New Planetary Blues

 

TWELVE

James Malcolm's Journal

'Bit of a looker now, that Dimity Heather, eh?' said Andy Cope as we breakfasted together my first morning on Planet Sport. 'Used to be a right old boiler – frightening size and ugly as sin – but now –'

I was saved from having to reply by a ring at the door, swiftly followed by the arrival of the woman in question, bustling into Cope's kitchen with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. 'Morning, gentlemen,' she chirped. 'Beautiful day for Test cricket. Let's get on with it!'

'Had some good news, have you, darling? Or has something else put that spring back in your step?' Cope's salacious grin could have been correctly interpreted by the most unworldly nun.

I winced in anticipation of a stinging rebuke, or even a right hook from the delicate hand with which Heather was smoothing her immaculate cap of glossy black hair, but instead, she just smiled indulgently, as if Cope were a favourite child who occasionally went too far, bless him. 'I've just had the most wonderful message from HoloCorp's owner, Simon Bland,' she said proudly. 'I was worried that our cricket problems might have got back to him, but he was very supportive, said he was sure that between us we could sort things out and carry on making lots of money for the corporation. He even wished me the best of luck with the new body.'

My heart sank at this, but Cope was clearly unfazed by the idea of bodysnatching. His grin widened. 'No luck needed, dear: you'll knock 'em dead.'

'I'd settle for knocking you into shape, Cope.' She flashed a look of pure malevolence at him, which subdued him for precisely ten seconds.

After his brief chastened silence, he piped up again: 'So where are we going, then? Bradman?'

Heather took something small and purple out of her pocket – the squash-ball-like object I'd noticed the first time I'd met her – and began to knead it with menacing thoroughness. 'You're going to Pele to see about the next World Cup. Perhaps you'd like to cast your net a little wider this time, include some players you might not have seen play personally. We're not obsessed with period accuracy here' – this, I felt, was directed as much at me as at Cope – 'we can mix players from various eras. The crowds like seeing Stanley Matthews playing alongside David Beckham, or Franz Beckenbauer playing against Tom Finney or Michael Owen.'

'Knowledgeable for a girl, isn't she?' Cope attempted to give Heather a friendly nudge with his elbow, only to find it grasped with startling suddenness and twisted up behind his back.

'Just get on with your job, Cope, or I may have to give you judo lessons.' To emphasize her suitability for this particular task, Heather jerked Cope's arm out straight. The next thing he knew, after a blur of movement, he was flat on his back on the floor.

'Spirited filly,' he managed to croak quietly to me as Heather and I left. 'Loves me really.'

Hurrying alongside Heather as she strode purposefully towards her air car, I managed to congratulate her, somewhat breathlessly, on her success with Bland. I was hoping she'd supplement my meagre store of information about the man; still glowing from his praise, she didn't disappoint me.

'I'll pretend to think you're being sincere, rather than just sucking up for your own purposes, Mr Malcolm.' She shooed me on board the air car as if I were a particularly dim child. 'It is odd, though,' she went on as we seated ourselves in the tiny cockpit, 'because up to now Bland's been quite openly sceptical about the direction HoloCorp's been taking. He's never been keen on Adepts – thinks we're inhuman – and he's always banging on about what he calls "real Old Earth values". He seems to think that humanity should be left to muddle along, wallow in its own filth, carry on making the appalling mistakes it's made for centuries, just like people do on Earth, what few of them are left.' She snorted contemptuously. 'If I thought he was really interested in HoloCorp still, I might even think he was up to something, but he's practically ga-ga, poor old soul. If it weren't for the constant rejuvenation treatments he'd have been dead long ago.'

'How did he start HoloCorp?' I asked.

'Didn't Panoply include all that in your induction?' she asked suspiciously.

'He let me browse. I was too busy catching up on Earth history to delve into HoloCorp much.'

The dark eyes were suddenly turned on me. 'You're not fooling anyone, you know, with that innocent-abroad act. You seem to forget that we Adepts have tp sense. When you're this close, I can read you like a book. You might as well be holding a sign saying "Give me information I can use against you".' The air car suddenly veered groundwards. 'Here we are, nearly there. Have you read A Handful of Dust, Mr Malcolm?' Heatherïs manner had turned silken and menacing.

'Er, you mean the Evelyn Waugh novel? Yes, I have. One of the bleakest endings in –'

'I don't need a literature tutorial, thanks,' she snapped, bringing the air car to a halt in an open space adjoining a large cricket ground that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. 'I just thought that getting stuck for ever in the Amazon jungle reading Dickens aloud to a maniac might ring a bell with you when you learn why I've brought you here.'

'Bell as in alarm bell?' I asked.

'Very likely. We have a little job for you. Keep you quiet for a while. Come with me.' She opened the air car's hatch, jumped out and beckoned impatiently for me to follow her into the cricket ground. Remembering the way she'd dealt with Cope, a much larger man than myself, I had no choice but to obey.

Having negotiated a series of narrow corridors filled with cricket equipment, we emerged on to a flight of steps leading down to a large cricket pitch. To our right, beyond the boundary rope, a group of white-flanelled players was practising in the nets. An informal match was also taking place on a practice pitch adjacent to the main wicket.

As we approached, a familiar Yorkshire voice floated over to me. 'No, no. That's bad technique, is that. You don't want to give gulley catching practice. Head down, sniff the ball.'

'I hope you like cricket as much as you say you do, Mr Malcolm, because you're going to be playing a great deal of it from now on. You might say it's going to be your equivalent of Dickens in the Amazon. Our good friends here' – she indicated the dozen or so holographic cricketers milling about the nets – 'need batting and bowling practice, and a new, unpredictable cricketer like yourself is just what they need to sharpen up their reflexes. You can bat and bowl to your heart's content here, and no one will ever bother you. We're miles from anywhere. There's food in the pavilion. I'll look in on you from time to time. Have fun.' Heather flashed me a sardonic, gloating smile, and handed me over to the tender mercies of my beaming holographic team mates.

As she made her way back to the pavilion, the Yorkshire voice called out to me: 'You there! Don't stand about like a spare one at a wedding. Get some whites on. There's cricket to be played.' He tossed me a bundle of cricketing clothes. When I'd put them on, a second Yorkshire voice, equally familiar, shouted: 'I just don't understand this at all. A rank amateur! Grab that ball, lad, and pitch it up!'

As I began tossing up gentle half-volleys to a succession of familiar batsmen, I heard Heather's air car taking off from outside the stadium. From the practice pitch a clipped Australian voice shouted: 'Good ball, bad shot, great catch.'

 

© Chris Parker 2006