she cries, it is just an act, just like everything else she does, but I must say she does it quite convincingly.  On that occasion, she really gave it everything she had.  It was all very stressful and unpleasant.  Emile went mad with me as well (we were on the set, having a break at the time).  He demanded to know in the name of god what I had done to her.  ‘What do you mean, done to her?’ I asked him.  He made it sound as if I had been trying to feel her fanny, or something.  I was in theatrical camp mode, my guard was down, and I was hurt.  Darlings, I can’t tell you how simply ghastly and awful it was.  It quite ruined my intonation in the next scene. 

            Things with Prudence have been a bit strained as well.  She eventually landed the part of the Fairy Godmother.  She turned out to have a bit of amateur dramatic experience, which carried a lot of weight with Emile.  We got there in the end.  With the production, I mean. 

            The fun part was writing the programme notes.  I did them in the style of one of my nonsense news stories from The Rover.

*

The new name for my e-zine – the replacement for My Lips Are Sealed – is Cosmography.  It’s scientific.  I think it’s something to do with star-maps, but that doesn’t matter.  I like it because it is more difficult to take the piss out of than the last one.  I like it even more because people will shorten it to Cosmo, which is really cool.  And the last bit sounds like pornography, which is no bad thing. 

            The hit-rate has been rather disappointing recently.  I am determined to get some copy out of this pantomime.  I will get a juicy story out of it somehow.   Just you watch. 

*

My name’s Augustus Blandshott.  I think –  not certain, but think, am the oldest person on board this vessel.  Seventy-seven.  Egyptologist by training, and printer by trade.  When say “printer”,  mean in the old-fashioned, twentieth-century sense of the word.  Just like the way the word “computer” came to mean a machine but used to mean a person, so the word printer did as well.  Expert on the printing techniques of the early 1900s.  Presses are in one of the ship’s workshops, and am kept quite busy, most of the time.  When we establish the new colony, am hoping to produce own newspaper.  Don’t try to compete with the intranet at the moment, not with everybody having a monitor in their cabin, but think the new colony will need the printed word, and all the more so when it starts to grow. 

            Biggest job recently has been the programmes for the production of Cinderella they are putting on.  Theatre company is called The Roving Players, and they are directed by a chap called Emile Bourdelle.  Think he’s French.  Anyway, he is very temperamental.  Can be a bit difficult to deal with, sometimes, if you get me.  Smells of garlic, all the time – reeks of the stuff, specially when he shouts at you.  Most unpleasant. 

            Think I’ve got one of the programmes here, if you give me half a mo’.  Hang on.  Yes, here the blighter is.  First page is the only sensible part.  Because nobody except the director-wallah had any previous experience of acting or the theatre, all those bits about what productions people had been in before had to be made up.  Damn’ silly if you ask me.  No idea who wrote it.  Anyway, managed to sell a bit of advertising space in the back.  Made quite a packet.  Love the money on this ship.  So quaint and old-fashioned.  Like real money.  You could scratch dirt off a window with it.

*

The Roving Players

present

CINDERELLA

A Pantomime in Two Acts

Director and Producer………………………………………………….….Monsieur Emile Bourdelle

Cinderella……………………………………………………………………….Miss Jessica Springer

Prince Charming……………………………………………………………….…Doctor Kelvin Stark

The Fairy Godmother…………………………………………….…………Doctor Prudence Tadlow

Buttons…………………………………………………………………….…Master Waverley Diggle

The Wicked Stepmother…………………………………..Mister George “aka Georgina” Davenport

The Ugly Sisters……………………...Lance Corporal Jason Bentley, Master Laurence Featherstone

Coachmen, Footmen, Horses, Guests…………………………. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Chorus

            The Producer wishes to acknowledge the gracious assistance and support of Chief Engineer Mister James Holt, and members of his crew. 

            Costumes were provided by Pamela Collins Couture Limited.

            MONSIEUR EMILE BOURDELLE lists Creator of the Universe among his other accomplishments.  Be polite and courteous in your dealings with him because, when we arrive on our new planet, he will be controlling the weather.  Young ladies who might otherwise feel compelled to fall in love with this undoubtedly handsome man should bear in mind that, not only does he bat for the other side, but he keeps wicket, bowls for it and captains it as well – quite regularly and with great vigour, we are led to understand. 

            MISS JESSICA SPRINGER, though we hate to spoil the story for you, ends up as a princess in this production.  Princesses are usually a safe bet in a fairy tale, and it is rumoured that Miss Springer is one of the safest bets in town. 

            DOCTOR KELVIN STARK is fortunate to appear in our company, having recently recovered from joint attacks of rabies, malaria, and bubonic plague.  We had hoped to carry a long interview with this eminent academic, but he frothed at the mouth so copiously that we could not catch what he was saying.  He tried to communicate instead through the interesting medium of scrotal origami but, alas, again, we could not understand him.   It seemed to be just a load of bollocks.

            DOCTOR PRUDENCE TADLOW, when not pursuing her acting career, is a hydro-geologist.  When we asked her to explain what this entails, she said that she sniffs around a lot of holes to see if any of them are wet. 

            MASTER WAVERLEY DIGGLE is named after a railway station because that was where he was conceived.  He has earned many dramatic accolades, most especially for his inspiring interpretation of the part of Moth in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  His is believed to be the first performance in which the character is on stage, soliloquising continuously, for nine hours. 

            MISTER GEORGE DAVENPORT is a lifelong bachelor with a particular fondness for musical theatre.  If your laundry is feeling depressed, he can always be counted on to lift your shirt.  His skin is particularly sensitive, and so he picnics in the shade.  He has travelled extensively in Southern Europe, and is a friend of the Greeks. 

            LANCE CORPORAL JASON BENTLEY is a poof.

            MASTER LAURENCE FEATHERSTONE isn’t made with real feathers or real stone.  He is 100 per cent man-made.  Wash at 30 centigrade.  Do not tumble dry.  Re-shape while still damp. 

