Run to the Stars

by Michael Scott Rohan

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

Life on Earth was intolerable - and yet Man had stayed there, his dreams and potential suffocating under the dead weight of bureaucracy. The stars were attainable - thanks to the Infall Drive - but only a few heard the call of deep space. Some had already gone to colonise a new world. The second ship was ready at last. Ready to escape the Earth's prison; ready to seek refuge in deepest space. But it wasn't only freedom that awaited it...

Release date: October 2, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 291

Sample

In the mists at the edge of the world, a red eye opened. It blazed angrily at me across the black Atlantic for a second, then it was as if its gaze had shifted skyward, tracing a line of flame on the darkening sky. I watched it climb higher, grow thinner. Now it was no longer a line, but a blade of flame, stabbing upward against the stars. Was it imagination, or could I hear a low grumbling roar across the long sea-miles? It passed before I could be sure. I knew well where it came from, what it was, but not where it was going. I didn’t give a damn about any of it – I was on leave, I should be forgetting all that. But why did it look so sinister? I smiled wryly at myself. Because any day now that could be you…

The Earth was firm beneath my feet. I felt rooted in the very solidity of it; the sea-breeze was light and cool, hardly stirring the thickening mist, but if it grew to a tornado it couldn’t blow me away. I was born on this world, my body is built of atoms that have been part of it since it coalesced. What right have I to scatter them across space again? Isn’t that a kind of entropy? I stood there on a twilit plain in Galloway, knee-deep in grass that rose and fell in gentle waves, grey as the sea beyond it. A little beach separated them, a strip of clammy sand, home only for cockles and other cold fish.

Beyond that the sea, the dark Scottish sea outstretched to the horizon. Somewhere in the mists would be Ireland, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. I’d come here to fill my mind with emptiness, loneliness, silence. But there was no silence here, nothing to compare with the void between the stars. Sea hissed and bubbled at the beach, grass rustled, trees creaked, the seagulls could still be heard. (Will there be seagulls there? Only if we take them.)

I stood there as night and mist closed in, staring out at the inhospitable universe. It got colder and danker, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t get the fiery eye out of my thoughts, and I realized why at last. It was an unscheduled take-off, outside the Station’s daily routine, which had practically ground itself into my subconscious by now. And it had been big… It certainly hadn’t been a normal ferry, or cargo carrier – and if one of the really huge special carriers was due to go up I’d surely have heard about it long before I went on leave. I dropped the shutters on it, hard. That was another life, and one I knew damn well I ought to be getting out of, fast. But to where? Was this the right, the only opportunity? So still I stood, and let time drift past me, flowing, flowing… I came back to myself with a jolt, cold and stiff. How long had I been standing there? The mist gathered itself in front of me, hiding the rising moon, and closed suddenly over my head. The stars were blotted out, the land and landmarks had long since gone. I turned and stumbled heavily over nothing. I was adrift in a uniform pale glow, unable to see my own hand stretched out in front of me. Somewhere out there, a kilometre or two back along the peninsula, was a comfortable old farmhouse, between it and me a mass of little fields with drystone walls and thorn hedges, and the sea awaiting my wrong turns on either side. I looked down and couldn’t see my feet beneath me. Luckily there were no cliffs to fall off; the land here rose only a metre or two above sea-level. I pulled up the collar of my heavy jacket and set off in what ought to be the right way. If anything could get me tired of Earth, this might. Even the sound of the sea was muffled and directionless, no help at all. The gulls had gone and all I could hear was my own breath and the dull clomping of my own feet. The rich damp earth caked onto my boots, weighing them down with every step. Weren’t there cattle out along here, a bull maybe? Or would they have been taken in? I stamped heavily along, like one of the Irish giants in the old legends, and tried to listen for a bull’s breathing, or heavy tread. I amused myself by wondering if any of my unarmed combat training might be useful on a bull. Why wasn’t there a section in the manual about it? ‘First grasp the right horn firmly in the left hand (or vice-versa, as is preferred) and pull firmly back and to the side, at the same time striking upward sharply with the heel of the other hand at…’ I stopped abruptly. Had there been footsteps, somewhere ahead? If so, they’d stopped when I did… I began to walk again, then stopped in mid-stride, a good jungle trick. Sure enough, a foot definitely hit the ground when mine should have. That was no bull; someone was stalking me. An amateur. Now who the hell…

