Vector for Seven

by Josephine Saxton

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Time Travel

Synopsis

". . . and they all moved to the true start, the true airport, the place that was written on the tickets, the place they should all have been at, the place that would lead them to what they expected, the place with speeding planes; the place with organization behind it; the place where officials walked around in splendid hats with badges on; the place where the beginning of their journey was, and perhaps if they had known they would have jumped off the bus screaming or would have bitten ff their own tongues in order to bleed to death or they would have looked at one another merely in doubt and horror, but as they knew nothing of the future, and no person on earth knows anything much of the future which accounts for the extremely low suicide rate, they all sat and moved forwards to the point in time and space which could only logically and positively be called the start of their journey which was called Super Tour."

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 238

Sample

 

“There are undoubtedly much worse things that can happen to a person than to be splattered with the shite of swifts,” said Sophia Smith in a rather unsympathetic voice. She was addressing her remark to Mrs. Mortimer, whose first name she did not know because they had only just met.

Mrs. Mortimer was deeply shocked by the use of the word “shite,” but she showed it no way whatsoever. She continued to scrub with the blunt end of a nail-file at the offensive bit of ordure that clung to her hat, which she held in her kid-gloved left hand. The mat felt was marked permanently, there was little doubt of it. She looked upward at the source of the offence, and observed birds flying to and fro from a bunch of nests in the eaves of the wooden building outside which they now sat. It was the only place to sit down, or they would have been sitting elsewhere.

All about their feet were pieces of luggage: Sophia’s, the shiny new blue stuff specially designed for air travel; Mrs. Mortimer’s, a combination of incredibly good leather and some cheap canvas holdalls which nevertheless had an air of quality about them also, perhaps borrowed from their proximity to the leather, which was battered, polished, and dignified. Sophia had in her hands a straw beach-bag with bamboo handles, rather scruffy, though more likely from its poor quality than frequent use.

They were waiting for the guide to arrive, and the rest of the party, but it had already occurred to both of them on their coincidental arrival half an hour previously that something was much amiss. They were certainly at the right place, but it seemed to bear no resemblance to their imaginings. It was a disused airfield, rather overgrown with grass, with a few buildings around it, all of them decrepit; it was plain to both women at a glance that there would be no chartered plane taking anyone anywhere from the place that day. So they sat on the only seat under the building marked “Departures” and waited, for there was nothing else to do.

Sophia was pretending to herself that she was not feeling hysterical at the loss of the one hundred and fifty pounds that she had paid out, in cash, three weeks before, for the apparently useless bit of paper in her handbag. Mrs. Mortimer was hoping that soon someone would come along and sort it all out, tell them where they had made their mistake, show them where to go, and she was hoping that the someone would be a man, a capable and well-dressed man of the upper classes, who knew how to handle things; the sort of man that her husband had been before he had died so unexpectedly of a heart attack seven years before. Behind her old-fashioned but respectable eye-veil her eyes moistened at the thought of him, and for a few brief moments he flickered into being, walking purposefully across the airfield towards them, holding his umbrella like a weapon, one hand in his trousers pocket, spoiling the hang of his Harris tweed jacket, bearing news that he had sorted it all out, it was all right dear, no need to worry, the wrong platform, the wrong village or something like that. Long before he got near enough to them for her to see that his moustache was in need of trimming, or even for her to be quite sure whether he was wearing the brown or the green jacket (somehow they were so alike), he was not there any more; he had gone back into the place where she had kept him ever since the funeral: in her box of magnificent memories, the like of which cannot be found in these times.

Mrs. Mortimer was fifty-three and had passed the menopause. Occasionally, she forgot about this and bought herself a packet of “requisites” around the second of the month. Six such packets lay forgotten at the bottom of an old cabin-trunk in the spare bedroom of her home in Greenwich Village, London. Her house was locked up, dust-sheets covering the good furniture, the gas and electric cut off, and the water mains; everything prepared for its owners being absent. And yet it seemed at the moment that within twenty-four hours she would be returning to it, one hundred and fifty pounds poorer. That would be a shame. She had not much money to spare. But she had thought that this particular indulgence would be worth investing in; after all, soon she would be old, and then it would be too late to travel.

