stopped smiling, not because he was offended, but because the discussion was turning serious. ‘Most true things are kind of corny, don’t you think? But we make them more sophisticated out of sheer embarrassment. Simple truths with complicated clothes on. The only purpose of the linguistic dressing-up is so people won’t look at the contents of our naked hearts and minds and say “How naff”.’
She frowned. ‘“Naff”?’
‘It’s a British slang term, meaning trite or banal, but with an extra overtone of . . . uh . . . nerdishness. Uncoolness. Dorkishness.’
‘Wow. Did they teach American slang in your Bible School too?’
Peter took a few swigs from a water-bottle. ‘I never went to Bible School. I went to the University of Hard Drinking and Drug Abuse. Got my degree in Toilet Bowl Interior Decoration and . . . uh . . . Hospital Casualty Ward Occupancy.’
‘And then you found God?’
‘Then I found a woman called Beatrice. We fell in love.’
‘Guys don’t often put it that way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Guys say “we got together” or “you can guess the rest” or something like that. Something that doesn’t sound quite so . . . ’
‘Naff?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, we fell in love,’ said Peter. ‘I quit the booze and drugs to impress her.’
‘I hope she was impressed.’
‘Yes.’ He took a last swig, screwed the top back on the bottle and slid it onto the floor between his feet. ‘Although she didn’t tell me so until years later. Addicts don’t handle praise well. The pressure of living up to it drives them back to drink and drugs.’
‘Yup.’
‘Have you had some experience of these things in your life?’
‘Yup.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not right now.’ She readjusted her posture in the seat, revved the engine, drove a little faster. The blush on her face made her look more feminine, although it accentuated the white scar under her hairline. She had pulled off her headscarf so that it hung loosely around her neck; her short crop of soft mousy hair fluttered in the air conditioning. ‘Your girlfriend sounds like a smart cookie.’
‘She’s my wife. And yes, she’s smart. Smarter – or at least wiser – than I am, that’s for sure.’
‘Then why was it you that got chosen for this mission?’
Peter rested his head against the seat. ‘I’ve wondered about that myself. I suppose God must have other plans for Beatrice at home.’
Grainger didn’t comment. Peter looked out the side window. The sky was a little lighter. Perhaps he was only imagining it. A particularly large clump of mushrooms trembled as they swept by.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said.
‘I told you I didn’t want to talk about it,’ she said.
‘No, I meant my question about the people we’re going to see. What do you know about them?’
‘They’re . . . ah . . . ’ She struggled for several seconds to find the right words. ‘They like their privacy.’
‘I could’ve guessed that. Not a single photo in any of the brochures and reports USIC gave me. I was expecting at least one smiley picture of your top brass shaking hands with the locals.’
She chuckled. ‘That would be difficult to arrange.’
‘No hands?’
‘Sure they have hands. They just don’t like to be touched.’
‘So: describe them.’
‘It’s difficult,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not good at descriptions. We’ll see them soon enough.’
‘Do try.’ He batted his eyelashes. ‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘Well . . . they wear long robes and hoods. Like monks, I guess.’
‘So they’re human in shape?’
‘I guess. It’s kind of hard to tell.’
‘But they have two arms, two legs, a torso . . . ’
‘Sure.’
He shook his head. ‘That surprises me. All along, I’ve been telling myself I mustn’t assume the human design is some sort of universal standard. So I was trying to imagine . . . uh . . . big spider-like things, or eyes on stalks, or giant hairless possums . . . ’
‘Giant hairless possums?’ She beamed. ‘I love it. Very sci-fi.’
‘But why should they have human form, Grainger, of all the forms they might conceivably have? Isn’t that exactly what you’d expect from sci-fi?’
‘Yeah, I guess . . . Or religion, maybe. Didn’t God create man in his own image?’
‘I wouldn’t use the word “man”. The Hebrew is ha-adam, which I would argue encompasses both sexes.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ she said, deadpan.
Again, they drove on for a couple of minutes in silence. On the horizon, Peter was certain he could see the beginnings of a glow. A subtle haze of illumination, turning the junction of sky and earth from dark aquamarine-against-black to green-against-brown. If you stared at it too long, you began to wonder whether it was just an optical illusion, a hallucination, a frustrated yearning for the end of night.
And inside that hesitant glow, was that . . . ? Yes, there was something else on the horizon. Raised structures of some sort. Mountains? Boulders? Buildings? A town? A city? Grainger had said that the ‘settlement’ was about fifty miles away. They must have travelled half that distance by now, surely.
‘Do they have genders?’ he said at last.
‘Who?’ she said.
‘The people we’re going to see.’
Grainger looked exasperated. ‘Why don’t you just come straight out and use the word aliens?’
‘Because we’re the aliens here.’
She laughed out loud. ‘I love it! A politically correct missionary! Forgive me for saying so, but it seems a total contradiction in terms.’
‘I forgive you, Grainger,’ he winked. ‘And my attitudes shouldn’t strike you as a contradiction. God loves every creature equally.’
The smile faded from her face. ‘Not in my experience,’ she said.
Silence descended on the cabin once more. Peter deliberated whether to push; decided not to. Not in that direction, anyway. Not yet.
‘So,’ he rejoined lightly, ‘do they have genders?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Grainger, in a flat, business-like tone. ‘You’ll have to lift up their robes and take a look.’
They drove for ten, fifteen minutes without further conversation. The topmost slice of the raisin bread dried out. The haze of light on the horizon became more distinct. The mysterious structures straight ahead were definitely architecture of some kind, although the sky was still too dark for Peter to make out exact shapes or details.
Eventually, he said, ‘I need to have a pee.’
‘No problem,’ said Grainger, and slowed the car to a halt. On the dashboard, an electronic gauge estimating the fuel consumption per mile flickered through its numbers and settled on an abstract symbol.
Peter