I let my foot down softly and began to step sideways quietly, but not too quietly, trying to make it sound as if I were walking forward normally. My outstretched hand touched something cold and damp, and I froze. Nothing happened. I relaxed my hold on the chill stone of the drystone dyke, invisible even at arm’s length, and inched along it, raising and lowering my feet absolutely silently. There were definite footsteps ahead now, evidently doing their best to be quiet. Whoever it was wasn’t very large, but then neither am I. I came to a corner in the wall, evidently the right-hand corner of the field I was in. The wall stretched off to my left and on the other side to my right was a large holly tree. I had a fair idea of where I was now. There should be a gate in this wall, somewhere. I began to inch along towards it, keeping low and tensed to spring at the least sound.

There was a scrabble, a swishing sound, a solid thump on the ground a metre or so in front of me. I’d lunged forward and grabbed in the instant I heard it. There was a yelp of surprise, and I let go hurriedly. Unmistakably female… There was a low mischievous chuckle not too far below my nose, and a pleasant warm scent that was very welcome in the dank night.

‘Mr Bellamy, I presume…’

My immediate reaction was flaring irritation.

‘It had to be you, of course. Vaulting walls in the fog!’

Giggle. ‘Ye might be a bit more grateful! Here I’ve come a’this way out in the haar ’cause I thought ye might be lost – ’

‘In the what?’

‘Haar. Mist tae you. Sounds like an old viking word, eh?’

‘If you say so. They never taught me that kind of thing. Look, it was kind of you to come out, but why? Now there’s two of us lost – ’

‘I’m no’ lost! I live here. D’ye think I canna find my way about in a wee bit of ha – mist like this? Thought ye might run intae the bull, is a’.’ Sharp sniff of disdain. ‘Should’ve let ye.’

Kirsty O’Neill. Daughter of the farmhouse where I was the mysterious and solitary guest, eighteen and waiting anxiously to hear about a college place. Bright, brunette and good to look on when there wasn’t a mist in the way – all I could see of her now was an outline ruined by a heavy anorak – but surely not my type. Too intellectual, and anyway I’m no cradle-snatcher by nature.

‘So now we’ve settled why I’m here, how about you? What was it brought ye out on a night like this?’

‘I’m an African spy. Gone a bit pale with fear – handy, that. I was watching spacecraft take off.’

‘Oh aye? From the Sea Station? Much good that may do ye, Mister Spy. We see ’em all year round here, but the station’s way down below the horizon. If ye’d eyes tae see that ye wouldna get yourself lost–’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Hey! The last launching I saw was just after nineteen!’

‘What’s the time now? Left my procom – ’

‘Near midnight when I left the house. Have ye been standin’ there for five hours?’

‘Looks like I have. Didn’t feel that long.’

Kirsty whistled. ‘Ye’ve got something on yer mind, a’right!’ Expectant silence. I didn’t say a word. Eventually she burst out ‘A’right, so I’m bein’ nosy! So ye don’t have tae tell me about it, or about you, or about … about anythin’ else! What d’ye want tae talk about then? Weather? Fine night for the fog, isn’t it?’

I chuckled. ‘Since you ask… Yes, I have got something on my mind. Those launchings – give them a wave when you see them, from now on. I might be on one of them.’

‘Ye lucky – where’d you be goin’, then? Orbital station?’

‘Further.’

‘The Moon? The Martian settlement?’

I shook my head, which must have been just about visible, because I heard a sharp gasp in the fog.

‘No’ the…’

I could see her silhouette gesture away into the infinite distance of the mist.

‘The colony, yes. I’ve a place option on the second Ship.’

‘No wonder ye’re wanderin’ round in a dream!’ She sounded oddly breathless and shocked. ‘How’d ye manage that?’

‘Just asked. Wasn’t hard. The Ship’s got room for thirty thousand people, but last I heard they’ll be lucky to get twenty K the way it’s being undersold.’

‘Might be other reasons,’ said Kirsty neutrally. She leant against the wall, and I could hear her kicking idly at the earth. ‘How many folks want tae go on a journey like that? Ten, eleven years in the Ship and never comin’ back – how can ye face it?’

I grunted. ‘That’s one of the things I’m here on holiday to sort out.’

