Lunarhampton
“They require treatment. Aren’t you going to call an ambulance? The Commission disapproves of punitive neglect.”
“You have no authority on matters of provincial security. They are spies and will be treated accordingly.” Reaching into the web of struts, he slapped one of the occupants on a blistered cheek. “Why did you enter our airspace? What was your mission?”
“Engine failure,” the figure mumbled. “Blown off course.”
Melissa recognised the accent as educated Cardiffian. It was common knowledge the Welsh capital was having difficulties with its propulsion units. Alleneal was dangerously paranoid, she concluded. And yet she was powerless to restrain him as he instructed his bodyguards to arrest the aeronauts. While she debated what action to take, a Black Maria arrived and the hapless prisoners were bundled into the rear. Triumphantly, the councillor returned to the limousine.
The woolly-hatted men started to emerge onto the pavement. She did not relish being left alone in their company, so she climbed in beside Alleneal. The chauffeur trundled onto Edmund Street, heading back to the Council House. The return journey seemed to take longer. She tapped her fingers on a knee and asked the councillor: “How did you know it wasn’t your own aeolipile? It was unmarked.”
“A straight answer, Ms Sting. We don’t use them.”
Staring at him in disbelief, she realised he was serious. “Then you have developed a new kind of launch vehicle? This is remarkable. What is it called? Can you describe it to me?”
He rubbed his unhealthy eyes. “It is simple, Ms Sting, the guiding principle of all we seek to accomplish.”
Reluctant to divulge more, he lapsed into an affected gloom. Before they reached the square, his natural enthusiasm broke through again. “We showed those liars and saboteurs! You can’t mess with our council. Might as well slit your own perfumed throat.”
“Waste of hydrogen, though,” said Melissa.
“An academic point, Ms Sting. We have no interest in such fuels. We use gunpowder to achieve our objectives.”
This was too much for her. He was plainly testing her patience. “In the past hour,” she protested, “you’ve made a number of fatuous claims. Unless I’ve misheard, you intend to transport the entire population of Birmingham through space with the aid of firework propellant. I warn you not to insult my intelligence.”
Alleneal tapped his nose. “Be patient, Ms Sting. I will personally conduct you on a tour of our facilities and explain every aspect of our lunar bid. When you study our moon-buggies you’ll be convinced. A whole fleet of them! It will verify everything.”
“When does this tour begin?” she demanded.
“I have urgent business with my fellow councillors this afternoon. It is vital to interrogate the intruders.”
“You’re not going to provoke a war with Cardiff?”
He waved aside her fears. “Our citizens are not capable of fighting anyone other than themselves. I simply wish to determine whether we have managed to keep our preparations secret. With access to our ideas, rival councils can accelerate their own programs.”
Melissa accepted this. She examined her hair. Although the internal heaters were blowing warm air into her face, her auburn locks refused to dry. The water had a peculiar adhesive quality. She wondered if exposure to the local rain was the source of the councillor’s skin complaint. His cheeks were suggestive of selenic landscapes, repellent yet fascinating, brutal as the geology of Emmental. His rinded lips curled, rupturing the illusion. She tumbled out of his orbit.
“I’ve arranged for you to stay in one of our safest hotels,” he was saying. “My chauffeur will collect you tomorrow morning. Remain in your room, Ms Sting. Some odd people about.”
She considered this advice. At the Council House, he left her alone in the back of the limousine. It proceeded down Hill Street and into the Chinese Quarter. Eventually, the chauffeur pointed out the facade of the Arcade Hotel. This was supposed to be one of the smarter areas, but the desolation was merely more pretentious. Eroded theatres and nightclubs exhibited scars and graffiti like drunken sailors, fractured restaurants bled steam like dying turbines. It was an extra worry to be guided into the hotel lobby by the chauffeur: she might have to come to his aid. He fled before she could refuse him a tip.
Her room was at the top of the building. Long and narrow, it seemed a microcosm of the city’s mentality. Insects scuttled when she turned on the light; the furniture bristled, a wooden conspiracy of puritans; a sagging bed took her weight with a nasal moan. Her report would stress the apparent running down of infrastructure to pay for the moon project. She had encountered diversion of council funds before, most notably in Leicester and Norwich, but never on such a massive scale. Did Alleneal really enjoy the support of his people?