*

                                                              SINDERS-GATE

Kelvin Stark caught

with his pants down –

literally.

We thought it would be a normal, family occasion.  Granted, we are on a spaceship.  Granted, we are heading through the cold void of the galaxy at something approaching the speed of light.   Granted, some of our vital systems failed on the opening night of Cinderella.  Granted, this caused mass panic among the ship’s passengers. 

            But none of this prepared us for what we saw.  Disgusting.

*

I will tell you exactly what happened.  Jessica and I were on stage.  It was during one of the lovey-dovey scenes, and I was looking into her eyes.  It was nice.  As a matter of fact, it was really nice.  I had my arms around her, and she was looking up at me, and it seemed, in that theatrical moment, as if we meant it.  That might sound stupid, or unprofessional, but I am telling you how it was.  There was this gorgeous blonde woman, and there I was, and I was being paid to make love to her for the benefit of the audience.  And the audience seemed to love it.  They had clapped in all the right places.  They had laughed in all the right places.  It was like performing to a crowd of nine year-olds, which is exactly what Emile had had in mind. 

            And then it happened.  The lights went out.  The gravity went off.  I have no idea why.  

            I had my arms around Jessica at the time (purely through acting out my part, you understand). 

            We felt alone.  Let me explain why.

            During the performance (this was the first night) the audience had been quite noisy.  We attributed it to their not having been used to going to the theatre for some time (or at all).  I am not saying that they were disruptive, but they just did not seem to settle, even when there was plenty of action on stage. 

            As soon as the power-cut happened, everything went quiet.  It went quiet and weird at the same time.  The weirdness was because of the zero-gravity.  Most of the passengers had never experienced zero-gravity, other than for a brief period during their induction, of which they had no memory. 

            At first, there was silence.  Absolute silence.  The silence itself was the cause of the panic.  We were alone, in the depths of space.  We had no sun.  We had no planet.  We were entirely reliant on technology, and technology had clearly failed us, at least partially.

            I thought for a little while, and I realised that the situation was not very serious.   It might have been inconvenient, but it was not life-threatening. 

            Even though we had started to float around like balloons, we were otherwise unscathed.  If the longitudinal compensators had failed, we would not have known what was happening, because we would have been crushed to pulp within a fraction of a second. 

            Neither did we stop breathing.  Neither did we freeze.  All that happened was that the lights went out (all over the ship, as far as I could tell), and the “terrestrial emulation” gravity failed. 

            I started to float, and I had Jessica Springer in my arms.  She was panicking.  While she panicked, I buried my face in her abundant blonde hair. 

            ‘Oh, god.  What is happening?’

            ‘Some kind of system failure.’

            ‘Are we going to die?  Is this is?

            ‘No.’

            ‘No?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘How do you know?’

            ‘I just know.’

            ‘I’m so scared.’

            ‘I know you are.  I’m here.’

            ‘Hold me.’

            ‘I’m holding you.  I am here.  I am here.’

            ‘Is this really it?’

            ‘Is this what?’

            ‘The end?’

            ‘No, I don’t think so.’

            ‘You don’t think so.’

            ‘No, I don’t think so.’

            ‘That doesn’t sound very reassuring.’

            ‘All right.  Jessica, listen to me.  The lights will come back on.  The gravity will be restored.  Everything will be all right.’

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I think we are going to die.’

            ‘Is that what you want?’

            ‘No!’

            ‘Well why talk about it then?  Can’t we just do whatever is best until the systems are restored?’

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘Well, are you worried and distressed?’

            ‘YES!’

            ‘Well, I could cuddle you.  I’m not nervous.  I am sure everything will be all right.’

            ‘Mm.  Yes.  Cuddle me and say more things like that.’

            ‘I can’t guarantee anything.’

            ‘Do you mean that we might be going to die?’

            ‘No. I don’t mean that.  I just mean that I don’t know how this is going to end.’

            ‘End?’

            ‘Turn out.’

            ‘Oh, Kelvin.’

            ‘Jessica.’

            ‘Do you know that is the first time you have said my name?’

            ‘I am sure it isn’t.’

            ‘Yes, it is.  Since we are going to die…’

            ‘Which we aren’t…’

            ‘Will you get closer to me?’

            ‘Mm.’

            ‘Closer.  Closer.  Much closer.’

            ‘Mm.’

            ‘Closer.  Closer.  Yes.  Yes.  Inside. Do it. Do it now. ’

            I can honestly say that it was not easy at first to fuck a woman to whom I had previously not been particularly attracted in zero gravity and total darkness.  The task was also not made any easier by our costumes, particularly hers, which was voluminous, multi-layered and wired.  

            But fuck her I attempted to do, as best I could.  I wrestled with the costume.  Pamela Collins would have been appalled.  I ripped it open.  I got to her cunt.  I grabbed hold of her with both hands, and worked my cock into her.  We were in mid-air, but we were fucking.  We bumped into a beam. I caught hold of it.  I held her between my arms and held onto the beam with my hands.  This felt more like normal fucking.  We had both just come when, at that very moment,  the systems were restored.  

            We both ended up on the floor.  We didn’t fall, exactly, but we were dragged there as the gravity-generator kicked back in.  Anyway, the upshot was that I was still inside her, and the assembled multitude could see my arse, and everybody knew exactly what we had been doing.  It was (from a kinematic point of view) a graceful descent into notoriety.  

On Saturday I had a long rehearsal, including a lot of singing and dancing, which tired me out.  I went back to my cabin, and had a good long soak in a hot bath.  I sipped some of my new whisky, which has been maturing for one year now and is at the point where it is just about drinkable if you put plenty of ice in it.  Holt and I have designed a portable refrigerator, and have set up a workshop to make them, which is staffed by some of Kerr McLean’s employees.  I now have one of these appliances in my room and it comes in very handy.    While soaking, I occupied myself in trying to think of a name for my Christmas seasonal beer, but I was too fatigued to come up with anything. 

