“Wow!” exclaimed Ostara. “The BBC newsroom! How exciting!”
“Can I help you?” asked the man. He was a twitchy, pale-skinned figure with thinning dark hair, who stood short of both Fornax and Ostara. He wore an uninspiring brown suit that did not quite fit. “Are you here to fix the molecularisor?”
“Do I look like an engineer?” Fornax remarked sarcastically. “I’m a journalist.”
“What’s up with the ’risor?” asked Ostara. A faint mechanical voice, warbling ‘Reboot me!’ over and over again, drifted through a nearby open door.
“Does it matter?” Fornax said, irritated. Her days on Cosmic Cooking had instilled in her a hatred of food molecularisors, which were able to produce a wide variety of food and drink almost instantly. In her mind they were to blame for the unimpressive ratings for her so-called ‘hit’ show, for she never really believed her producer’s assurance that there was a big difference between wanting to watch cookery programmes and actually wanting to cook.
“It won’t make hot beverages,” the man said sadly. “I really miss a nice cup of tea.”
“You don’t need a ’risor for tea!” chirped Ostara. “Allow me!”
She stepped gaily through the open doorway and moments later the sound of running water and rattling crockery filled the office as she got to work with the materials on hand. The man’s look of bemusement became one of curiosity.
“A journalist?” he asked Fornax. “With Five Systems News?”
“No, I’m not,” Fornax confessed. “I’m a roving reporter for Weird Universe, here to do a piece on the Bradbury Heights archaeology department.”
Ostara returned to the kitchenette door. “She’s a proper holovid star!” she exclaimed.
The man rolled his eyes. “And you are?”
“Ostara,” she replied. “Are you Teiresias? I sent you a message, asking to speak with you about the Dhusarian Church. We arranged to meet for lunch?”
“One o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” the man pointed out. “You’re twelve hours early.”
Ostara glanced at her wristpad, tapped the screen and sighed. Fornax gave her a look reserved for idiots. Teiresias appeared more amused than annoyed.
“I still haven’t got used to the long days and nights,” Ostara confessed. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Yes please,” the man replied. “But you won’t find any tea in there.”
“I always have a few sachets of Yuanshi blend in my bag!”
“Yuanshi tea?” Teiresias smiled at the sound of a clinking teaspoon from the kitchen, earning him a puzzled look from Fornax. “We ran a story last month about how some of that stuff was found to be tainted with egg. Do you think I should tell her?”
“The mood drug?” she asked. “If it gets me through the day, I won’t complain.”
Ostara emerged from the kitchenette, carrying a tray upon which were three mugs of steaming tea and a small plate of biscuits. Fornax caught Teiresias’ frown at the sight of the packet of ginger creams and guessed he had not planned to share them with guests.
“Are you not local?” Fornax asked Ostara, taking the offered mug.
“I’m from the hollow moon,” she replied. Fornax responded with a blank look. “The Dandridge Cole? It’s an old asteroid colony ship, where we have proper days and nights. Well, not any more. Not since we crashed the Platypus into the sun.”
“A moon? Which planet does it orbit?”
“It orbits Barnard’s Star,” Ostara told her.
“Hardly a moon, kid.”
“Poetic licence!” snapped Ostara.
“And now she’s just one of the hundreds of refuges who have poured into Newbrum begging for food and shelter,” added Teiresias, taking a mug and a couple of biscuits for himself. “They had to abandon their asteroid, you see. It turns out that living inside a small rock is no better than squatting beneath a dome on the big bad rock that is Ascension.”
“I am not begging!” Ostara retorted. “I have my own business!”
“Yes indeed. What did your message say? Newbrum’s premier detective agency.”
“Are there any others?” asked Fornax.
Teiresias smiled and shook his head.
“You’re both being horrible,” complained Ostara. “I made you tea and neither of you said thank you. I’m here in good faith, trying to find out something about the Dhusarians for a friend of mine, who is worried his sister may be involved in something not quite right. Perhaps I was expecting too much when I came here for help.”
Teiresias pursed his lips and frowned. Fornax wandered to the holovid wall display, bemused that the man seemed moved by the trace of a tear in Ostara’s eye. Fornax imagined Teiresias was more used to dealing with journalists, holovid crews and other hard-headed broadcast professionals who had cashed in their morals long ago.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “The tea is rather good, thank you. You are welcome to what little information I have on the Dhusarian Church. As I recall, there was a lot of interest around the time of the peace conference on Daode. A colleague of mine started to put together a report on the Dandridge Cole and your altercation with that Yuanshi priest, but the network controllers did not want to run any upbeat news stories about you refugees. They err… only wanted the bad stuff. What she did is still on file though.”
“How fascinating,” said Fornax, with a mock yawn. “I’m not here to discuss old news. I’ve heard a rumour about alien artefacts from the Falsafah dig, turning up on the local black market. What have you got on that?”
“Hoping for a scoop, are you?” teased Teiresias. “Looking for the big exposé that will finally make the holovid world sit up and take notice? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Ascension is where journalism careers come to die.”
“Yours maybe,” muttered Fornax.
Ostara looked at the wall screen, which Fornax had already noted showed various holovids, pictures and other items about Sky Cleaver and the fate of its crew. Some of the clips were of Teiresias standing in the departure lounge of Newbrum spaceport, talking to the camera as mystified travellers passed by. Ostara lingered at a clip that in the background had two men and a boy pointing into the hangar and laughing about something.
“Are they dead?” Ostara asked. “Those poor people out at Thunor?”
Teiresias paused. “That report is embargoed,” he said cautiously.
“A scoop of your own?” sneered Fornax. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal it.”
“There’s not much to tell. The police are on their way to investigate and Verdandi has asked us not to run the story until she knows more,” he replied. “It’s a shame, really.”
Ostara nodded solemnly. “Those poor mine workers.”
“I meant it’s a shame my report has been put on hold,” snapped Teiresias. “I’ve put a lot of work into it! I’m trying to convince the head of the network back in London to commission a regular current affairs show for the Barnard’s Star system.”
“Are you hosting it? You could call it The Daily Prophet,” quipped Fornax. “What with you having a name like Teiresias.”
“Why would a prophet need news?” he retorted. The reference to his name was lost on Ostara, who gave them both blank looks. “That’s a ridiculous idea!”