‘But what’d make ye want tae leave in the first place? I mean, I’d never think of it – ’

‘Are you that fond of the world the way it is? Under the BCs’ thumb – and other areas?’

‘Well – no, since ye put it like that… But things may change – ’

‘Not in my lifetime, except for the worse. I’d rather take a chance at a fresh start – the only chance I can see. And there’s more to it than that. It’s hard to explain – but it’s like this feeling some of the pilots have told me about. There are times when they take off, they just want to head outward and keep on going, never mind if their air runs out – ’

‘Hmph. Any o’ these pilots actually tried sailin’ away? Thought not. Romantic enough but it’s still just fancy suicide. But how were these pilots tellin’ you about this? Was it the pilots at the Sea Station?’

‘Right.’

‘Go there often, do ye?’ She sounded positively sly.

‘Often enough. Why’d you ask?’ As if I didn’t know. ‘Would ye take me along some time?’ And then, breathlessly, the inevitable. ‘Could you get me intae space?’

‘For a joyride, you mean? Or more permanently?’

‘If there was any chance o’ a job – ’

‘Only if you get yourself some kind of scientific or technical qualifications – which you don’t want to – ’

‘Can’t!’ she said miserably. ‘Never any good at fashin’ science. There’s no other way?’

‘’Fraid not. Unless you join the police or the military – ’ I didn’t insult her by suggesting a Department Guard.

She shuddered. ‘I’ve heard about that. Reports an’ dossiers an’ psychprofiles on your every move. BCs breathin’ down your neck night an’ day – ’

‘Some people survive OK. But you might not, I’ll agree. Does you credit. But I can get hold of an airspacer, so I could arrange the joyride, at least. Why so eager to get out there, anyway?’

‘Cause it’s about as far away from here as I can get!’ she snarled. I hadn’t heard that kind of venom in her voice before.

‘Is it that bad, then? I like it. Not many open fields left these days. This place has room to breathe – ’

She snorted scornfully. ‘Aye, ye can do that a’right. No’ much else, though, ’cept eat an’ sleep an’ freeze in winter. Only excitement last year was when a harvestin’ machine went daft in a greenhouse – barley everywhere. Stop here an’ I’ll go fat an’ daft like my ma or dried-up and dour like my old man. Or just out o’ my mind wi’ boredom.’

‘Space loses its excitement after a while. A short while. You sound like another candidate for the Colony.’

‘No’ me!’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll stick tae the Solar System, thank you!’ She made a low shivering sound. ‘So cold, so far. Take a quarter of your life tae make the round trip…’

‘Twenty-two years? More like a sixth – ’

‘Whatever. And no way back if everyone else didn’t want tae go as well. Away from family an’ friends an’ – brrh! How ye can even think o’ cuttin’ yerself off like that…? Is there nothin’ tae hold ye here, nothin’ that’s too important tae leave?’

‘All the relatives I know of have been dead for years. I’ve got friends, all right – but none I couldn’t bear never to see again. Wouldn’t blight their lives much, either. And there are plenty of enemies I’d as soon be away from – seems like half the human race at times.’

Kirsty gave a great guffaw. ‘Paranoids are after ye, are they? But ye’ve nobody at a’ – no really good friends, no girls? I mean there wilna be much wine, women an’ song on the other side o’ the Divide, will there?’

‘Why not? There’ll be no BCs to restrict it, after all. Anyway,’ I added severely, ‘I’ve had my share of them all, except maybe singing – can’t have too much of that, as long as it’s folk. But I’ve had enough of hangovers and half-baked affairs – they’re both terrible in the morning. Maybe I’m just a loner…’

That was definitely the wrong line to take. I knew what she was going to come up with before she said it. ‘Maybe ye just havena found the right one yet…’

‘Maybe,’ I said discouragingly. ‘I could die trying. Life’s too short and sex is hard work, thanks to modern medical science – giggle if you like, it’s true! Two centuries ago I could have given it up at seventy. Now I’ve no let-up until I’m ninety or a hundred. More than half a century of loused-up emotions! Not to mention pulled muscles, bankruptcy and – ’ The fog betrayed me. Slender but solid arms wrapped themselves firmly round my neck before I’d even finished talking. I don’t often envy two-metre men – too easy to dodge and overbalance – but I did then; my neck was too accessible. She was practically swinging from it, pulling my head down to her. Protest was stifled at birth by her generous lips, with a sweet hot taste on them that countered the chill mist. Perhaps I should have shouted rape, but my mouth was full – of tongues – and who’d have heard me anyway? So I landed Kirsty with the tongue problem, letting mine scribble short sensuous paragraphs on the underside of hers while my hands gently scratched the punctuation on her back. Even through the anorak it felt hot. I stood with feet apart to come down to her level (and take some of the weight off my neck). She crushed hard against me, shifting weight from one foot to the other so that her legs rubbed against the inside of mine. Hotter and hotter – We came up for air.