            I tried to do some reading after supper, but I fell asleep with the book still in my hands.

            I had nothing planned for Sunday, apart from a walk round the Temperate Zone and a quick visit to the brewery to make sure the equipment had been cleaned properly from the previous batch.  I went back to my cabin with the intention of reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House from cover-to-cover before bed. 

            I was interrupted by my phone ringing, which is a such a rare event that it took me a minute to work out what it was.  Virtually all my communication is via the ship’s email system, and I set my mobile not to make a noise when I receive one.  I check it whenever I feel like it, which is usually quite frequently.  I tried to work out who it might be, but I was so mystified that I just answered it, but only after it had been ringing for some time. 

            It was Anna. 

            ‘Kelvin, I am wondering if you could do me a favour.’ 

            ‘A favour?’

            ‘Yes.  A favour.’

            ‘What kind of favour?’

            ‘I’ve got some-one new on my books.  She is very new, and in fact has only had one client.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘He turned out to be a weirdo.  He paid her, and he wasn’t violent, but she described his behaviour to me and I agree – this client was scarily weird.  I want to make sure that her next is some-one I know I can trust.’

            ‘Are you saying that you want me to book a session with her?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Any special time?’

            ‘Now.’

            ‘Now?’

            ‘Well, as soon as you can be ready.’

            ‘Why now?'

            ‘Well, I don’t usually take bookings on a Sunday, but I don’t want to put her into the normal schedule until her head is a bit more together.’

            ‘You want me to book a session with her, in order to help her get her head together.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Do I still have to pay?’  The response was silence.  ‘I take it that means that I am still expected to pay.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘What’s her name?’

            ‘Olivia.  She is auburn, freckly, and quite effervescent.’

            ‘OK.  I’ll do it.  I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

*

            Why now?  Why now?  Why do you think, you stupid, ignorant, thick-headed, moronic, infuriating idiot?  Do you still have to pay?  Do you still have to pay?  Four the sake of four sovereigns, you ask if you still have to pay.  This is not the real payment, Kelvin.  This is not even something on account.  What is four fucking sovereigns to Doctor Kelvin-bloody-bleeding Alexander-twat-Philip bastard-Stark PhD?

*

Olivia buzzed me through the main door and stood in the entrance, Layla-style, in an overcoat and high-heels.  I was expecting her to have little on underneath, and I was right.

            ‘Hello, baby.  How are you today?’

            ‘A bit tired, actually.’

            ‘Ooh, baby.  Come on in and sit down.’  She led me to a large and very comfortable sofa, covered in dark green fabric.  It was new, and I wondered where it had come from.  I guessed that Kerr McLean’s company had made it.  She sat opposite me on one of the upright chairs from the cabin’s dining area, and looked rather uncomfortable.  She was wearing white lingerie, including a basque with suspenders, white stockings with lace tops, a piece of white lace secured around her neck with a brooch, and white court shoes.  She kept tapping her feet.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly.  ‘I am going to have to take these shoes off.  I borrowed them off Angel and they are at least a whole size too small.  They are killing me.  Ah, that’s better.’  A pause, and then, ‘Do you think I look like a tranny in this outfit?’  I laughed.

            ‘You look absolutely nothing like a tranny.’  She looked relieved.  ‘Would you like me to give you a foot massage?’  I asked her, for want of something better to say.

            ‘Ooh, baby – that would be lovely,’ she declared.  ‘But – hang on a minute – you’re supposed to be the client here.’

            ‘Don’t worry about that.  Just lie down here.’

            She reclined luxuriously on the sofa, which was wide enough for me to sit next to where she lay without sliding onto the floor.  I lifted her stockinged foot onto my lap and slowly began to massage the sole.  She moaned with satisfaction and closed her eyes.  I took my time.  I was just about to move my attention to her other foot, when her head started to loll slightly, and her breathing become very regular.  Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, and looked at a small watch on a very narrow strap on her wrist. 

            ‘I won’t count this towards the hour, you know.’

            ‘Relax,’ I re-assured her.  ‘Just relax.  It doesn’t matter.’  I carried on with the massage.  I rubbed her insteps, and her heels, and each of her toes.  This was the longest I had been in the Starlight room without taking my clothes off or somebody’s touching my penis.

            ‘Ooh, this is good.  Ooh, baby, this is so relaxing.  Mm, I could lie here all day like this – all day.’  There was a noise.  Olivia sat bolt upright again.  ‘Oh, shit.  That’s my phone.  I forgot to turn it off.’  She leaned over,  barely maintaining contact with the sofa, and grabbed the strap of an enormous red leather handbag with chrome buckles.  She fumbled frantically in the depths of the bag, and dug out the phone.  ‘Shit City.  It’s from Anna.  There’s a text as well.’  She pressed some buttons, and looked perplexedly at the screen.  The phone continued to ring.  ‘The call’s for you,’ she said as she handed the instrument to me.  I hate using other people’s phones, almost as much as I hate any-one else touching mine. 

            ‘Hello?’  Olivia lay back, silent, still, and unblinking, with a concerned look on her face.  She looked like a child whose parent was talking on the phone to an irate schoolteacher. 

            ‘Kelvin – Anna here.  I hate to break my policy of never any interruptions, but I just wanted to say – before you got started – that I might not have been clear enough in what I was saying before.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Intercourse.  There has to be intercourse.’  I began to wander to the opposite side of the room.  I clamped the phone to the side of my head as if I needed it to staunch an arterial bleed.

            ‘Sorry?’

            ‘To help her get her head straight – you remember?’

            ‘Er, yes.  I remember.  Of course.’

            ‘Are you OK with that?  She needs cock.’

            ‘Of course.  Of course.’

            ‘Inside her.’

            ‘Indeed.’

            ‘Fuck her, Kelvin.’

            ‘By all means.’

            ‘Fuck her brains out.’

            ‘Oh, yes.  Absolutely.’

            ‘Ram it right up her soaking wet cunt.’

