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  David Fletcher

  First published in Great Britain in 2006

  The Trouser Press Press

  PO Box 12085

  Redditch B96 6WP

  Copyright 2006 by David Fletcher

  The right of David Fletcher to be identified

  as the author of this work has been asserted

  by him in accordance with Section 77 of the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 2000

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the

  British Library

  ISBN 0-9548398-3-8

  All rights reserved to The Trouser Press Press

  For Sue

  *

  Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  60.

  61.

  62.

  63.

  64.

  65.

  66.

  67.

  68.

  69.

  70.

  71.

  72.

  73.

  74.

  75.

  76.

  77.

  78.

  79.

  1.

  Renton had never, in his life, painted a woman. Never had he unscrewed a pot of “Champagne Glitter”, (slightly warmed in accordance with the maker's instructions), dipped his brush into it, and then set about the skin of a nubile young lady with its charged bristled tip. And as for the skin of a nubile young gentleman, forget it. That just wasn't his style. And this total lack of experience in the arena of corporeal colouring, despite the demands of his new career, was why he was now beginning to feel just a little bit uncomfortable.

  If only he had made an effort. After all, there had been a number of opportunities - with young ladies, that is. OK, not many maybe. In fact, no more than three actually. But over the past fifteen years there had been that trio of women with whom he could have broached the subject and who might well have been willing.

  Emma, for example. She of the painted toenails. Or Risa. She'd had a tattoo. Of a starburst. On her stomach. And although, on the rare occasions Renton had seen it, it had put him in mind more of a splat than a burst, it had, in all probability, meant that she'd have been that way inclined. And then, of course, there was Olivia, who would do virtually anything to avoid the sex act itself…

  But now it was too late. In less than two hours he'd be landing in Ranamavana. And in less than twenty-four hours after that he'd be confronted with the world of body-paint, and the need to convey the confidence of a body-paint expert - when the reality was the very opposite: he was a body-paint virgin - who had yet to unscrew his first pot. And what's more, he just knew it would show…

  But this was hopeless. If he went on thinking like this, that “feeling a little bit uncomfortable” would soon graduate with a double first in “feeling completely despondent”. And he couldn't let that happen. Not now. Not at this critical stage in his new life. So he had to act. He had to do something. He had to give himself a pep-talk. Yes, that was it. Bring in a little of that famous Renton Tenting rationalisation. And in that way, contain the concerns. It had worked in the past, so why not again?

  So 'Come on,' he said to himself. 'This is ridiculous. Just think about it. If you were buying paint for a spaceship say, they wouldn't expect you to be the guy who actually sprayed the stuff on. You'd be the technical guy, the guy with the knowledge, not the guy with the skills. And it's the same with body-paint. Nobody's going to expect you to be a full-time skin-tinter yourself. And the fact that you don't know how to do it, or even where to do it… well, it just won't be an issue.'

  It was working. He began to nod in agreement with his thoughts. This simple bit of reassurance was beginning to do the trick. And if he followed this theme for just a little bit longer he'd be there. So he picked up on the “won't be an issue” point, and let his mind carry on. And it did. But not in quite the right direction…

  'No, but what will be an issue,' it continued, 'is what's been an issue from the day you were born, that self same issue that's buggered up your life for the last thirty years. And what I mean, of course, is that absence in your genetic makeup of anything that might be mistaken for a bit of honest to goodness confidence. Nowhere in that double helix is there even a hint of it, is there? And no self-assurance either… which is why, Mr Tenting, you've had such a miserable record with women. Hell, three relationships in fifteen years, three expeditions into the lands of carnal experience, and you're now over thirty. You should be ashamed of yourself.'

  Renton was taken aback. He tried to defend himself from this sudden onslaught from himself, but his delivery was less than convincing. And it certainly lacked confidence: 'Yes, but I am trying, aren't I? I wouldn't be here doing what I'm doing if I wasn't.'

  It was no good. Renton's inner conscience came back at him harder than ever.

  'Oh great! Well, that's all fine and dandy then, isn't it? That's all just bloody wonderful… But tell me. How exactly is buying a consignment of body-paint going to bridge that hiatus in your gene code and improve your success with woman - if indeed your amassing short-lived relationships with members of the opposite sex at the rate of one every five years could even be regarded as any kind of success in the first place…?