‘This isn’t fog,’ I decided, ‘it’s steam.’ She slumped against the wall, giggling helplessly. Not too helplessly to pull me with and against her, though, but by then I’d given up minding. However, not being a cradlesnatcher has its responsibilities – such as giving fair warning.

‘Listen, you,’ I said as soon as I had the chance, ‘don’t think I’m not enjoying myself, but take an old man’s advice – don’t be in too much of a hurry. Save something – oh, not for the love of your life or anything, just for better places than against a wall or the back of the cowshed – ’

‘Back o’ the byre’s no good,’ she mumbled, keeping up the death-grip. ‘Too popular most nights. And ye can see the most o’ it from the house. Well, if ye lean out the backstairs window and twist tae the right a wee bit ye can – ’

‘What I’m trying to say – mmmp! – is, don’t waste it on me. You’re young and fresh and I’m twenty-five years older – ’ A whole set of nails dug into the nape of my neck. I caught my breath sharply, and the sudden strong scent of her made my nostrils flare.

‘Young n’ fresh, eh?’ she growled. ‘Makes me sound like chicken breast or somethin’ when a’ he means is I’m no’ experienced enough! Young n’raw, that’s what you mean, isn’t it? For your mature taste! I’m so bloody sorry I could cry! Maybe I’m only fit company for the great muck-maulin’ gowks round here! Maybe if I could’ve got away tae college or a job I wouldna be needin’ your learned advice – or anythin’ else!’ I heard her turn on her heel and stamp away off down the wall, muttering hot wet things.

‘Listen!’ I protested, striding along to keep up, ‘I like you young and everything, you’re not like most girls your age – ’

‘Who’re either uptight Social Morality freaks or tarts, aye. Well, you can keep ’em both. But did it no’ occur tae ye in your vast experience that I might just occasionally get a wee bit tired o’ youth and etcetera? Not, o’ course, that I’ve any say in the matter – ’

‘You’re behaving like an eight-year-old – ’

She stopped dead and rounded on me. ‘Listen, you!’ she mimicked. ‘Ye were stranded out here before I came. If I ran off ye’d likely end up in the sea or playin’ tag wi’ the bull!’ There was a rustle of fabric in the mist. ‘And there’s only one way you’ll keep me by ye – ’ And she sprang at me, swinging from my neck and biting at it, catlike. The scent of her, headier than any mere perfume, rose around me like the smoke of a pyre, and when my hands reached her waist they touched warm flesh where anorak and slacks had parted. She wore nothing underneath. That did it.

‘I’m caught, I wilna’ run,’ she murmured. ‘Weigh me down…’

Anything to oblige. Her weight was a burden round my neck, so I went searching for handholds. Her clothes slid away to provide them. I gave gently at the knees and sank back, pulling her on top of me.

‘Grass’s wet,’ I explained.

‘Sounds fun – ’

‘Then we’ll take turns – ’