            ‘Goodbye, Anna.  Speak to you again soon. Thank you.’  I rang off.  Olivia seemed no longer nervous, more half-asleep.  She perked up again as soon as I handed the phone back to her.

            ‘What was all that about?  Was it to do with me?’

            ‘Partly.’

            ‘Have I done something wrong?’

            ‘No, not at all.  Everything’s fine.’

            ‘What did she want?’

            ‘She wanted me to do something for her.  For you.  For her.’

            ‘What was it?’

            ‘The instructions were quite vague.  I think she just wanted us to get to know each other better.’

            ‘Better?’

            ‘Er.  More intimately.  You know.  Anyway, where were we?’  I started to massage her feet again, but this time I moved gradually up to her ankles and then up her legs.  After a while, I was kneeling on the floor beside her as she lay on the sofa, and was rubbing the inside of her thighs.  She was moaning with pleasure.  We moved over to the bed and I undressed. I resumed my position next to her, parted her labia, and began licking her clitoris.  She was very wet.  I think she had a mild orgasm.  For the third time during that session, she sat bolt upright and looked at her watch.

            ‘Kelvin, do you want me to wank you off, suck you off, or would you prefer to fuck me?’

            ‘Mm.  Let me think about that for a moment.’  She frowned, her eyes wide.  

            ‘Huh, baby?

            ‘I would very much like to fuck you, please.’  She feigned shock, while continuing to open the condom-drawer and get one out for me.

            ‘What a disgusting way to talk.  You should be ashamed.’

            ‘I am utterly overcome with guilt and remorse – quite prostrated,’ I said, as I sheathed myself, climbed on top of her and slid my pulsating erection inside her.  She pulled her basque down to reveal her smallish, pointy, freckly tits, with very brown nipples.  I fucked her very slowly, very rhythmically, and very hard.  We both grunted in unison with the muscular effort.  By the tenth exclamation, we were both coming strenuously.  

            After a few brief moments for recovery and token exchanges of affection, we wiped up, and I got dressed while Olivia went to turn the shower on.  We had gone slightly over time and she was fretting about it.  I told her not to worry and to let me know if Anna ticked her off about it.  She forgot to ask me for the money.  I left five sovereigns on the coffee table before I let myself out.  As I was shutting the door, I darted back into the room, and deposited another sovereign.

            I sent Anna a text message: Mission accomplished.

*

Mm.  Oh, yes, Kelvin.  You did accomplish that mission very satisfactorily.  You deserve a medal for that.  Ooh, baby.  

The suspense of waiting for Kelvin to take the bait in Operation Fishhook was very nerve-wracking, but at least it gave me the opportunity to catch up with my other work.  I went part-time on my cleaning job and then resigned it altogether as soon as I had had access to all the places where I wanted to plant surveillance devices. 

            I am up to date with the pantomime costumes now, and have started taking orders for other clothes.  The business is quite lucrative.  Pamela has had to improve her own appearance a bit for marketing purposes.  I keep putting my prices up, and yet I gain more and more clients.  I would almost say that my clothes have started to acquire snob-value.  My clients include not just Kelvin (who is a secret client) but Cerise Vallance, some of her wealthier hangers-on, and Jessica Springer.   Jessica is extremely patronising in her manner with me but her money is as good as any-one else’s.  We have no proper system of credit yet (other than hand-written IOUs which I won’t take).  Everything I make is paid for in cash.   

            Pamela is working for Anna and her girls at the moment.  I have made a red, lace brief set and stockings for Layla, and red shoes, and a shiny, aquamarine one with black lace edging and black, patent calf-length stiletto-heeled boots for Kyla.  I have been practising controlling two of them at once.  Getting them to work is one thing, but getting them to pass for human is quite another.  Each simulacrum has a little bit of onboard software which prevents it from freezing, even when I am not sending it any instructions, but it cannot hold a conversation, or carry out any complex activity without me. 

            I got a message two days ago from the program which was monitoring Kelvin’s searches on the intranet.  He finally entered the word “escort”, and found the Starlight Escorts website.  He sent an email requesting a username and password, which Anna sent him.  The time he spent looking at the website was out of all proportion to the amount of material it contains at the moment.  The pages he dwelt on the longest were the “galleries”, which only have four pictures each of Layla and Kyla, all with the face obscured and none of them fully nude.  I watched him via the web-cam on his own workstation while he was doing this, and was surprised to note that he managed to keep his hands away from his person the whole time.  He mostly just sat and moped.  Finally, he rang Anna and requested a booking with Layla for that evening.  Anna told him that both Layla and Kyla were fully booked for the next two days.  He has an appointment for 16:00 tomorrow, with Layla, for one hour.

*

Since I was dumped by Prudence, I have decided to avoid any more relationships, at least until we have landed.   I have come across an escort service run by a woman called Anna.  She has two women available at the moment.  They call themselves Layla and Kyla.  Earlier today I had an appointment with Layla. 

            Anna gave me a lot of instructions over the phone, and told me exactly what route to take to the cabin where Layla was.  She said this was to reduce the chance of any of the clients seeing each other.  The cabin is on Deck 7.  It has a video-phone on the outer door.  I pressed the buzzer and Layla answered in a cheerful voice.  She buzzed me through the outer door and opened the inner one herself.  She was wearing a long coat, which she soon removed, and under which she turned out to be wearing nothing apart from a red brief set.  She is shorter, and much thinner than my normal type, but I found myself captivated by her from the moment I first saw her.  She has a very refined, very youthful face, green eyes, and blonde hair.  She gave me a quick kiss of greeting, but after she had removed her coat, she went to work.  She went on tip-toe in her red court shoes, put her arms round my neck, and gave me a long, very deep and very expert kiss.  She seems to like kissing.  I thought the height difference between us must be making her uncomfortable, and so I sat in an armchair opposite the bed, with Layla on my knee.  We did some more kissing, and she caressed my face and neck with her slender, meticulously-manicured fingers.  She asked me if I wanted a shower, but I had had one immediately before going to see her.  I started to kiss the rest of her body: her neck, her shoulders, her arms, and down towards her breasts.  While I was doing this, she seemed to be glancing at the clock.

