To The Stars

“Marry me?” Jan asked.

“Thank you, no. My divorce isn’t a month old. I want to enjoy my freedom for a while yet.”

“I’ll ask you next month.”

“Do that…” The chiming bell cut her off and the steward’s voice broke the silence of the cabin.

“All passengers. We will be landing in Suez in thirty minutes’ time. Please have your bags ready for the porters. Thirty minutes’ time. It has been our pleasure to have you aboard the Beachy Head and in the name of Captain Wetherby and the crew I want to thank you for flying British Airways.”

“A half an hour and look at my hair! And I haven’t started packing yet… ”

“There’s no hurry. And no one will throw you out of the cabin. This is a holiday, remember? I’m going to get dressed and see about the luggage. I’ll meet you on the ground.”

“Can’t you wait for me?”

“I’ll be waiting — but outside. I want to see what kind of drilling gear they are unloading.”

“You care more about all those filthy pipes than you do about me.

“Absolutely correct — how did you find out? But this is a momentous occasion. If the thermal extraction techniques work, we may be pumping oil again. For the first time in over two hundred years.

“Oil? From where?” Aileen’s voice was distant; she was more interested in getting the thin blouse over her head.

“The ground. It used to be there, a lot of it, petroleum. Pumped dry by the Wreckers, oxidized and wasted just like everything else. A really beautiful source of chemical hydrocarbons that they just burned up.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea of what you are talking about. I always failed history.”

“See you on the ground.”

When Jan stepped out of the lift at the foot of the mooring tower, he felt as though he had walked through the open door of an oven. Even in the middle of winter the sun had a bite unknown in the north. After his exile in the frozen fens it felt good.

Bundles of pipes were being lowered now by the cable hoists. Drifting down slowly, bobbing slightly under the buoyant airship, dropping again to clang onto the waiting flatbed truck. For a moment Jan thought of applying for permission to visit the well site — then changed his mind. No. Holiday first. Perhaps on the way back. For the time being he must cleanse his mind of the glories of science and technology, and instead explore the more fascinating glories of Aileen Pettit.

When she appeared from the lift they strolled to the customs building hand in hand, enjoying the feel of the sun on their skin. A solemn, dark-skinned policeman stood guard at the customs counter and watched while Jan inserted his ID card in the slot.

“Welcome to Egypt,” the machine said in a contralto female voice. “We hope that your visit will be an enjoyable one… Mr. Kulozik. Would you be so kind as to press your thumb to the plate? Thank you. You may remove your card now. There is a message for you. Will you please proceed to exit four where you will be met? Next please.”

The computer dealt with Aileen just as swiftly. While the ritual welcome was being spoken it checked her identi­ty, verifying with her thumbprint that she was the person referred to on the ID card. Then making sure that the trip was an approved one.

They were met at the exit by a perspiring, sunburnt man in a tight blue uniform. “Mr. Kulozik and party? I’m from the Magna Palace, your honor. I have your bags aboard and we can leave when you are ready.” His English was good, but he had an accent that Jan could not place.

“We’ll go now.”

The airport had been built at the water’s edge and the small hovercraft sat on its pad at the end of the slipway. The driver opened the door for them and they climbed into the air-conditioned interior. There were a dozen seats, but they were the only passengers In a moment the craft rose up on the blast of air, then drifted down to the water and out onto it, picking up speed.

“We are now going south in the Gulf of Suez,” the driver said. “On your left you will see the Sinai Peninsula. Ahead, on your right, you will soon be able to see the peak of Mount Gharib which is one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three meters high…

“I’ve been here before,” Jan said. “You can save the guided tour.

“Thank you, your honor.”

“Jan, I wanted to hear it. I don’t even know where we are?”

“Did you fail geography as well as history?”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Sorry. We’ll be coming out into the Red Sea soon and making a sharp left turn into the Gulf of Aqaba where the sun always shines and it is always hot, except in the summer when it is even hotter. And right in the middle of all that lovely sun and water is the Magna Palace where we are going. You aren’t British, are you, driver?”

“No, your honor, South African.”

“You’re a long way from home.

“A continent away, sir.”

“I’m thirsty,” Aileen said.

“I’ll get some drinks from the bar.”

“I’ll do that, your honor,” the driver said, flicking onto automatic and jumping to his feet. “What will be your pleasure?”

“Whatever you suggest… I don’t know your name.

“Piet, sir. There is cold beer and—”

“Just the thing. You too, Aileen?”