Sophia was not hoping that a man would stride across the airfield, telling them that all was well; she merely hoped that someone in uniform would arrive and tell them that it was all off, and return her money. She had sold all her furniture and her record player to raise the money, had had cold feet at the last minute, and then plunged, thinking that it was what she needed, a change, and had shut the door on the empty rooms of her rented flat, with only twenty pounds in her pocket, all in new pound notes: what was left over after she had paid her money by registered post.

The two women did not look at each other as they waited. Instinctively, they disliked one another, but both were polite enough not to manifest this dislike beyond not making conversation. When Sophia had made her remark about the minor disaster that had occurred to Mrs. Mortimer’s hat, she had momentarily forgotten herself. She had meant to remark:

“What a pity there is nowhere else to sit.”

Thoughts of her lost money had influenced her to say something a little more to the point. She had not noticed Mrs. Mortimer discreetly replace her hat, for she had been gazing away over the airfield, wondering if anything was going to happen; and if it was not, then what should she cause to happen, and how?

In the distance, they could hear the engine of a car, and soon, in a shimmer of dust that caught the sun, which was very hot for an English June, they saw the car approach and stop. Someone got out, assisted by another person, and then the car moved off, leaving one person (they could not yet be sure which sex) surrounded by great piles of baggage. The figure did not move, but merely stood.

“I wonder if that is another one,” said Mrs. Mortimer, very conscious of the stain on her hat.

“I don’t know. Shall I go and see?” answered Sophia.

“Really I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps it isn’t, I mean, one can’t be sure.”

“But if I ask …” Mrs. Mortimer would not commit herself to a definite answer to this question. One thing was certain: She herself was not going to inquire of the stranger at the other end of the airfield, around whom the dust now settled, for it was not the sort of thing she was accustomed to having to do. If there was to be any communication between the stranger and herself, then the stranger must be the first to approach her and speak, and from his voice and bearing she hoped she would be able to judge whether or not to answer. Meanwhile, the distant figure stood, and they looked at it, and Sophia thought to herself that at least something seemed to be happening. She then thought that perhaps the figure had not noticed them, had not seen them, and, without warning, put the first two fingers of her right hand into her mouth, which was covered in a thick coat of lipstick, and blew an astonishingly strong and piercing whistle. Mrs. Mortimer showed some reaction to this action of Sophia’s, but not as much as the average person would have, had he been there; she merely dropped one of her gloves and blinked her eyes rapidly. The figure seemed to move slightly, but did not wave or walk. Sophia, stimulated by her own action, got up from the seat and began walking towards her objective, and Mrs. Mortimer watched her go, extremely critical of the whole image presented to her by the back view of Sophia.

Sophia swung her hips in an exaggerated manner, an unnecessary way of walking for her, because her figure was already too parabolic for some tastes, being wide across the hips and bosom, narrow in the waist, and Mrs. Mortimer could see that the girl had a very full and slightly pendulous bottom that moved rhythmically, unhindered by a girdle, like fruit, or full wineskins.

The girl was wearing a cotton frock of pale blue, like a harebell the shape of the skirt, revealing the backs of her knees with two dimples in each, and the calves large and smooth, making an awkward and unlovely shape because of the very high heels on her black shoes. There were creases at the backs of her ankles because of the unnatural angle of her feet in these shoes, but the height of the heels undoubtedly helped her to walk sensually. Her arms were held out and away from her body to balance the bell movement within the pale-blue skirt, and her dark-red hair swung slightly also, hanging down her back in thick waves, rather untidy. After about a minute of watching the girl, Mrs. Mortimer lost interest. She had seen many women like this; she tried not to disapprove. The best way of doing this was simply not to stare at them. So she stared elsewhere, which was at the horizon to the right of the moving Sophia, and on that horizon stood a row of poplar trees, and they reminded her of the word “Cézanne,” but she could not quite remember why. Meanwhile, Sophia was drawing nearer to the figure, and she could already see that it was male, but really very old. From his ear dangled the cord of a hearing-aid, and she could discern the glint of gold-rimmed glasses with sunglasses clipped on top of them, and she could see the old-school tie with its gold clip, and the very worn suit of clothes beneath the good but faded trench-coat. His shoes were like mirrors beneath their film of dust. Sophia immediately felt sorry for him. She was disappointed that he was old (she did not like old people, they frightened her); but he was male, and this at least was something. As it happened, it was rather like pity, the thing she felt. She was four yards away from the figure before it looked up, rather startled, and raised its hand and greeted her.