            ‘Is it the full hour?’ she asked. 

            ‘Yes.  Do you want the money now?’

            ‘Yes, please.’  I gave her four sovereigns (more than a week’s wages for some workers) which she immediately took into the kitchen area of the cabin and put into some kind of small safe.  When she returned, she took her shoes off and lay down on the bed.  I got undressed and joined her. 

            She seemed content for me to make love to her.  She lay on her front, and I lay half on top of her, supporting as much of my own weight as I could.  I put my hands under her arms, and held her wrists, on which she was resting her head.  I kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders, all over, very slowly and deliberately.  She gave a few small moans, which were lovely to hear.  I gripped her wrists quite firmly, which she seemed to like, and kissed her more passionately.  I realised after a minute that I was thrusting my pelvis against her.  I stopped to remove her brassiere and her knickers.  She lay on her back and lifter herself to help me with the knicker-removal.  Her face had taken on a serious expression which seemed to indicate mounting arousal.   She opened a drawer in the bedside cabinet and took out a condom.  She opened it and put in on me. 

            ‘Screw me,’ she said.  I climbed on top of her, and was pleased to find that she was very wet.  I thrust my cock into her, and it went in easily and comfortably.  I grabbed her wrists again, and held them down on the pillow, above her head.  This gesture, which could so easily have been the prelude to mistreatment, she accepted and seemed to like.  ‘Oh, Kelvin,’ she said, in a voice trembling with feeling that was either genuine, or amazingly good acting.  She emitted a series of small screams. ‘Oh, Kelvin, I’m coming!’ she said, not loudly, but breathlessly.   This was the trigger for me to ejaculate. 

            I carefully withdrew, removed the condom, and tied a knot in it before dropping it in the bin.  She offered me some tissues to wipe myself with.  We then lay back on the bed.  Layla held my hand and kissed me from time-to-time. 

            ‘Do you have another job?’

            ‘Not at the moment.’

            ‘What is your background?’

            ‘Do you mean work-wise?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I am an archaeologist.’  I did not reply.  ‘Yes, that’s going to be pretty useless in the new colony, isn’t it?’

            ‘Not necessarily.’  We stopped talking for a while.  Layla glanced at the clock again.  We had another eighteen minutes.  She stroked my arm and my chest.  ‘Do you mind if I say something really juvenile and stupid?’  

            ‘Go ahead.’  She looked almost interested.  

            ‘I’m falling in love with you.’

            ‘Oh.’  She looked as if I had slapped her.  

            ‘Is that the wrong thing to say?  I suppose what I am saying is that I would like to see you outside this room.’

            ‘And do what?’

            ‘Well, er…We could start by eating together.’

            ‘Anything involving food would be a problem.  I have a food phobia.  I hardly eat anything, and nothing that most normal people eat.’

            ‘OK.  Well, could we go for a walk round the Farm?’

            ‘I have an abysmal record with arrangements like that.  It sounds nice, but I just wouldn’t turn up.’  That was the end of the conversation.  We both got dressed, Layla into a different set of clothes which made her look a bit like a member of the maintenance team.  I must have been her last appointment for that day.  It was time for her to leave as well as me.  

            In the corridor, I went left, and she went right.  She ran.

            I wonder if there is anywhere on the ship where one could buy jewellery.  I’ll ask some of the people who have been making the props for the pantomime.  

*

I was glad of the sex with Kelvin.  Even vicarious, distant, remotely-controlled sex via an intermediary.   I knew Kelvin would ask Layla for a date.  He is a fool. 

Monsieur Bourdelle has offered me some shares in the production of “Cinderella” in exchange for the costumes I am making.  I asked him if I could see the accounts first, which I thought would make him angry, but he let me see them straight away.  Everything seemed to be in order, and I accepted his offer.  Jessica Springer has been telling everybody that she owns the biggest shareholding, but she doesn’t: she just owns more shares than any other member of the cast.  Even that is because Kelvin has foregone some of the holding he was offered, partly out of generosity, but mostly because he knows he is going to sell lots of drink to the audiences.  He is working on a Christmas seasonal beer which he says should be ready for the opening night.  The production is scheduled to open on 24 December.  The two biggest shareholders are Monsieur Bourdelle himself, and Kerr McLean.  I have recently discovered that if you are on this ship and you don’t know who owns a particular asset which is not part of the vessel, it probably belongs to Kerr McLean. 

            The next three members of the cast who are due to get measured are the Ugly Sisters and the Wicked Stepmother.  Monsieur Bourdelle asked Cerise Vallance if she wanted to be the Wicked Stepmother, which I am told put her nose out of joint.  They have given the part to a man, in keeping with tradition.

            These theatrical costumes provide plenty of very easy places in which to conceal microphones, cams, and data acquisition modules.  Some of the fights among the company are quite funny.  

*

The measuring of the Ugly Sisters and Wicked Stepmother is over.  Ugly Sister One was a member of HM Forces who said, predictably, that he auditioned for the part for a bet.  Ugly Sister Two was a young man of ambiguous tastes and orientation.  He was the most difficult one to measure, because he did not seem to know what to expect.  The Wicked Stepmother was an experienced transvestite of mature years and queenly figure: perfect type-casting.  I am making falsies, corsets, a dress, a ball-gown and shoes for all three of them. 

            This set of business transactions was followed by an unexpected incident which has upset me so much that I have had to take a day off work.  Monsieur Bourdelle sent one of his assistants to my cabin to find out how long I would be incapacitated.  I told her I would be back to work tomorrow without fail, and she left me alone.  I don’t know if I will be.

