Foul Ball

  ‘Turning the camera to the decoy,’ said Pranzilla, and the viewpoint began to move, picking up at first nothing but blackness interspersed with flecks of distant light, but, as it reached the end of its arc, Cormack could see the decoy trailing from the transporter on its thread like the float on the end of a fishing line strung from a boat.

  ‘Very good!’ said Proton. ‘Convincing, isn’t it, Cormack? Now let’s begin the cloaking procedure.’

  ‘Captain says start the cloaking procedure,’ said Pranzilla.

  The senior Guard went back to the hold with his crew of five and returned, with what to Cormack looked like a handful of black bin liners.

  ‘We’re going to start at the front,’ he said to Proton, pointing towards the prow.

  The Guards put on hefty looking spacesuits and moved to the side of the cockpit where there was a small door that led to an airlock. Proton wished them well. Then they went through the door and into the chamber and it was locked and sealed tight.

  Then he went back to the scanner and started thrumming his fingers on the armrests of his chair, impatiently waiting for news.

  ‘How are they doing?’ he said, when he could bear it no longer, and Pranzilla swung the camera round from the model so that it pointed towards the front of the transporter ship.

  Cormack could see two of the Guards straddled across the front of the ship, fitting the bin liners over the ship’s white panels. They had already finished the bit at the top over the nose cone.

  ‘Goodness, they’re slow,’ said Proton.

  It all seemed very lo-tech to Cormack, but Proton was reassuring.

  ‘Sometimes you can out-smart yourself, Cormack. Don’t worry – special material. Very clever stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ve been planning this operation ever since I heard about you. There’s more complexity in it than you can imagine. For instance, between you and me, the model has seventeen moving parts…’

  Cormack sneaked a look at Proton’s scanner, and saw that the blob that represented the Emperor’s battle-cruiser was getting very close to the centre of the screen.

  At last there was a signal from Pranzilla and the airlock door was opened and the Guards came back in.

  ‘Slight problem, Captain,’ said the most senior.

  ‘What?’ said Proton.

  ‘Ran out of material on top.’

  ‘Oh gosh!’

  ‘There’s a panel we haven’t covered. We need some extras.’

  ‘There aren’t any more in the hold?’

  ‘Not when we checked. We could look again.’

  ‘Yes, do that. Look again.’

  But there were none to be found.

  ‘Could we use the cow?’ asked Proton.

  ‘For heaven's sake,’ said Cormack.

  ‘She’s leathery. She’s mostly black. I think she might work very well.’

  ‘We could paint the spots, Captain,’ said the Guard.

  The cow was glad to be out of the hold, which was very cold, and didn’t mind the paint at all.

  ‘You’re tickling me!’ she said to the Guard with the paintbrush.

  They gave her a helmet to put on her head and she was led on a leash to the airlock, giggling at her reflection in the mirror glass at the top of the door.

  When she was outside, Pranzilla moved the camera to observe her. They could see she was comfortably settled, secured on the fusillade with magnetic straps, and she gave Cormack a little wave with a hoof.

  Proton sat staring at the scanner with a look of deep concern on his face.

  ‘Battle-cruiser imminent. There going to have a lock on any moment.’

  ‘We’re getting signals from them, Captain,’ said Pranzilla.

  ‘Let me hear them.’

  Across the speaker system came a tinny voice.

  ‘Praetorian Guard and all aboard the Zargonic Transporter!’ it said. ‘Surrender immediately! Return the McFadden Creature! It is your Emperor’s command!’

  ‘Ignore them for now,’ said Proton.

  ‘Praetorian Guard!’ continued the voice. ‘We have orders from the Emperor to destroy you and your craft if you do not surrender immediately!’

  ‘I think they’ve got a lock on, Captain,’ said Pranzilla, and she flicked at the dial that turned the little camera on top of the ship. It was facing backwards towards the bow, and Cormack could see on the large screen ahead the toy spaceship still pulled by the thread attached to the transporter.

  ‘OK, cut the wire!’ said Proton, and the thread came away and the toy tumbled from the camera.

