The Disestablishment of Paradise (13 page)

‘I hate to interrupt a party . . .’ It was Captain Abhuradin. She had freshened herself up and brushed her hair and now stood holding a tray with beakers and a full jug of fresh
coffee. ‘But would anyone like a coffee?’

They would. They did.

And it was while they were having coffee that Mack suddenly slapped his leg and pointed at Hera. ‘I know who you are. You’re that Captain Melhuish. You’re that lady that had
the chair thrown at her by that mad bugger with the funny hat. Remember him, lads? The one who set fire to his house before he’d removed the furniture. We had to belt him one to stop him
trying to get back in.’ They all nodded, still grinning. ‘Well if we’d met you first, I’d have belted him twice. Pleased to meet you, Captain. I’m Mack and these are a
few of my team.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Hera. ‘But I’m not Captain Melhuish. I am, if you have to use titles, Doctor Melhuish.’

‘Yep, that’s right. Doc Melhuish. Sorry. Hey, we met coming down on the shuttle. Briefly. If you remember.’

‘I don’t remember. And it is not
Duck
Melhuish,’ said Hera, exaggerating Mack’s pronunciation. ‘It is
D
oc Melhuish. Open the vowel,
man.’

‘Yes, Doc. Whatever you say.’

Hera looked at Abhuradin and that lady coughed and looked into her coffee.

‘You feeling OK now, Doc?’ asked Mack.

‘Yes, fine.’

‘Well, seeing as we’re not going to do any demolition . . . That is correct, Captain Abhuradin?’ She nodded. ‘Then is there anything we can do to help? We know how to
build things as well as knock ’em down. So if there’s anything needs fixing – doors, windows, roof laminates – just let us know.’

There
were
things needed doing. The Tattersall weed needed to be chopped back in the garden. Close to the shilo the irrigation system was blocked where plants had grown into it, and the
dome-house laminate was torn. Hinges needed greasing, the twin doors to the auto-hangar needed to be rehung after a minor crash and the small boat Hera used on the lake was overdue for a good
clean-up and service. This was the kind of maintenance which had to be undertaken all the time on Paradise. Left for a week, the vegetation moved in and took over.

‘No worries, Doc. But then we’d better get back to base, eh Captain? It’ll take us a good ten or twelve hours to get to New Syracuse at the speed we move, and then we have that
museum to clear.’

‘What museum?’ asked Hera.

Mack consulted his notes. ‘Sorry, I’ve left my glasses in the flyer.’

He held his notes up for the man called Dickinson to read, who glanced at it casually and said, ‘It says, “The ORBE collection of bio-form memorabilia”.’

‘Yes,’ said Hera. ‘I know it. The Shapiro Collection. Quite valuable in its way.’

Mack took back his notes. ‘It’s to be crated up and shipped to Mars. That sound about right?’

‘Yes. I shall want to have a hand in the packing of that.’

‘No worries. We’ll be starting there in three or four days. I can give you a call if you like?’ Hera nodded. ‘OK, lads, on your feet. We’ve got some maintenance to
do.’

The men were up immediately, glad to be doing something. They thanked Abhuradin for the coffee, putting the mugs down carefully on the tray and grinning. They were obviously on their best
behaviour and showing off a bit for the ladies. While one of them took the tray inside the shilo to wash the mugs, Mack divided the rest into teams and before long the small enclosure was filled
with the sound of whistling, hammering and the occasional stifled curse.

The two women were left alone, and for a while they said nothing. Neither knew quite what to say. Relations between Hera and Captain Abhuradin had never been easy. And yet . . . different as the
two women were in almost every way, a grudging respect had grown between them. There was a lot to say. It was starting that was hard.

Down at the je y one of the demolition workers broke into song. He had a passable tenor voice and the song was Italian and floated on the air. It eased the atmosphere between the two women.
‘Nice men,’ said Abhuradin finally. ‘Quite different to the ones I have to deal with. Little men with long lists. That’s why I decided to get away for a few hours and bring
you the SAS.’

‘I’m glad. I’ve . . .’ Hera hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘Thank you for your letter. It helped. I’m sorry for the way I spoke before. I think I
was out of my mind.’