“My dear young lady, I wonder if you can tell me if this is Spring Bank Airport. I seem to have been put off at the wrong place by my cabby. It is most unlike them to make a mistake and then go off and leave one, but I am rather shortsighted, and I did not notice you—in fact, I could see nothing at all, except that perhaps there seems to be something over there.” He pointed at the line of poplar trees, but Sophia had noticed that in the middle of his long, white silky hair there was a bald place that shone like leather, brown and smooth, and she was looking at that. She wanted very much to run up and kiss that shining evidence of maleness, but on so short acquaintance she desisted. It was almost a hobby of hers, kissing bald heads; it was a thing she had always liked doing, as long as she could remember. She could not, however, remember why.

“No there’s nothing over there, only a few old trees. Its all over there,” she said, gesturing at the collection of wooden buildings. “But it all seems to be derelict, falling down almost … I mean, I think we’ve come to the wrong place. It seems a bit like a cheat.” She chewed gently at her long thumb-nail and looked at the old man, who seemed unperturbed by what she had said, and wondered if he had heard anything at all.

“I’m sorry, madam, but I had not got my hearing-aid switched on. Do excuse me.” He fiddled about inside his jacket, and then a broad smile spread across his face.

He turned towards her, and it seemed almost as if his hearing-aid had turned on his faculty of sight as well as sound, for he now lifted off the clip-on sunglasses and gave Sophia a most enchanting smile from out of his dark-brown eyes, and spoke directly to her.

“I suppose you will be another member of the trip?” he said almost gaily, and he looked at her ankles.

“Aren’t those shoes rather a tight fit, my dear? Your feet will swell if we are to go abroad. I do hope you have brought some sensible sandals as well.”

“Yes, I have, as a matter of fact, but I don’t think we’re going anywhere, old darling. It’s all dead here.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’re early yet, you know. On my ticket, it says six-thirty, and its only half-past three. I always come early to everything. It’s my habit, you know, to be early. One can’t expect too much action yet awhile.” He picked up one of his bags, a brown leather grip with a lock, and shouted out very suddenly:

“Porter, I say, porter.”

Sophia jumped visibly, and stared again at her new friend.

“There’s nobody here at all, no porters. Only me and Mrs. Mortimer. That’s what I’m saying. I don’t think things are as they should be. You’d expect a lot of people to be about if something was going to happen, wouldn’t you?”

“Never mind, my dear, I’ll carry it myself.” He picked up one suitcase and held it under his arm, and then lifted another case in the hand of that same arm, and then made to pick up a third suitcase, but his other hand already held his locked portmanteau. Sophia went forward to help him, but he held up that portmanteau to bid her stop.

“Now, then, my dear, be careful. You may hurt your back. I can manage.”

Sophia suddenly felt as if she had overstepped the mark in some way, and was about to feel embarrassed when she caught the look in the old man’s eyes, and felt better instantly. He was looking at her in such a kind way, she could not but get the message. However, it was clear that he could not manage all his bags by himself.

“I think you could leave them here awhile and come and sit with us. Let me introduce myself. I am Sophia Smith.”

“Well, if you say so. And my name is Edward Hartington-Smythe.”

“Smith/Smythe. That makes us related, I guess,” said Sophia, and she deliberately flashed him a smile that revealed her use of old-fashioned scarlet toothpaste. Mr. Hartington-Smythe did not acknowledge their blood relationship, but together they began moving side by side towards the hut where, presumably, Mrs. Mortimer still sat gazing at the poplar trees.

She was in fact gazing at Sophia and Edward Hartington-Smythe, for they were moving and had distracted her attention from the trees. She had not heard him shout for a porter. She had been deep in a golden dream where she had walked among the poplar trees in a white Grecian dress, a dove on one shoulder, and a unicorn at her side leashed by a golden chain which she held in her hand. Now all that was over, she was watching the two people walking towards her, and was surmising the true fact that the other person was male, old, and slow. She watched the two figures very closely until they got close enough to her for them to see that she was watching them closely; then she looked away to the poplar trees again, and then back suddenly at the two figures, as if surprised to see them at all.