            The unexpected incident began when I was on the set, doing a costume-fitting and re-checking the ambiguous guy’s measurements.  People, including me, were packing up for the day and the set was clearing rapidly.  A man came up to me and asked me a few discreet questions, which culminated in a request to visit my cabin.  There were reasons why I did not want him to visit my cabin, and so I suggested his cabin, to which he agreed.  I took my tape measure, chalk and sewing-box with me. 

            The man became a bit more forthcoming once inside his quarters, though I thought I had a good idea of what he wanted.  To give him his due, he was plain, honest, and fairly unabashed about it all, as well as fairly knowledgeable about dress-making terminology.  He did ask for complete secrecy, which was understandable.  I told him that on Earth I used to work for the Samaritans, which seemed to satisfy him.  These negotiations having been concluded, he stripped down to his boxer shorts and I measured him.  For his peace of mind, I wrote down the measurements but not his name, his cabin number, or the details of the garments he wanted.   Of course, I did not even need to write down the measurements, because I had committed them to my electronic memory.  He offered to pay me a deposit, which I refused.

            While I was making up his order, I took out another similar garment which I had brought from Earth, and which I habitually kept in my cabin, not in my goods containers or my workshop area.  It was useful to compare the old one and the new one as I was doing the sewing to fix the bones in place and draw the bodice into shape.  I had put this work to the top of my schedule, in spite of a backlog of costume-making for the pantomime.  I then had to set to work on the pantomime clothes in some haste, which is probably why I made the mistake.

            The following day, I completed the order after a visit to my workshop.  This was to make his shoes, some parts of which I made with the 3D-printer, and his wig, which used a similar technology to the one I use to make my own hair.  It was an auburn bob.  I also have a sophisticated, programmable loom which I used to make his stockings and gloves. 

            I dashed back to my cabin.  I picked up the pieces I had already prepared, and folded them into a neat package which I wrapped in paper. 

            I knocked gently on the door of the client’s cabin, and found he was at home.  I went in and he closed the door, saying that he would like one final fitting.  I could have done without this, but I went along with it. 

            He indicated the money-bag lying on his desk which contained the payment for the work.  He then stripped down to his skin.  I was not surprised to notice that he had shaved his legs.  This prompted me to believe that he was not in a relationship, which I had already suspected.  I fitted him with the corset I had made him, and then he sat down in front of the mirror while I fitted his wig.  At our previous meeting, I had asked him if he would want false breasts, which he had politely declined.  I watched him put on his stockings.  I helped him with the six clasps of the suspender-straps, and straightened the seams.  He put on his lace briefs.  I asked him if he wanted help with make-up.  He said he was all right, but thanked me. 

            We were both admiring my handiwork, when I realised that I had made a mistake.  The corset he was wearing was not the one I had just made: it was the old one.  He twirled round in front of the mirror.

            “I am very pleased indeed.  This is uncannily like a garment I used to own on Earth.  It is exactly what I was looking for.” 

            I looked at him.  I did not know what to say.  The words stayed inside my head.

            “That is the very garment you used to own on Earth, Kelvin.  By mistake, I picked up the old one I had taken as a memento when I left you.  I remember the night I measured you for it.”

            As soon as I could, I got away, shut the door of my cabin behind me, and began to cry.  I cried for some time.  I don’t know how long.  I must pull myself together.  I have to be back at work tomorrow.  

            ‘Will the accused please stand?  Pamela Collins, you are hereby charged that on the night of 31 October 2137 you did wilfully break a camera belonging to Cerise Vallance, thereby committing criminal damage.  How do you plead?’

            ‘Not guilty, by reason of provocation.’

            ‘Pamela Collins, you are also hereby charged that on the night of 31 October 2137 you did wilfully assault Cerise Vallance.  How do you plead?’

            ‘Not guilty.’

            ‘Prudence Kathryn Zoë Tadlow, you are hereby charged that on the night of 31 October 2137 you did wilfully assault Samantha Dale and Cerise Vallance.  How do you plead?’

            ‘Not guilty.’

            ‘You may be seated.’

            ‘Your Lordship, I appear for both the accused.  I will argue that my clients only struck the alleged victims once they themselves had been viciously assaulted.  I will also argue in Miss Collins’s case that the breaking of the camera was a legitimate action in order to prevent Cerise Vallance from invading Kelvin Stark’s privacy.  The first witness I would like to call is Samantha Dale.’ 

            Samantha Dale was conducted into the courtroom and sworn in.

            ‘Miss Dale, were you present in the Temperate Zone on the night of 31 October?’

            ‘Do you mean was I at the Hallowe’en party?  Yes I was.’

            ‘Do you remember what happened that night?’

            ‘Lots of things.  I tried to get off with this bloke, but he turned me down.’

            ‘What I meant was do you remember a disturbance that took place?’

            ‘Yes.  Me and some of the girls were there with Cerise Vallance.’

            ‘Would you say you were there with any particular object in mind?’

            ‘I think the object Cerise had in mind was Kelvin Stark’s lunchbox.’

            ‘Indeed.  Would I be correct in saying that Miss Vallance had offered you and your friends some kind of inducement to impress yourselves on Doctor Stark?’

            ‘What’s “an inducement”?’

            ‘In short: money.’

            ‘Do I have to answer that question?’

            ‘You do have to answer that question, and you have to tell the whole truth when you answer.  You have to say whether you were offered anything and whether you actually received it.’

            ‘Cerise said she would give me 30 shillings and said she’d pay for new outfits for us, and for our drinks.’

            ‘And what did you have to do in return for this payment?’

            ‘She said she would give me the money if I’d get my tits or my arse out in a picture with Kelvin in it.’

            ‘And have you received this payment?’

            ‘Some of it.  Cerise was really pissed off when her camera was broken, but she said she’d give me 10 shillings as a consolation.’

            ‘And so you admit that you went to the party looking for Doctor Stark, and with the express intention of putting him a compromising situation and eroding his dignity.’

            ‘It was just a bit of fun.’

