Nicklin allowed his eyelids to close, creating an exquisite feeling of relaxation in his eyes. The sensation was so pleasant that he was immediately aware of the risk of lapsing into sleep, something which would be embarrassing in front of the tireless Whites…
“Just look at old man Jim,” Cham White said loudly, his voice reaching Nicklin across murmurous summer meadows of contentment. “Working for ten minutes has worn him out.”
Nicklin roused himself with a start. “Sorry, sorry—I got very little sleep last night.” The lie came unbidden to his lips.
“What was the matter?” Nora said, showing a neighbourly concern. “Tummy troubles?”
“Yes.” Nicklin seized on the suggestion with gratitude and began to elaborate on it. “I ate a chunk of apple pie just before bed, and I made the mistake of putting a slice of cheese on it.”
“Apple pie, eh? Have you started taking cookery lessons?”
“No—it was a little gift from May McVickar.” Nicklin listened to his own words with growing dismay. Why did he get himself into this kind of situation? And what had possessed him to appoint May McVickar as his fictional benefactor? She lived only a couple of kilometres away, and was quite friendly with the Whites, and the two women could easily meet and begin chatting and comparing notes within the next day or two. In fact, with his luck, the silly old bitch could arrive on the Whites’ doorstep at any minute…
Nicklin was casting around in sudden alarm for a way to get off the subject of apple pie when he became aware of an unusual sound from outside the house, one which was beginning to conflict with the voices of the televiewer. It was growing in volume, and was so incongruous in the rural quietness of the area that several seconds went by before he was able to resolve it into separate components. There was brassy marching music overlaid with an amplified male voice which, although the words could not yet be distinguished, sounded like that of a politician or an evangelist.
“Seems like we’ve got visitors,” Nicklin said, rising to his feet and making for the door. “This I must see.”
He gave the Whites a perfunctory wave and escaped from the house into the vertical rays of the Orbitsville sun. Its warmth seeped through his hair and spread like hot oil on the crown of his head, making him wish he had brought a hat. He shaded his eyes and peered through curtains of midge-clouded brilliance. On the road beyond the stream was a slow-moving procession of about ten vehicles, a mix of campers and trucks, all of them painted powder blue. On the side of each, pulsing in photoactive orange dyes, was the message: COREY MONTANE is leading you home.
“Oh no,” Nicklin whispered, “not another bible thumper! Please, O Gaseous Vertebrate, not another holy roller!”
Denial of his prayer came in the form of a crashingly distorted announcement, the gist of which was that evangelist Corey Montane would be visiting Orangefield for three days. His intention was to bring salvation to any of the locals who had the good sense to heed his preachings. All the others would, naturally enough, be doomed.
The speaker’s words faded and became even less decipherable as the cavalcade began to pass out of sight behind a stand of whistle trees. But before intelligibility was lost altogether Nicklin picked out a fragment—“Orbitsville is a tool of the Devil.”
That’s just great, he thought bitterly as he began walking towards his own property. It looked as though for the next three days he would be under the threat of having his privacy invaded by earnest heliumheads. And worse, the therapeutic calm of the village green, where he liked to stroll in the evenings, was likely to be shattered by noisy sermons, appalling music and collectors of cash. There was one feature that all religious missions, all purveyors of spiritual peace, all renouncers of worldly gain had in common—somebody had to collect the cash.
All thought of what was going on in the outside universe had been displaced from Nicklin’s mind. Frowning and looking disconsolate, as befitted one who had found genuine cause for concern, he made his way home through the lush green grass.
Chapter 3
Helping to erect the marquee had left Corey Montane feeling tired and slightly shaky, and now he was sitting on a canvas chair outside his camper, refreshing himself with a pot of his favourite tea. As he sipped the fragrant brew he allowed his gaze to drift around the shops, inns and occasional private dwellings which ringed Orangefield’s central green. The scene—with its imported oaks and chestnut trees—was one of idyllic, nostalgic tranquillity.
Throughout history different sections of humanity had formed their own visions of the perfect setting for the jewel of life, ranging from the sentimental New York of Frank Capra to the serene Antarctic demesnes of the twenty-first-century poet, Richard Caine… But for an astonishing number of people the ideal would always closely approximate what Montane was seeing now. In the charmed age which the surroundings lovingly recreated, cigarettes did not cause cancer, it was no sin to eat butter and cream, nuclear weapons were unthought-of, and work brought fulfilment and not hypertension. Hefty, bearded cricketers might be on their way by steam train to contend with the local team; a distant mechanical murmur might be the Wright brothers tinkering with some impractical machine in their corrugated-iron workshop.
At times like this it was easy for Montane to understand why so many inhabitants of Orbitsville opted to live in low-tech communities. It pained him, therefore, to remember that his natural human response to all he saw was part of the terrible danger which Orbitsville held in store for all of God’s children. It was the bait in the Orbitsville trap…
“You all right, Corey?” The speaker was Nibs Affleck, who had approached from the direction of the marquee, where the adjustment of turnbuckles was still going on. He was a serious-eyed young man whose florid complexion was the legacy of a long spell of alcoholism. He had joined the crusade a year earlier and had found in it enough inspiration to enable him to fight free of his habit. As a result, he was fiercely loyal to Montane and showed his gratitude by being solicitous—embarrassingly so at times—about his mentor’s health.
“I’m fine, Nibs,” Montane said, glancing up from under the flat cone of his sun-hat. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”
“You should leave jobs like putting up the tent to the rest of us.”
“You may be interested to learn that being sixty years old does not qualify one for a wheelchair.” Montane smiled to show that he was not offended. “Besides, you know our rules. Nobody is so high and mighty that he is excused his share of work—and that includes me.
Affleck shuffled his feet and looked miserable. “I didn’t mean you were…”
“It’s all right, Nibs—you were just being thoughtful and I thank you for that. Now, will you do me a favour?”
“You bet, Corey!” Affleck said eagerly, his round face brightening. “Just name it!”
“This town actually has a daily newspaper—a real Mark Twain job, by all accounts—and I might consider advertising in it. I’d appreciate it if you would go and get me a copy.”
“You bet, Corey!” His eyes glowing with simple happiness, Affleck turned and bounded away across the green.
Montane watched his progress with troubled eyes. Affleck was a good-hearted, industrious man, but he was an innocent—not the kind of disciple the crusade was desperately short of. What Montane really needed was a team of smart fast-talkers with the talent for raising large sums of money, the sort of men and women who—with a mesmeric combination of business acumen and evangelistic fervour—could induce rich men to part with fortunes. It was quite difficult to find millionaires on Orbitsville, because the acquisition of great wealth involved the manipulation and control of others, and it was no easy matter to do that to individuals whose birthright it was to trek off into the interior, at any time the mood took them, and claim the equivalent of a county, or a country, or even a continent. And such wealthy people as could be lured out of their strongholds were disinclined to hand large sums of money over to what they saw as ingenuous Jesus freaks.