  ‘They definitely have a lock on,’ said Pranzilla, ‘but it’s too early to say if it’s on the transporter or the decoy.’

  ‘Time will tell! Time will tell!’ said Proton.

  There followed a nervous few minutes as Proton led the crew through a series of rapid turns and accelerations - the effect that they might be having on the cow, strapped to the outer casing, Cormack found hard to imagine – until at last they levelled off and Proton signalled that they should maintain a steady course, full speed ahead.

  ‘Praetorian Guard – your time is up!’ boomed the voice from the speaker system. ‘We have full lock on the transporter. We will be firing on you in five, four, three…’

  ‘You know, now that Cormack’s mentioned it, I wonder if bin liners really are effective as a cloaking device for a transporter vessel in outer space…’ said Proton.

  ‘…two, one,’ came the voice from the speaker system, and Cormack and Proton and the crew braced themselves for the explosion that would blast them into nothingness.

  ‘Detonation, three hundred clicks to our south,’ said Pranzilla. ‘They hit the decoy!’

  ‘Yeah!’ screamed Proton. ‘They took the bait! My regards to the cow, Cormack!’

  ‘Rather tame,’ came the voice over the speaker system, still broadcasting. ‘Thought it would make a bigger bang than that.’

  When they got the cow back inside the cabin, she was dizzy from the cold, and was panting and delirious, but they all congratulated her on a job well done, and let her sleep that night in the warm galley, feeding her straw as she lay spread-eagled on the floor.

  ***

  ‘Got them, Sire!’ said the hive-mind to the Emperor.

  ‘You have the McFadden creature?’ said the Emperor.

  ‘No, Sire. We had to destroy the transporter – they wouldn’t surrender.’

  ‘Bugger it!’

  ‘It was the wisest course of action.’

  ‘But bugger it all the same!’

  ‘It seems you were right though. They were headed directly for Foul Ball.’

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  There were half a dozen other vessels in the spaceport on Foul Ball - a motley collection of cruisers and caravan ships that stood together on a large landing strip a few miles outside of the capital city, Bartislard.

  Cormack was talking to a couple who had just disembarked. He thought they had said they were from the Outer Hebrides but he might have been mistaken.

  ‘The planet seems surprisingly popular,’ he said, reviewing the crowds. They were dressed in hiking gear, wearing sunglasses and carrying backpacks and what might have been climbing equipment. ‘I wasn’t expecting much, going by the name.’

  ‘It’s become a Mecca for extreme sports enthusiasts,’ said the man, who introduced himself as Frank. ‘It’s a back to nature kind of thing. They don’t even allow a uniSwarm connection on Foul Ball.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They block everyone’s duct. They like to think they’re fabulously remote here. There’s a kind of snobbism about it. Wonderful wildlife though. That’s the real draw.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Extreme. Like the sports,’ he said enthusiastically.

  He was helping his wife put together aluminium tubes and fabric sheeting into a kind of tent-like arrangement.

  ‘In fact, we’re planning to glide into Bartislard ourselves,’ he said, and Co
rmack could see now that what he was working on was the beginnings of a hang-glider. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to join us? It would be a fun start to the vacation. Get you in the mood for more action when you get into town.’

  ‘Rather not,’ said Cormack.

  Proton was busy organizing what would be his transportation to Bartislard.

  ‘Cormack,’ he said. ‘Meet Stanton Bosch.’

  ‘Pleased to be meeting you,’ said Stanton Bosch and extended a sinewy arm. He was an old man, his face wrinkled like a prune, but his arms and torso were unexpectedly muscled and brown, as though he had worked all of his life outdoors at hard manual labour and his body had reacted thus far magnificently, toning and conditioning him like a carthorse, but the state of his face suggested that it would express its disgust soon enough by felling him with a coronary. He sported a bandana and denim dungarees that were torn in parts and patched in others.

  ‘Welcome to Foul Ball,’ he said.

  ‘Lovely planet you have here,’ said Cormack, more to be polite than because he believed it. The insects were getting to him - vast squads of midges, buzzing in clouds over his head.