  'I mean, you're hopeless, aren't you? And if you don't believe me, just take a look at that woman. Yes, that woman who you've been sitting next to for the past five hours. And OK, she's not the hottest thing on this spacecraft, but she's by no means the pits. And what have you done - with this woman who's been just inches away from you for all that time? Well, I'll tell you: nothing. That's what you've done: nothing. Other than a glance in her direction when she sat down five hours ago, you've made no attempt to communicate with her whatsoever. So you know nothing about her. You don't know whether she's married or unattached, or whether she might be interested in you or actually attracted to you - or whether she's gagging for it… And you've made no attempt to charm her or impress her or flatter her… or seduce her - when any red-blooded thirty-one year old with even an ounce of confidence would be in there like a shot. You know. A little of the: 'Is this your first time to Ranamavana?' and 'What are you planning to do there?', moving quickly onto the: 'Your nose is absolutely exquisite, you know.' and the: 'I wish we had more time to get to know each other.' And if it was beginning to look promising, a touch of the: 'You make me feel really horny.' and 'You know, I'd just love to get hold of those breasts'.'

  'What did you say!? What did you just say!?'


  It was the woman who had been Renton's ignored travelling companion for the last five hours, and the woman who had now brought Renton's self-admonishment to an immediate and abrupt halt. And she'd done this because the last delivery of this rather self-indulgent self-admonishment had strayed into the realms of the audible. And all due to that blasted hyperspace…

  Renton knew all about this. How, most people, when they're subjected to hypertravel through space, suffer no ill effects whatsoever. And how a few suffer minor but socially acceptable effects such as sneezing or teeth-chattering. And how fewer still suffer more serious effects - such as “thought vocalisation” i.e., the involuntary translation into spoken words of one's most private and intimate thoughts. It was commonly known as “blurting”. And Renton knew about this particular affliction very well. For in his youth he had been visited by it himself. And for a time he had been obliged to abandon hypertravel entirely. After all, thought vocalisation was potentially intensely embarrassing at the best of times. But during puberty, it was a racing bloody cert. And then, as a young man, he'd been obliged to invest in a private pilot's course and a battered old monoflight, so he could hyper in blessed solitude and just talk to himself…

  But then he'd got over it. The blurting attacks had simply stopped. However, based on the evidence of Renton's recent outburst, it appeared they could return. And they had returned. And had landed him in this most unwelcome of predicaments.

  The woman was glaring at him. And in that glare there was a demand - for an explanation or an apology, or for some sort of penance. But Renton couldn't see it. He was still thinking - not yet about the return of his blurting, but still about her breasts.

  'God, I'm not even interested in your breasts. I mean, they're not exactly prominent, are they? In fact, far from it…'

  And what he thought, he also said. He was still very much in blurting mode.

  'How dare you?' screamed the woman. 'How dare you be so rude?'

  Renton now tried to speak. He tried to explain. He tried to respond to those glaring eyes. But he was still thinking and still expressing in words precisely what he thought. So when he did speak it was: 'and with that blouse you're wearing, it's pretty difficult to see that you've got any breasts anyway. Oh, and that blouse does nothing for you, you know. Neither does your make-up. You've put it on far too thickly. And all it does is make you look rather ridiculous…'

  And that's when the woman slapped him. And when he came out of blurting.

  And then the stewardess arrived.

  Fortunately for Renton, it was a stewardess who had witnessed a number of such instances of blurting in the past, and not only did she believe Renton's explanation of his errant behaviour, but she was also able to convince the offended woman that Renton was as much a victim as she was herself. However, this happy state of affairs was not achieved before Renton had secured the attention of the entire passenger complement of the spacecraft and several more minutes of purgatorial embarrassment. Nor did it mean that the woman would accept his company for what remained of the space flight. Which was why, when Flight MD051 from Omoria finally arrived in Ranamavana, Renton was on his own at the back of the economy cabin with a new place to sit - and a new set of woes.

  How, he thought, was he ever going to cope with the return of this dreadful affliction? How was he ever going to board a spaceship again, full as they were with women with breasts and with bad make-up? And that meant how, in the name of Norma, was he ever going to get home? Oh, and how was he going to be able to concentrate on the job in hand - this paint buying business?

  Well, he had no idea. Or, to put that another way, he had about as much idea as he did about how to paint women.

  (And yes, “paint” includes “touch up” as well.)

  2.

  There wasn't even an announcement, not so much as a 'ladies and gentlemen, please don't be alarmed. We do know what we're doing.' But when Renton's space-bus arrived at Ranamavana's spaceport, it was towards the freighter bay that it taxied and not the bus bay - where all passenger craft normally discharged their passenger-type cargo. This wasn't just unconventional, this was unheard of. Space-buses docked in the bus bay and freighters docked in the freighter bay. It was an arrangement that was not only neat and tidy, but also easy for the pilots to remember. And whenever Renton had visited this place before that was the arrangement he'd encountered. But not so today.

  Under different circumstances - like if he'd been born with any of that damn self-confidence he'd so plainly not been born with - Renton would have asked one of the attendants for an explanation. But he didn't. And anyway, he'd already become distracted with the view of the freighter bay outside his window, a slice of space-terminal life that, up to now, he'd been denied…

  The bay, he thought, was like the inside of a colossal cake-tin, a rather flattened colossal cake-tin, but definitely colossal and definitely a cake-tin.