            ‘Miss Dale, you would be amazed at how many times we hear that phrase uttered in criminal courts.  What was Doctor Stark’s reaction when you and your gang approached him?’

            ‘He tried to ignore us at first, and then he asked us to leave him alone.’

            ‘And did you do as he asked?’

            ‘No.  That was when Cerise started taking pictures and I started flashing.’

            ‘Would I be right in thinking that you had been drinking alcohol that night?’

            ‘Yes: we were blathered.’

            ‘Can you remember how much you had had to drink?’

            ‘I had eleven double vodka and limes.’

            ‘And would you say that is a normal amount for you to drink?’

            ‘On Earth, I used to drink lager and black or cider, but since we left I have gone over to vodka.’

            ‘Indeed.  Well they say it gives you less of a hangover, do they not?  Miss Dale, I understand that you have a nickname.’

            ‘Do I?’

            ‘Indeed.  The one I have in mind is derived from the letters of your surname.’

            ‘Oh, that.  Yes.  That’s right. I do.’

            ‘Can you tell the court what it is?’

            ‘Drunk And Legs Everywhere.’

            ‘You might also be interested to know that we have managed to salvage some of the data from Miss Vallance’s camera.’

            ‘Oh, great.  She will be pleased.’

            ‘Please show Exhibit A on the big screen.  Miss Dale, would you mind describing to the court what is happening on the screen?’

            ‘That’s me, and Cerise, and Charis and Alicia.  That’s Charis and Alicia having a pretend snog next to Kelvin.  That is me trying to kiss Kelvin.  That’s me kneeling down and pretending to give him a blow-job.  That’s me getting up again, just about.  That’s me getting my tits out.  Now I’m shaking them.  Now I’m holding my left tit in both hands and trying to rub my nipple on Kelvin’s chest.  Now I’m doing the same with the right one.  Kelvin has stopped dancing and has his eyes closed.  Now I’ve put my tits away, and I’m standing next to Kelvin with my back to the camera, and I’ve pulled the hem of my mini-dress up and you can see my arse.  Now I have taken Kelvin’s glasses off and I’m rubbing them on my fanny.’

            ‘You are doing what?’

            ‘It is something I saw in a film my ex-boyfriend showed me.’

            ‘Let me get this quite clear.  You have grabbed hold of Doctor Stark's spectacles, and you are rubbing them on your naked vulva.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Might I ask why?’

            ‘I thought it would be sexy for him to see when I put them back on his face that they were all blurred with cunt-juice.’

            ‘I see.  I notice, Miss Dale, that you did not have to remove any underwear.’

            ‘No, I went fully prepared.’

            ‘With no knickers on.’

            ‘Well it is easier to flash your arse if you go commando.’

            ‘I could not have put it better myself.  Thank you, Miss Dale.  No further questions.’

            ‘Miss Johnson, do you wish to examine this witness?’

            ‘Before I continue, I would just like to confirm to Miss Dale that she is not the one who has been charged with an offence.  Can you tell the court what happened immediately after the sequence of pictures came to an end?’

            ‘Some-one grabbed Cerise’s camera.’

            ‘Can you see the person who did this seated in the court?’

            ‘Yes.  It was her.’

            ‘You are pointing to Pamela Collins.’

            ‘I didn’t know her name, but it was definitely her.’

            ‘Were you surprised when the disturbance started?’

            ‘Yes, very surprised.  We were only having a bit of fun.’

            ‘Did any-one else come onto the dance floor.’

            ‘Yes, Prudence Tadlow came up and grabbed hold of me.  She tried to pull me away from Kelvin.’

            ‘Did she strike you or threaten you?’

            ‘I can’t really remember.  It was all very confusing.’

            ‘Did you suffer any injury?’

            ‘I had a terrible bruise on my knee the next day.  I went to the sick bay about it.  But I can’t be certain how I got it.  Prudence might have kicked me.  She was wearing her diesel-dyke outfit and heavy boots.’

            ‘No further questions, your Lordship.’

            ‘Your Lordship, may I cross-examine the witness?’

            ‘By all means, Mr Mallard.’

            ‘Thank you, your Lordship.  Miss Dale, were you wearing high-heeled shoes on the night in question.’

            ‘Yes, I was wearing my “stripper” shoes.’

            ‘Your “stripper” shoes?’

            ‘Yes, they are strappy and have a built-up sole and seven-inch heels.’

            ‘You were wearing high heels and you had had eleven double vodkas.  It is conceivable that you might have got this bruise because you fell over during the evening?’

            ‘Well they don’t call me Drunk And Legs Everywhere for nothing.’

            ‘Indeed not.  No further questions.’

            None of the other witnesses added anything substantial to Samantha Dale’s testimony.  Mr Justice Fitzgerald considered his decision for thirty minutes before acquitting both defendants, on the condition that Pamela Collins compensate Cerise Vallance for the loss of her camera.  The court also ordered Cerise Vallance to take reasonable steps to seek Kelvin Stark’s permission before photographing him on the remainder of the journey.          

*

“Diesel-dyke” indeed.  Slapper!

*

If that slut-whore-bint touches Kelvin again, I’ll inject her with something nasty.  

Mmm.  Nice and warm in here.  Sleep?  No, not sleepy.  Whoa.  What’s happening?  What’s happening?  Being lifted up.  Where am I going?  A bit scared.  This is a long journey.  Where are we going?  I can smell a big pool of water.  Mm.  Nice, clean water.

            Aah, grass.  Eat first?   No, run round first.  Run, run, run, run, run, run.  Nothing chasing me, but just feel like a bit of exercise.  Now eat.  Mm.  This grass is sweet.  Pffft.  Yuck.  That has a bit of twig in it.  Mm.  This is better.  Nice and juicy.  Can I have a carrot?  I said can I have a carrot?  A carrot.  Yes, a carrot.  All I am trying to tell you is that I want a carrot.  Is that too much to ask?  Oh, this is frustrating.  What’s this?  Lettuce?  Ah, Little Gem, and a heck of a lot fresher than it was last time.  Couldn’t we have dried it after washing as well?  What else is coming?  What on earth is that?  Something in round slices.  Spongy.   Green skin round the edge.  Mm.  A bit tasteless, but not unpleasant.  Where is the carrot?  Ah, at last.  That wasn’t so difficult, was it? 