We finished facing each other on our knees, rocking in the smooth ancient rhythm of the sea. Her breasts were hardness crushed against me, and the sea somehow got louder and faster and saltier and smooth as wet velvet and went roaring away through my ears in a pounding cascade. Kirsty’s fingers stopped tracing out my spine and grabbed desperately at my hips, her breath came in hoarse strangled gasps, and our bodies slammed and battered at each other as if in fury. Then her body arched violently back and she screamed aloud as all of me rose to meet her in an electric, emptying thrill that went convulsively on and on. Distant thunder rang in my ears as we collapsed gasping against one another, and seemed to build up into a whistling howl that had nothing to do with the thumping of my heart. Kirsty clutched me tight again as the sound grew louder, then she shrieked in horror as a thunderous shockwave ripped the concealing mist away from us in a mad scattering whirl. With a roar of dragonfire something enormous blazed by overhead, as if the Moon itself were dropping onto us. The trees bent before its passing and hurled up their leaves to its fires. The long grass was blasted flat by a single sweeping wave of hot wind that left us huddled half-naked in each other’s arms, terrified as field animals when the harvester goes by. Then there was a terrible impact offshore, an incandescent roaring splash that blasted up a wall of steaming water. A fine boiling rain spattered down over the field, stinging points of agony on our exposed skins. Kirsty was sobbing hysterically against my chest, but I detached her gently and stood up, staring out to sea through the passage carved in the mist. Sizzling, smashing, creaking sounds came from a great shadowy bulk, wallowing in the erupting sea a kilom or so offshore. Parts of it shone with a sullen furnace glow that set the sea seething into bubbles and steam. Larger bubbles, huge ones, were gulping up as it settled. Then I realized what might happen, and flung myself heavily on top of Kirsty, knocking her flat. There was an instant’s awesome gargling, as if the ocean were draining away; I raised my head cautiously.

There was a concussion, more than a sound, and the trees bent back again and lost the remainder of their leaves. The night glared red for an instant, then there was more hot rain interspersed with blast-shredded leaves. A broken tree fell smouldering into the wet undergrowth. Something large went swishing slowly by overhead and fell into the field beyond; the solid impact almost bounced us off the ground. There was a rattle of smaller debris, some in our own field. When it stopped I rolled off Kirsty, who was too winded to move, and struggled to my feet, pulling my trousers back on as I went. Fortunately the skeletal trees still hid us from the farmhouse, though I could hear dogs barking and doors slamming, and a gabble of excited bird cries and hoarse human voices. Not so far away the bull was bellowing hysterically. A rising breeze thinned the mist and in the restored moonlight I could just make out the remains of the object, dull and dark now. It looked as though the blast had broken it in two, but large chunks were still visible above the surface. I became aware of Kirsty hanging onto my arm, trying to pull herself upright on unsteady legs. Once I helped her up she’d no trouble staying there, but her face was pale and bloodless and blank.

‘Move it, girl,’ I muttered, retrieving her slacks, ‘your old man’ll be down here soon with the farm ops. Want them to catch you bare-assed?’ She didn’t answer, just looked at me with wide shocked eyes. I couldn’t blame her for that – having the ceiling fall in is no way to begin your sex life – but I was in a hurry. I bundled her back into her clothes, dusted her down as best I could, and bolted for the beach. If that thing was what I thought it was there might still be a life to save.

The sand was littered with little bits of hot wreckage and assorted sea-debris hurled up by the explosion. Stumbling and slipping through piles of lacerated sea-wrack garnished with shredded crab and fish and jagged chunks of metal, I stared hard out to the moonlit sea, churned-up and foaming, for the least sign of a human form. At first I’d thought a big airspacer had come down in flames, but then I’d remembered something. That first thunderclap had been a sonic boom, but by the time the thing itself passed over it was below soundspeed. What decelerates as it falls? Answer: something under power. I had a strong feeling I knew what, although the hulk out there was hardly recognizable. It boded ill for the pilot.

‘Mr Bel’my! Come away frae there!’ It was Kirsty’s father, the Land-Manager, in an overcape and boots over vile-coloured sleeping gear. He came skidding down among the grass tussocks, stomping through the sand to grab my sleeve. ‘Come on! She might go up again any second! We can call the Emergencies – ’

‘They’d get here too late, I think. Anyway, she’s unlikely to go up again.’

‘Too late for what? And how’re ye so sure?’

‘I know a bit about these – well, what I think that thing was. Did you see it go over?’

‘Aye, a’in flames. I was feart it’d explode overhead!’

‘It wasn’t on fire. It’s not an airspacer or zep or anything like that. Those flames were the exhausts of bloody great chemical motors, being gunned for all they were worth to slow it down; they were blown back round the hull by air resistance, so it looked like a fireball.’

‘What was it, then – a missile?’

‘Oh, no. I got a look at the hull before it went up – couldn’t place it at first, I haven’t seen one for years. It was an old orbital launcher, the kind they used for large payloads before the big special carriers came in. They still keep a few for emergencies and awkward jobs, like sending up something big that can’t be assembled in space. The only thing explosive about them’s their fuel, and any there was would have gone up in the first explosion. There couldn’t have been much or it’d have been larger. Way the motors were being flogged I’m not surprised.’