  Uhm… but there again, as regards the cake-tin bit…well, maybe not quite so definitely. And certainly not quite so definitely when he began to register its various features, some of which were indisputably entirely un-cake-tin-like in their nature. Like the big hole in one side of it, through which the spacecraft entered and left it, but which, at the same time, would have rather invalidated the cake-keeping credentials of a genuine cake-tin - really quite fundamentally. And there was more. For around its inner circumference there were docking lugs, not normally found in any sort of container for cake-type confectioneries, but essential in a real freighter dock to secure any vessel of any size and any specification to its huge inner walls. Oh, and then there were the umbilical connectors, providing access from the vessels to the roof of the bay for personnel, with larger umbilicals acting as conveyors for goods to and below the floor of the bay. So, Renton had to concede to himself that it wasn't much like the inside of a colossal cake-tin at all really - except maybe in its shape… And he also had to concede that no cake-tin, of whatever dimensions, would ever be filled with giant freighters.

  But he didn't really care. Because he was past cake-tins now, and into the world of these giant freighters. And they were proving to be quite a distraction…

  He had, of course, seen these sorts of vessels before. He had even seen them being built, when it was very easy to appreciate just how huge they were. But never before had he seen so many in such close proximity, nor had he ever seen the measured movement essential to their docking and delugging.

  At any time there was at least one freighter entering or leaving the bay. It was like watching an entire block of a city sliding slowly past its neighbours, a re-arrangement of the town planning on a grand scale.

  Renton became enthralled. He found himself holding his breath as a particularly enormous tanker-freighter edged itself towards a lug, which was surely too fragile to hold it…. But when the freighter kissed the lug it became motionless - instantly - and Renton could breathe once again.

  This diversion went on for quite some time, until eventually Renton was beginning to tire of it. But then his attention was caught by a new sight. It was another freighter, and it was just entering the bay. But it was like none of the others. It was brilliant - literally. It gleamed red and silver. It shone and it sparkled. It reminded Renton of his visit to a freighter constructor on Omoria. There, he had been impressed by the pristine finish on a product, whose external appearance would soon be reduced to the ubiquitous dullness of nearly all spacecraft - by space flight itself. This chap, he thought, must be nearly brand new. It must just have flown in from some nearby constructor's yard. Although its design didn't announce its newness, its paint finish certainly did.

  The huge craft glided noiselessly towards its chosen docking position. From Renton's viewpoint it was gradually eclipsing the lower half of a “White Line” long haul freighter (this one, obviously operated by the “Grubby, Off-White Line” division of the group). In profile and in contrast to the not-so white of the larger vessel behind, the red and silver spaceship looked especial
ly stunning.

  Renton then saw or thought he saw that the red and silver freighter shuddered. For two or three seconds it lost its confidence and shivered. It then continued its glide as though nothing had happened, and within another thirty seconds it was firmly anchored to its lug.

  Renton knew spacecraft didn't shudder. He reasoned that it was pretty unlikely that any constructor would develop, as a sales winning feature of his latest model, a shudder option. Logic told him that it was Renton who had shuddered - or shivered, an entirely understandable phenomenon given his recent unsettling experience and its implications for the future. Even so, it really did look as though that thing had behaved impossibly…

  'Welcome to Ranamavana. The local time is 11.35. Thank you for choosing to hyper with Diabalo Spaceways. We hope you've had a pleasant flight, and we look forward to welcoming you back on board again.'

  Renton's spacecraft had now docked (although he hadn't even been aware of this happening) and its passenger complement was now being invited to remove itself forthwith, but still with no explanation for the unconventional manner of its arrival - even though there was one, a very simple one. Diabalo Spaceways was nearly bust. And until it paid its overdue landing fees at Ranamavana, or until it went pop completely, it was being obliged to use the far cheaper freighter facilities at the spaceport. And this isn't the sort of information you'd want to broadcast to your fare-paying passengers, especially those of them who held a return ticket, even those of them who, at the moment, doubted very much whether they'd ever be able to use it.

  Well, freighter docking may have distracted Renton for a time, but now he was to disembark, the blight of the blurt and the prospect of being stranded on this planet indefinitely reasserted itself in his mind. Suddenly and forcefully.

  It was like being hit in the face with a cake-tin.

  3.

  Ranamavana was the commercial capital of Ioda, one of the larger and generally flatter countries on the otherwise rather lumpy planet of Corcul. And frankly, it didn't have a great deal going for it. It was the commercial capital because it was the country's industrial capital, and it excelled only in the ordinary. It was bland and it lacked even the personality of the provincial. And some of it was little better than seedy. But it did have a very fine spaceport.