  ‘Well, it ain't so lovely for us who got to live on it and that’s the truth,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘But you make the most of your time here. The Captain been explaining to me your purpose and I is always be the first to wish all the Candidates the best of luck. So good luck to you too, skinny man.’

  ‘Stanton Bosch here has agreed to take us all to Bartislard in his floating tuk-tuks,’ said Proton.

  ‘Tis what the tourists does like the best,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me and me brothers will look after you.’

  His brothers were introduced as Hilton, Cheney, Dexter, Beenie and Tram, and they were lined up to shake hands. They were all of a piece, wizened and muscled like the old man himself.

  ‘There’s a couple over there that are planning to hang-glide into town,’ said Cormack to Stanton Bosch after the introductions, pointing at the couple from the Outer Hebrides.

  ‘Holy crap, I hope not!’ he said. ‘I hopes you’re joking! But surely these tourists does know how to horrify your soul!’

  Cormack and the cow were led to the first floating tuk-tuk, Stanton Bosch’s own, which was tied with the others a little way from the landing strip, bobbing in the water near a broken pier. It sat low in the river, and was decorated with all kinds of flowery paintings and transparencies depicting what might have been the local wildlife – things that looked like Tasmanian devils, and primitive tigers, lizards with fiery forked tongues, and a great brown bear with cruciform tusks. The tuk-tuk was lit with blue neon strips that had been tied imperfectly round the bow and stern, and large on the prow, stencilled by an uncultured hand, was its name – the Antibiotic.

  ‘Just me little joke,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘On account of the water-borne diseases that emanate from the Leech.’

  He helped them aboard, lifting the cow chivalrously to her place near the wheel, and offered them careful advice: ‘Now you all be watchful, me lovelies. This planet is beautiful, surely she is beautiful, but that beauty hides a wiciousness. We don’t want no accidents, do we? We all must be wery, wery careful. Especially on your first day. I had an accident meself, me first day here…’ he added quietly and went to start the outboard.

  ‘There’s something strange about this place,’ said Cormack to the cow.

  ‘You does be so good to me, Cormack. You mind if I does sit towards the edge, only it’s hard on me udders in the middle, innit.’

  The cow pushed over Cormack to the side of the boat.

  ‘Don’t you be putting your hoof in the water now, me dear!’ said the old man. ‘Not on your first day! Did that with me hand on me first day. And you, sir! Not too close to the outboard! Does burn when it’s hot and the blades does cut wery brutal and we don’t want no accidents on the first day, do we now? Not on the first day…’

  The tuk-tuk was started with an effort, and Stanton Bosch steered a straight course down the centre of the Leech. Cormack estimated it might be a mile wide, deep and brown, like it was churning sediment and ripe with mud.

  There was dense vegetation on both banks. Ancient trees draped vines and creepers into the water, and Cormack could see flocks of gaily coloured birds, big as vultures, perched high in their branches. All the while, coming from the forest, were strange animal calls, baboons perhaps, thought Cormack, although he could see nothing through the foliage. Occasionally, a tree would shake violently, and then another next to it, and there would be a commotion of grunts and whoops and shrieks, as though that part of the forest had come alive, and then the sounds would die again to the solitary whoops, the baboons, thought Cormack hopefully, that were watching them pass from their tidy nests in the trees.

  He moved to the back of the tuk-tuk, and leaned over a little to watch the wake that frothed like bubbled rails behind them.

  The Guards were following closely. He counted six more floating tuk-tuks, with Proton in the first, perched on the bow, laser gun ready and pointed at Cormack. He gave him a cheery wave and Proton responded with a grin.

  Far in the distance, back towards the landing ground, he could see two small objects in the sky like kites, slowly moving towards them. It must be the couple from the Outer Hebrides, gliding to town, he thought.

  ‘Not so close to the water, skinny man,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Keep your hands far from the water.’

  ‘Do you see my friends?’ said Cormack, pointing at the sky.

  ‘Holy crap!’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s the hang-gliders.’

  ‘Oh, my good Lord!’