Abhuradin smiled, but it was a tired look. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to bear any grudges. None of us wanted this. We were both outmanoeuvred.’ The two
women lapsed into silence again, but it was obvious that something was preying on Abhuradin’s mind. Finally she said, ‘There is something I need to ask you. It is a bit
personal.’

‘Ask what you like; I’ve not many secrets left.’

‘How did you arrange to get permission to stay down here?’

‘I didn’t. I asked in a letter and it was agreed to. Some fellow called Vollens . . .’

‘There is no one called Vollens at Central. I checked. Do you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think this is all totally unofficial. The Disestablishment marshal doesn’t know about you.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘No. It’s none of my business. I have the authorization. As far as I’m concerned you are here with the Space Council’s blessing.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you are going to have to make me one promise, Hera.’

‘What promise?’

‘OK, listen. When the evacuation is complete, you’ll have about three months alone down here, give or take a few days, while we get rid of all the stuff tethered in space. I’ll
be staying until the end. And then, when everything is closed down, my final job is to open the platform to space before I leave. But before I do, I will send one last shuttle down to the surface.
For you. I’ll give you plenty of warning, but you have to promise me that you’ll be there to meet it. Promise me that. Promise you’ll be waiting there, at the old shuttle port,
when the shuttle arrives, and that you will climb aboard and join the rest of us. Because if you are not aboard, and the fractal ship has to leave without you, then I will never forgive you, Hera.
Never. Have I made myself clear?’

Hera seemed to hesitate. For a moment Abhuradin thought she was going to break down, but then Hera rallied. She thought briefly of Dame Hilda, who had made a similar stipulation, and she said,
‘OK. I promise. No games. No going bush. No silly things. I’ll be there.’

Abhuradin let out a sigh of relief. ‘OK.’

There was an embarrassed moment between them, until they shook hands like men that had brokered a deal. But then, feeling that to be inadequate, they leant forward and pressed their cheeks
against one another, and were still for a moment. Only then did they smile properly.

‘So,’ said Hera. ‘Enough about me. What about your plans, Inez?’

‘Oh. I take each day as it comes. It’s a madhouse up there. You wouldn’t believe—’

‘I meant about getting married,’ said Hera quietly. ‘Is it all still on track?’

Abhuradin coloured slightly, caught off guard. ‘Oh, that. Yes. All is well. I hardly dare think about it . . . and no one else knows, Hera. So not a word. OK?’ Hera nodded. ‘It
will be a new life for both of us. We try to talk for a few moments every other day. It keeps me going.’

‘What’s he like, your man? What does he do? Is he in the service too?’

‘Hell no! He’s an artist, a painter. Or at least, he wants to be. We met two years ago, in Peru. I was on leave and . . . well, we got talking, and I saw some of his paintings . . .
I don’t know how these things happen, Hera! We . . . Well, we fell in love. That’s all. We were both surprised. But it is real, Hera.’ Abhuradin smiled, and Hera could see her
happiness. It was there in her face, in her eyes and in the way she held her body. She was a different, softer Abhuradin, quite unlike the strong-willed and somewhat glacial presence she presented
when on duty. ‘At present he makes a living designing wallpaper, would you believe? But soon. When all this nonsense is over . . . well, with my pension from the service we might just have
enough money to buy a place . . . somewhere quiet and lovely, with room for a big studio at the back, and a garden with a swing, and I might retrain . . . as a teacher, perhaps. Or I might just
open that little hotel with a café on the side and—’

‘I am so sorry for that remark,’ said Hera. ‘Please, Inez, forgive me. It was unbelievably rude. I don’t know what possessed me.’

‘Nothing to forgive, Hera. But please, I don’t want to talk about happiness any more. It makes it too hard. Dreaming. I just want to get through the present.’

Hera saw that Abhuradin was close to tears, and she reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘It will happen. Inez. It will. I promise.’

Abhuradin nodded. She breathed deeply, taking control of herself. ‘So. Onward and upward!’ She dabbed at her eyes and looked at her face in a small pocket mirror. ‘No damage
done. Now, I want you to show me round this place, Hera. Tell me about all these plants you love so much. Show me how you’ll live, and what you are going to do down here when you are
“all alone.’”

Any embarrassment was over. For the next hour Abhuradin was given a grand tour of Monkey Tree Station. Finally she sighed and stiffened her back. It was time to return.

Two of Mack’s men winched Hera’s old SAS flyer out of the hangar and Abhuradin climbed aboard. Before closing the door she turned. ‘You promised, Hera.’

