with Karen; hell, since before then, that’s why they’d split.
“It must be the air,” he said. His body gave an involuntary shake. He didn’t want to be a dick. They’d gone to a real effort with the meal, nice table set with crisp linen and candles. They couldn’t do that all the time, surely?
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“Oh, nothing, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve been on my own rather a lot recently, I think I’ve become a bit odd.”
“I wouldn’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. You’re in good company!” said Maguire from down the table, catching what Holland had said. The independent conversations down the table halted for a ripple of laughter, then resumed.
“How do the vines fare then, up here?” asked Holland.
“Oh, the vines do just fine. The soil is very good for them, adequately fertilised – there’s a lack of certain organic compounds, but all the minerals are there and it’s very alkaline, just the way they like it. They’re highly mutagenic; already the adaptations they’ve made on their own are amazing, we’ve not had to alter their genomes much at all, they’ve done it themselves...”
“I’m sure he knows all this already, Suzie, he’s a biologist,” said her husband, waving a fork of mashed potato around. He didn’t speak much. He was a watcher, sharp eyes glittering, ready to leap in with a putdown that was just on the side of acceptable. Some of the scientists at the table found him funny, Holland was among the minority who didn’t. How much of that’s down to me wanting to screw his wife? he wondered. And then he wondered about actually bedding Suzanne, and he felt his colour rising again.
“No, really, my specialisation is in tiny microbes that live on other planets, not multicellular terrestrial tipple bushes,” he said, attempting to disarm the situation, and himself.
Suzanne smiled. “See, Kick?”
“Why do you call him Kick?”
“Why not?” said Kick.
“Because he thinks Hermanius sounds stupid,” said Suzanne.
He’s right, it does, thought Holland, it’s the name of a seventeenth-century alchemy-dabbling twat. Kick grinned, like he was about to spit out some more acid.
“May I take some more potato?” said Holland, before the Dutchman could speak. “All grown here, too?”
“Haven’t you seen the greenhouses yet?” she said. Holland shook his head. “Oh! You must let me show you round.”
“I would very much like that,” he said, and he would. Jesus, John, what the hell has got into you? No doubt he’d spend the night wrestling that one through his mind. He didn’t see many easy nights here ahead of him.
The kitchen, dining and recreational area was at the heart of the base, in a large bubble. Purposefully designed without any work facilities, Maguire had told him, after three whiskies the night before, so the scientists would “just sit the fuck down and put their feet up.” A good sentiment, thought Holland, but it didn’t stop virtually everyone poring over their tablets and phones at breakfast. Holland had seen that and become half-relieved and half-worried that he’d condemned himself to a monkish existence. Relieved, because he’d been hiding in the same kind of lifestyle on Earth, and part of him didn’t want to abandon it. Worried, because the rest of him was desperate to escape.
Dinner, thankfully (or not, he still couldn’t make his mind up) had an entirely different atmosphere. If this is a monastery, it is one where St Benedict’s wine rations flow freely , he thought . Up and down the length of the table his new companions spoke, jumping in and out of each others’ conversations, gently – and sometimes not so gently – teasing each other. Their chatter ranged from the mundane, to scientific discoveries that ten, twenty years ago would each have rocked the world, and yet here arose every day. The personalities of his base mates came out, accentuated by alcohol, and he found himself –
“It must be the air,” he said. His body gave an involuntary shake. He didn’t want to be a dick. They’d gone to a real effort with the meal, nice table set with crisp linen and candles. They couldn’t do that all the time, surely?
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“Oh, nothing, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve been on my own rather a lot recently, I think I’ve become a bit odd.”
“I wouldn’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. You’re in good company!” said Maguire from down the table, catching what Holland had said. The independent conversations down the table halted for a ripple of laughter, then resumed.
“How do the vines fare then, up here?” asked Holland.
“Oh, the vines do just fine. The soil is very good for them, adequately fertilised – there’s a lack of certain organic compounds, but all the minerals are there and it’s very alkaline, just the way they like it. They’re highly mutagenic; already the adaptations they’ve made on their own are amazing, we’ve not had to alter their genomes much at all, they’ve done it themselves...”
“I’m sure he knows all this already, Suzie, he’s a biologist,” said her husband, waving a fork of mashed potato around. He didn’t speak much. He was a watcher, sharp eyes glittering, ready to leap in with a putdown that was just on the side of acceptable. Some of the scientists at the table found him funny, Holland was among the minority who didn’t. How much of that’s down to me wanting to screw his wife? he wondered. And then he wondered about actually bedding Suzanne, and he felt his colour rising again.
“No, really, my specialisation is in tiny microbes that live on other planets, not multicellular terrestrial tipple bushes,” he said, attempting to disarm the situation, and himself.
Suzanne smiled. “See, Kick?”
“Why do you call him Kick?”
“Why not?” said Kick.
“Because he thinks Hermanius sounds stupid,” said Suzanne.
He’s right, it does, thought Holland, it’s the name of a seventeenth-century alchemy-dabbling twat. Kick grinned, like he was about to spit out some more acid.
“May I take some more potato?” said Holland, before the Dutchman could speak. “All grown here, too?”
“Haven’t you seen the greenhouses yet?” she said. Holland shook his head. “Oh! You must let me show you round.”
“I would very much like that,” he said, and he would. Jesus, John, what the hell has got into you? No doubt he’d spend the night wrestling that one through his mind. He didn’t see many easy nights here ahead of him.
The kitchen, dining and recreational area was at the heart of the base, in a large bubble. Purposefully designed without any work facilities, Maguire had told him, after three whiskies the night before, so the scientists would “just sit the fuck down and put their feet up.” A good sentiment, thought Holland, but it didn’t stop virtually everyone poring over their tablets and phones at breakfast. Holland had seen that and become half-relieved and half-worried that he’d condemned himself to a monkish existence. Relieved, because he’d been hiding in the same kind of lifestyle on Earth, and part of him didn’t want to abandon it. Worried, because the rest of him was desperate to escape.
Dinner, thankfully (or not, he still couldn’t make his mind up) had an entirely different atmosphere. If this is a monastery, it is one where St Benedict’s wine rations flow freely , he thought . Up and down the length of the table his new companions spoke, jumping in and out of each others’ conversations, gently – and sometimes not so gently – teasing each other. Their chatter ranged from the mundane, to scientific discoveries that ten, twenty years ago would each have rocked the world, and yet here arose every day. The personalities of his base mates came out, accentuated by alcohol, and he found himself –
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