  The hang-gliders were picking up speed and coming in fast, but they seemed to have lost a thermal because they were losing height at the same time.

  As they got closer, Stanton Bosch announced, ‘We should take avoiding action,’ and he signalled to the other tuk-tuks with a motion of his arm that they were to follow him to the farther bank.

  It became apparent that the couple were having difficulties. They were yawing from side to side and working the control bars left to right, searching for the gusts that would take them higher. But every time they caught a flurry that raised them a few feet, there followed a downdraft that undid whatever small gain they had made, and pushed them down a few feet further for good measure. Their difficulties seemed extended to the steering, because now one of them, the woman, was headed for the branches of a tree on the farthest bank.

  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ cried Stanton Bosch. ‘Don’t let her land in a tree! For mercy’s sake! Let her die in the river!’

  ‘Die in the river?’ said Cormack.

  ‘Aye! Twould be quicker!’

  She had lost control totally now and was going to crash-land somewhere near the bank.

  Her partner had fought the crosswinds manfully and had managed to steer himself right next to her, but it was a futile manoeuvre because there was nothing he could do to save her, and he was in fact imperilling himself. She made one last desperate turn, missed the low overhanging branch of a giant mahogany tree by a whisker, and was down in the water with a splash. The man couldn’t circle any longer either and he came down too, at speed, as his wing strut collapsed under the pressure of a turn made too tight. He landed in the water right besides her.

  As soon as they were in the river, before they even had time to call out to each other, there was a great bubbling and frothing beneath them, as though they were hot as pokers and had set the water boiling, and in amongst the bubbles Cormack could see glints of silver flashing all around.

  ‘The fish!’ cried Stanton Bosch. ‘Watch the little natterjackers go!’

  They were flying on them now, leaping from the water to get at them, until they were armoured with a living sheen, covered with two great writhing balls of fish that rose six feet from the water.

  Then, as soon it had started, it was over and the fish were gone, sunk back into the river and washed away in its mur
kiness, leaving no trace of the delightful couple from the Outer Hebrides. Only the metal frames of the hand-gliders remained, bobbing on the water.

  ‘Theys don’t even leave any bones, see, them natterjackers,’ said Stanton Bosch, and the cow vomited over the side of the tuk-tuk, and he had to call to her loudly, ‘Careful with that vomit, cow! That there’s a ladder for them fish! They’ll swim right up it and into your frothy mouth, they will!’

  But the cow couldn’t stop, and she couldn’t find a bucket, so she filled a corner of the tuk-tuk nearest the outboard housing with a puddle of her grey puke.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  On the great lawn, Mrs. Bellingham was making a hole, planting crocuses.

  The grounds of Blowers, her country estate on the planet Crampton, were neither tropical, nor temperate, nor tamed, nor fully wild.

  From Earth five centuries before, her ancestors had brought camellias, dandelions, hollyhocks and bluebells, that they had put in the shaded beds nearest the house; banana plants and frangipani were laid out on the escarpment to the north, which was warmed by a tropical breeze that blew in from the west; and paw-paws and mangoes were placed in an orchard near the south-facing wall, because the planet’s third sun would rise and catch them there twice a day. They had planted spreading groves of coconuts and banyans and plantains in the shade to the east; and daisies and lavenders and herbs of all descriptions had filled a plot that they had carefully marked out in the western remote, and had spread unexpectedly to a rose garden that flourished in a wet hollow near the ornamental lake; and there were thistles and burlaps and brambles and vines and creepers and cow-itch, growing all in between. All had flourished on this strange world.

  ‘You must push them in a little deeper, Madam,’ said Traction, the old gardener, who was standing nearby. He was some seventy years old, dressed in dirty flannels and black wellingtons with a tweed cloth cap on his head. He had sideburns, roughly configured, and a small moustache that was mostly grey but flecked black in places. He wore large gardening gloves and smelled of burdock.

  The Committee wanted her back in the house and he was the bearer of the message.

  She rose from her knees with a sigh and staggered about a bit and held a hand to her lower back and grimaced.