‘But then – ’

‘Yes. There was someone at the controls. That thing could have creamed anywhere in Central Scotland – your house, for example. But he managed to brake it enough to bring it down harmlessly in the sea. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t see anyone eject, but there’s still a chance he might have. He could need help. I feel I owe him a bit of trouble, don’t you?’

‘Aye,’ said the old man dourly, ‘suppose we do – though after that bang I wouldna haud out much hope. Still –I’ve a boat at the jetty back by the house, if a piece of wreckage hasna’ stove it in. If I get some o’ the lads – ’

‘Right. Shouldn’t be any danger as long as you keep clear of the wreck itself. I’ll cover the beach, if you can spare some men.’

‘Aye, I’ll see tae it!’ I heard him puffing and panting up the slope, and then a collision at the top and some ripe swearing.

‘Kirsty girl! What’re ye doin’ out here?’

‘Scared outa my wits by the bang!’ I heard her say quite steadily. ‘Came tae see if I could help – ’

‘Aye, ye can. Get back an’ tell yer mother it’s a’right, and call up the Emergency. Tell ’em there’s some kind o’ spacecraft come down…’ Voices and hurrying footsteps trailed off into the distance. I began ranging up and down the beach, stopping from time to time to listen for a sound other than the disturbed sea slapping and grinding the sand. I tried calling out, but only managed to collect some fellow searchers that way. It looked bad. I heard the boat putter out beyond the point, a long blunt-bowed dory whose little hydrogen motor flogged away as it hit the churning sea. Powerful flashlights swept the water on either side.

‘Keep off the wreck, remember!’ I shouted.

‘Wi’ pleasure!’ bellowed a voice in return, raising coarse laughter all round – not that it was at all funny, but we needed something to laugh at. Any of those blackened fragments lying about in the shallows or washing to and fro further out could be all that was left of the man we searched for.

‘D’ye really think he coulda got out in time, Mr Bel’my?’ asked one of the farm-ops with me as he prodded dubiously at a scorched and twisted fragment of metal at his feet.

‘Yes, any time before the bang. Ejection systems have come a long way since Gagarin and the Wrights. Even an old voice-activated system would’ve got him out and beyond blast range in time, even from underwater. I was looking for him when the blast went off. Didn’t feel so observant then.’

‘Aye, I ken. Staggered me as well.’

‘Ah, get on, McBride, ye’re allus staggered!’

‘Aye, blind as a burycrat!’

‘Haud yer yaps!’ hissed the maligned McBride. ‘Who’s callin’?’

A girl’s voice – ‘Yer auld man’s oot wi’ the boat, Kirsty!’ yelled someone. ‘We’re doon here wi’ Mr Bel’my!’

I half expected her to scream and run at the mention of the name, but she didn’t. She appeared atop a sand-ridge, leapt down off it into a gorse-bush without seeming to notice and came thumping across the sand towards us.

‘Ma an’ I called – ’ she gasped. ‘Emergency-police – Sea Rescue – everyone – wouldna come!’ There was an angry babble of voices. ‘Said they’d had calls from all over,’ she explained when she’d caught her breath. ‘But they’d had word from Glasgow Interdep that this was Eurogov business, and there were Department men comin’ tae handle it – ’ That did it. The magic word ‘Department’ seemed to empty any sense of responsibility out of everyone. The ops began to drift off down the beach, heading back towards the house. I didn’t bother trying to keep them; I wasn’t so far from giving up myself. Maybe the boat would have better luck.

There was a small awkward cough from behind me. I turned to find Kirsty still standing there. It was high time to say something; the trouble was, what?

‘Look – I’m sorry I had to just rush off like that, then. But – ’

‘Oh aye,’ she said tonelessly, scuffing the sand with her shoe. ‘Ye couldna help it.’ She gave a brief, artificial laugh. ‘I’d heard o’ the earth movin’, but that was too much…’

‘Spectacular, at least.’

‘Oh aye. Grand finale wi’ fireworks. But – ’ She sounded anxious. ‘It was all a’right? For you, I mean…’

She sounded altogether too serious. At that moment I was wishing myself halfway to the Colony or almost anywhere else. What had I got myself into? I’d come here to shake. . .