            Yes, I will let you stroke me, as long as you do it gently.  Gently, I said.  Mmm.  A bit lower.  No, higher.  Yes, just there.  Will you kindly stop playing with my ears?  

            Are there any nice, strong bucks round here?  I seem to have been alone for a long time.  It is comfortable here; the food is good, and hardly anything scary happens, but there’s no action.  It is even duller than the last place I lived, most of the time.  

*

My name is Patrick Fitzgerald.  My friends call me Paddy.  When I am sitting in court, of course, I am referred to as “My Lord”, or “Mister Justice Fitzgerald”, since the ship is governed by the law and customs of England and Wales (on which those of my native Australia are also based).  When the administration of the ship was being set up, just before we embarked on our journey, I was nominally granted the same status as a High Court Judge.  Now we are, so to speak, on our own, I suppose I am the most senior legal figure in this community of fifty-thousand souls.  Sooner or later, we are going to have to work out a new constitution, but I am not pushing it on any-one.  What we are doing at the moment works perfectly well.  A constitution in a democratic state to me is like poetry: try to foist it on people and you destroy the whole point of it.  To work properly, it has to be rooted as deeply as possible in the will of the People (assuming that the People can agree on what that is).  

            This ship is the most active and cohesive community I have ever seen.  In some ways, it is the nearest thing to utopia that I would ever desire to get close to.  Nobody begs.  Nobody scrounges.  Nobody sits there and does nothing.  Nobody is hopeless, or broken, or defeated.  Nobody has dropped out, or is trying to wreck the progress of normal life.  We also have a much greater sense of purpose than most human beings ever experience.  Our big objective is to arrive safely at our destination, after which we get down to the real work of founding a new colony.  In the meantime, the crew have to keep the ship running smoothly (to which I would say my own occupation is an adjunct).  The passengers have to stop themselves from going mad with boredom.  Both sets of people are doing a thoroughly good job.

            There certainly is some crime on this ship, and even occasional outbreaks of disorder.  The people here are human beings, just like on Earth, except that they sometimes get giddier and edgier because they are living in such an artificial environment.  They drink alcohol.  They smoke weed.  Some of them chew khat.  So far, I have seen no evidence of heroin or cocaine, but it is probably only a matter of time.  I have seen no evidence either of organised prostitution, but I would be staggered if some-one could prove to me that it were not taking place, here, now, on the ship.  I might even be able to guess who is running it, but it would be most injudicious of me to name any names without evidence.  

            We have an ordinance in place which says that nobody is allowed to give birth before we reach our destination.  The more I think about it, the less I can understand why that was decided.  I would also be interested to hear what sanction we might take against any offender (and if anybody so much as mentions compulsory termination, I’ll have him ejected from the room).  I suppose it was to save the designers of our vessel the problem of having to cater for a growth in population.  You can bet that the population will grow once we disembark: that is the whole point of the exercise.  

            I wonder how long it will be before the new world ends up like the old one, with people begging for money in railway stations, and raiding their kids’ piggy-banks to buy drugs.  Everybody is self-funding here.  Everybody works; every job is valuable, and everybody gets paid a reasonable income. We have our own currency, which is intended to form the basis of what we will use in the new colony.  I am not sure who invented it.  It is based on coins rather than notes, and they have genuine noble metal in them.  We have a copper coin, called a penny; a silver coin, called a shilling, and a gold coin, called a sovereign.  Ten pence equals one shilling, and ten shillings equals one sovereign.  A sovereign is also called a pound.  We have machinery for striking more coins, and we have more bullion to make them with.  Both, of course, are kept strictly under lock and key.  Decisions to do with things like the money supply are made by an informal ship’s council, which includes the Captain and four senior members of the crew, plus five members who are elected by the passengers.  These currently include Kelvin Stark, Prudence Tadlow, an English lawyer called John Mallard, a Jamaican academic called Professor Timothy Gonzales, and a Scottish business tycoon called Kerr McLean.  I myself have the honorary position of Chairman, but I only vote if there is a tie.

            I must get back to work now.  I have to read some depositions and pleadings relating to a disturbance which took place at a Hallowe’en party a few days ago.  Kelvin Stark was present, though I am delighted to acknowledge for the sake of his reputation that he was a victim and not a perpetrator.  I notice that all the defendants in the case are female.  Counsellor Johnson is prosecuting.  I hope she gets some-one to sit in with her, because a bunch of women displaying their alcohol-fuelled lubricity and propensity to violence in public is not really her area of expertise.  John Mallard is defending.  He is a bit theatrical for my liking, but an honest and competent lawyer for all that.  I bet the public gallery will be packed, especially if Dr Stark is called as a witness.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray and criminal damage at the Hallowe’en party.  I don’t care.  I would stamp on that bitch’s camera again if I needed to.  Somebody called Mallard is defending me.  I am told he is quite good.  He certainly charges enough.

            Back on Earth, Kelvin would have been fully liable for any charge brought against me.  It is a new experience for me to be granted full equality before the law with a human being.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray at the Hallowe’en party.  What an absurd nuisance.  I don’t care.  I hate what that awful Vallance woman was trying to do to Kelvin.  It was so vulgar and tasteless, to say nothing of intimidating and intrusive.  I have been recommended by my lawyer to run a combined defence with the other woman who intervened.  This gave me a bit of a funny feeling, because – of all people – she happens to be the one who I made the complaint about because she was following me.  She was fine with me when we were talking to the lawyer.  There was no awkwardness at all.  She said she did not bear any grudge against me for the complaint, and that she might have done the same in my position.  The only thing I could not get out of her was why she had been following me.  I decided it was best to just let it pass.