‘I’ll be there. Don’t worry. And then we’ll have some tales to tell.’

The door closed and minutes later Hera’s old SAS grumbled into the air and turned to head across Big Fella Lake, its twin rotors rippling the surface of the water.

That afternoon something strange happened at Monkey Terrace Station.

Two men working in the garden heard a sound like a whip crack. It came from a giant Tattersall weed at the very end of the garden, one which had been allowed to grow to its full height. When the
two men looked they were astonished to see that the tree’s spiky limbs, normally held high, were slowly lowering. As they did so the flowers at their tips were closing and dropping.

‘Hey, Mack. Look at this. Come here. Quick. Bloody tree’s moving.’

Mack had been working on the cutter, and he came pounding up the steps from the je y. Hera had heard the calls too and she came hurrying out of the shilo. Others stopped what they were doing and
all gathered to watch.

The long ropey arms of the weed rested on the ground for a moment, and then they twitched and writhed like snakes and began to withdraw towards the main trunk. As they did so, the whip-cracking
sound increased.

‘What’s happening, Doc?’

‘Well, you lads are in for a treat. The Tattersall weed is going to put on a performance. It is going to shed its seeds. In about five minutes.’

‘What’s that cracking noise?’

‘It’s the sound of the fibres in the branches. They’re contracting and compressing the sap. It’s a kind of peristalsis. Wait here.’ Hera ran over to one of the
supply sheds and came back moments later with a bag containing loose meshlite masks with goggles. ‘Here, put these on. Quick,’ she said. ‘Now watch. See how the branches are
pulling back and winding round the trunk.’

‘Like a coil spring.’

‘Exactly, like a coil spring. One that also contains a fluid core at high pressure.’ The cracking sound had now become higher in pitch, and it made the men wince. It was the sound of
something approaching its breaking point. When it stopped, the tree was thin, like a tightly furled umbrella.

Suddenly, with a roar, the branches uncoiled, lashing out like the arms of an athlete throwing the discus. At their furthest extension there came another roar as seed ducts opened and thousands
of small seeds, each with a long sharp blade-thorn, were flung into the air amid a fine spray of sap. The seeds shimmered like a cloud of bees, arcing high, and then fell to earth, clattering on
the meshlite of the masks and catching in the men’s clothing.

So great was the effort made by the Tattersall weed that the branches, having swung full circle, now swung back again, but there was no power in them. The branches were torn and broken. Some had
detached from the tree completely and lay like long hairy snakes on the ground.

‘That’s it,’ said Hera. ‘That’s its death knell. One fling and then they die. You can take your masks off. Show’s over.’

Mack pulled the mask off his head. ‘Well I’ll . . .’ He was lost for words. One of the seeds was lodged in the meshlite. He pulled it free and examined it. ‘What a wicked
little bugger. That could cut you open. See, it’s even got a barb.’

Hera nodded. ‘Yes, it looks like a barb, but that’s just an accidental resemblance. That barb is a little duct, and the root grows out from there. The hook is to anchor the seed in
the ground, but it also decays quickly and provides some nutrient to the seed. Paradise works quickly and efficiently. By tomorrow a lot of these will have rooted and I’ll be going round the
garden with a rake pulling them up. But I like to keep one or two Tattersalls close by, for the show when they seed, because the flowers are so beautiful and the perfume . . .’ She breathed
deeply. ‘The early pioneers used to call them blue waltzers – you can see why – and it is a nice enough name . . . but these flowers had a bad reputation too.’

‘Why’s that then?’ Mack was looking carefully at the dying tree.

‘People used to say that if you dreamed of one of these it was an omen of death. And it’s true: a lot of people had accidents near them. And there were creepy stories about them
being able to move.’

‘Move? You mean like walk?’

‘More a crawl really. But hey, don’t look so worried. I’ve been here a long time and I’ve never seen one shift. But the old stories persist.’

Mack looked at Hera closely. ‘Hey, how do you know all this, Doc?’

‘It’s my job to know. You know how to pull down buildings. I know about the bio-forms on this planet.’

‘Well if I were you, Doc, if you don’t mind my saying, I’d keep my eyes open behind me with these Ta y whatsits on the loose. They could slice your head off if you was too
close when one of them went off.’