Lunarhampton
“Ms Sting? I’m so pleased you could make it,” he muttered, stroking his pockmarked face. “Please sit down.”
He indicated a chair piled high with storm-damaged cardboard files. Melissa stood silently until, with a deep blush, he leant over and swept them aside. Easing herself onto the damp leather, she waited for him to say something else, but he was too shy or indifferent, it was impossible to decide which. At last she announced:
“The Lunar Commission expect my report within the week. I trust you will issue me with full security clearance?”
He was offended. “That is not a problem. All our documents will be turned over for your inspection and, naturally, you will be allowed into our research zones. We’re ahead of schedule.”
Melissa grinned. “That’s what they all say.” Turning up her collar, she huddled into the seat. With an apologetic cough, the official passed her a twisted umbrella, which she struggled to open. During this hiatus, he cleared his throat again.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Ms Sting. I am Alleneal Asherley. Not my real name, of course, but a pseudonym chosen by committee. We believe it safer not to become too informal with outside agencies. However, this initial meeting between us requires a gesture of trust, so at this point I wish to make a statement. Birmingham City Council is only a month away from founding a working moon colony.”
Melissa was unable to suppress a laugh, but compassionate enough to stifle it when she saw the pain it caused him. “This is news indeed. The front-runners are still developing their ecology systems. They’re having trouble with the hydroponics.”
“We don’t want to recreate Earth, Ms Sting. Our colonists have been adapted to cope with existing conditions.”
A violent desire to be sarcastic overwhelmed her. “What will they say in Newcastle and Oxford? There’ll be rioting in the greenhouses!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Bookies are giving you odds of a trillion-to-one against. If what you say is true, you will be able to clean up and retire to Luton.”
Alleneal raised his eyebrows. “What other municipal authorities see fit to spend money on is none of my concern. And as you should be aware, Ms Sting, no council worker, or Lunar Commission agent for that matter, is permitted to gamble on this project.”
Melissa brushed her damp hair out of her eyes. Better not to waste time trying to decide whether he was an imbecile or joker. Probably he was both: council employees trained themselves to be inscrutable, hiding their motives even from themselves. After an awkward pause he fumbled in a soggy cardboard box under the desk and retrieved a bottle of blended whisky. She drank only malt and refused his offer of a glass, watching carefully as he filled one for himself and rotated in his swivel-chair to face the faded flag. Squeezing water from one frayed end, he swirled the mixture in his mouth and gargled.
Keeping his back to her, he confessed: “We were hoping you wouldn’t come until we’d finished. I wanted to spring a surprise on your masters. A way of getting our revenge. You said we’d never be able to do it, you hurled insults. The Commission wounded us, Ms Sting, I can tell you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We are not all simpletons, you know. I have standards, like any other councillor.”
“Well, your municipality has a reputation for incompetence. So many other projects have been mismanaged…”
He swivelled in his chair, so forcefully he completed a full turn, his words phasing in and out of audibility as he passed her. “So that is your justification? Past mistakes have nothing to do with me!” He made a second attempt, ending up at right-angles to her. “I was appointed only at the commencement of this scheme.”
“I appreciate that. As you seem so confident, perhaps you will show me the finished plans for your colony?”
He tapped the bulge beneath his shirt. “A map of the settlement has been prepared. It’s supposed to be a secret, which is why I keep it next to my body at all times. You may view it, but I would prefer to restrict access until the end of your appraisal.”
“This is rather eccentric. Will I also be dissuaded from asking how many colonists you intend to sustain?”
He was dismissive. “Oh, all of them…”
Melissa sighed. “Yes, of course. What I meant was how many citizens do you intend to establish in your first settlement? Do they constitute a representative sample of your electorate? A breakdown of figures would be useful, based on social status, educational qualifications and ethnic origin. Do you possess such figures?”
“I object to your patronising tone, Ms Sting. It is you who fail to understand. As an egalitarian authority, we protect the interests of all our people. We intend to settle everybody.”
Before Melissa could protest at this absurdity, shouts from outside interrupted her. A sputtering grew louder overhead. She glanced up and saw, through the broken ceiling, an aeolipile descending through a bank of dark cloud. There was something wrong with its engines: the globe was tipping over, dragging the capsule at an unnatural angle. She jabbed at this sight with her umbrella, just as the contraption vanished from her field of vision. “One of yours?”