She made a movement with her body, a sort of pulling-oneself-together-ready-for-introduction movement, and it made her seem about two inches taller, sitting there on the dusty and peeling seat. From the distance of six yards, she could smell the upper-crust quality in the presence of Mr. Hartington-Smythe, and she was preparing herself to show Sophia Smith what sort of person she was, that she had breeding and distinction, that she knew how to converse with such people, and that Sophia did not. However, Sophia did not introduce Mr. Hartington-Smythe to her, and he did not appear to have noticed her. She leaned forward and coughed very slightly, as if about to say something. She was about to say:

“I say, excuse me, but have you found anything out yet, Miss Smith?”

But she was prevented from bringing this speech into being by a rather large blob of swift-shite which fell wetly onto her skirt, splashing one side of her nose and the back of her kid-gloved hand which rested in her lap, all at one blow. She emitted a noise, but it would be difficult for anyone to say quite what the noise resembled. It was not exactly speech, nor was it a scream, nor could it have been correctly spelt by a master of comic-strip dialogue. Suffice it to say that it was a noise such as a lady of Mrs. Mortimer’s upbringing would make when shit upon by God’s own tiny creatures whilst she sat upon a bench on a hot day at a disused English airport, thinking that something was amiss, and hoping to be introduced to an aristocratic gentleman.

This noise, however, did succeed in attracting the attention not only of Sophia, who in any case knew she was there, but had not wished yet to share Mr. Hartington-Smythe, but of Mr. Edward Hartington-Smythe himself, who turned to beam at the lady, who appeared to be picking her nose and wiping what she picked onto her skirt; but he, being a discriminating person, and having met many ladies similar to Mrs. Mortimer, knew that this was hardly possible.

“Good afternoon, madam. I wonder if you could tell me where the Inquiries Desk is, I wish to check on my flight.”

“I am afraid not; there seems to be no such place. In fact, we all seem rather to be lost. Excuse me, but I have just had an accident.”

Mrs. Mortimer, tears in her eyes, turned as far away from the two of them as she could, and wiped hard with her little lace hanky, cursing Sophia Smith without actually using any words, and experiencing acute embarrassment. She could not find her mirror in her handbag, and if she were to open her luggage and search through it, she realised that not only would the streaks of bird shit come once more into view, but that she might experience even more embarrassment by revealing her underwear, which was in one of the cases, and other intimate articles, such as hairbrushes. She got up from her seat and walked sideways away from the two other people, telling herself that she was going to the ladies room, knowing that there was no such place, that on this airfield there was nothing for her ever again, that in this life there never would be such a welcome place of refuge as a ladies lavatory, that as far as the world was concerned, she might just as well die there and then. She had not walked more than two yards when she saw the notice. It said “Ladies,” and she went in through the free turnstile, and once safe within its concrete walls, she wept, out loud, and looked around for a mirror. There was one, very dirty, half of it in fragments in the washbasin underneath. Written on it in lipstick and eyebrow pencil were several pieces of information.

Different people, presumably of the female sex, had written messages of love.

One read “I love Elvis”; another read, “I love Charlie Ingham”; another read, “I love Tom Jones”; and another read, “I love no bugger except myself.”

In between these messages, Mrs. Mortimer could see her own reflection, dim and grey through the grime, and she adjusted her face without much trouble, because, in fact, that swift-shite had left hardly a trace on her nose; no one would ever have guessed what had happened to it at all. Feeling quite herself, she went outside once more, facing the other two with a ladylike smile.

“Excuse me, madam, but you appear to have suffered an accident to your skirt.”

It was Edward Hartington-Smythe speaking, of course, and his information was very kindly meant.

“Dear me, so I do,” said Mrs. Mortimer, and smiled again at this gentleman, whose name she badly wanted to know. She felt, if she knew his name, things would begin to go right. A charabanc would arrive, they would all get in, they would set off, get onto an important-looking road, and be on the aeroplane in no time. If only he would make himself formally known to her, all would be well, it would all sort itself out. But he made no move. Sophia held out her two arms, one each in the direction of the two older people.

“Mrs. Mortimer, Mr. Smythe; Mr. Smythe, Mrs. Mortimer,” she said, with nonchalant ease, as if they had been at a party, guests of hers. The two people grasped each other’s hands, shaking them warmly.

“How do you do.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Nothing much happened to confirm Mrs. Mortimer’s feelings about the effect of a formal introduction with Mr. Smythe. They all three stood in the sunshine, their feet in the dust, and looked at the poplar trees, and Mr. Edward Hartington-Smythe took out his large gold watch and read the time.

“Not long now, I think,” he said.

Mr. Hartington-Smythe was not far wrong in his assumption that “it” was not long now, if in fact he meant that it would not be long before something happened. What did happen in fact was that a motorbike and sidecar drew up near the shed beside which they so awkwardly stood, and from it alighted yet another ill-assorted pair of people. The first person to alight from the vehicle, which was a superbly kept Harley-Davidson combination, polished and creaking with well-being, was a male of about twenty-five years of age—or was it more than that? or less? None of those assembled could tell: The light, being behind him was deceptive. All they knew was that he was tall, wide in the shoulder, narrow in the hip; that he wore young clothes (a pair of worn jeans and a leather jacket over a white tee-shirt); that his teeth flashed white, and his skin was tanned. That was all they knew, and Sophia had it reckoned in seconds and dismissed it, for it was a common type, although worth looking into later. Mrs. Mortimer dwelt rather on certain features of this young male, and pretended that all that had registered with her had been the shabbiness of his clothing. And the old man saw all and heard all and did not regret that he himself was not, nay, had never been, as young, as handsome, as strong as that. The young man had a companion with him, and he lifted back the hood of the combination to reveal an old woman of perhaps sixty years of age, wearing a bright-green jumper and scarlet skirt, with black plaited hair falling around her shoulder, and a shining fringe of hair on her forehead, and gold earrings in her ears. She sprang up and out, and stood looking at them with her very dark eyes. She appeared to be a Gypsy; that was the only word they could apply to her, and of course they were right. She was not, however, a travelling Gypsy, her own mother having left the wandering life when she was born. The assortment of people waiting together did not disconcert her in the least. It all seemed very unsuspicious. There was nothing amiss, she was not frightened, but she did notice the frightened faces of some of the others. Mrs. Mortimer looked far from happy; Sophia Smith was rather out of countenance, and stood with one hip thrust right out, sulking slightly; and Mr. Hartington-Smythe was looking, but not directly, at the Gypsy lady. He did not think he wished to be introduced to her at all.

The young man came round to her side.

“Now, then, Ma, here’s your bag. I reckon this is our destination, eh?”

“Yes, lad, I reckon,” said the gaudy old thing, grinning at him with good teeth, one of which was covered with gold.

“Well, folks, my name’s Obadiah Crutch and if anybody laughs at that, I’ll thump ’em, see?”

It was clear that Obadiah did not mean it literally, that he would thump whoever laughed at his name, but it was abundantly clear that at the same time he did not wish for anyone to laugh. He had had enough of that before in his life. On this day he did not wish for more laughter; he just thought he would make it known. Sophia felt a little bit frightened in case he should carry out his threat. He did not look as if he carried a razor, but you never knew. She had had a boy friend once who had carried a razor, and that had been a narrow squeak. She had called his mother a wet old bag, and he had threatened to carve her face into a pattern that would match the art nouveau sideboard at the flat in which he lived with his mother, but his mother had protested that it would stain the carpet. He had thrown her downstairs instead, and she had escaped almost unharmed. So she felt afraid of this kind of man, although at the same time she felt sure that he was harmless and nice. She wondered if the old woman was his mother, and she did not have to wonder for long.

“This ’ere’s Martha,” said the young man. “I just gave ’er a lift and she’s coming on the trip with us. It was a bit of luck my meeting her like I did, wasn’t it Martha?”

“It was, lad, it was.” Martha smiled ecstatically and looked round the company, one after another, and when she looked at Mrs. Mortimer she burst out laughing, but controlled it in a clever way so that none of the company noticed what had occurred. Her laugh turned into a statement of fact about the entire situation:

“Well, it looks to me as if we are the victims of a hoax, my dears, and we can say goodbye to our cash.”

All of them began to talk and fuss after that definite statement from this new member of the party, all knowing that, as far as could be proved, it was a correct statement, and that they were tricked, and yet all hoping for some clever way out of the trouble, for something to happen, for someone else, official, to arrive. It was Mr. Hartington-Smythe who changed the entire tone of the meeting by coming out of the gentlemen’s room. No one had seen him go in there, but doubtless old men are practised at slipping into such places unseen; they go more often and do not wish to attract attention, and when they come out they usually try to manage it in the same way, but on this occasion, it was different. On his return, Mr. Hartington-Smythe walked carefully, leading by the hand a boy of about seven years old, with long, fair hair, a sweet face, a grey flannel suit, a white shirt, and a. . .