Half an hour after leaving Stansted, Little Tinningham appeared through the mist, a collection of ghostly houses, a church steeple, and, next to it, her father’s rambling thatched house. Her father’s company and the village where she had grown up were a refuge, a haven of familiarity and reassurance in a brash and complex world. When she had been with Charles, her visits had been far less frequent, but then, when he left, they had saved her sanity. She wondered if these trips were nothing more than a reversion to her childhood, a reaction to her husband’s leaving her. He was nearing ninety, and she knew that her visits would one day end. She could forget the modern world, the ceaseless influx of information, forget the space race that saw the superpowers staking claim after claim to chunks of Mars, Venus, and individual asteroids-switch off her implant and for two days at a time enjoy the company of her father. She tried to visit her father every month and, as always, it was like going back in time to an earlier, more innocent age. Stansted was as busy as Orly, but a few minutes after taking a taxi from the airport-as they left the A120 and took a B road north to Suffolk-she was staring out across open fields and peaceful villages consisting of clusters of thatched cottages. He’d smiled his insufferably arrogant smile and said, “No, Su, you just think you do.”Īnd so he walked out of her life forever.

Doesn’t that mean a damned thing to you? I love you, Charles!” He’d been offered the directorship of the mission: An offer too good to refuse, he’d told her, and almost off-handedly added, “And anyway, you and me . . . Sometimes, in her more paranoid moments, Suzanne wondered whether Charles had used the project as an excuse to leave her. Two years ago there had been nothing else on the science and technology newsfeeds but the joint Europe-US mission to send a scientific research station out beyond the orbit of Pluto-to map the vast universe beyond, as the pop-hacks termed the project. Thoughts of Charles made her wonder how the Heliopause Project was progressing. She summoned a retinal menu and selected a news channel. She felt a surge of relief, sat back, and closed her eyes as the take-off forced her back into the seat. She even wondered what her ex-husband was doing back on Earth when the man turned to speak to the hostess and she realised her mistake. Across the aisle she saw a big, silver-haired man in his forties, and for a second she thought it was Charles. Suzanne looked away from the window as the jet took off. She wondered why he needed to see her so urgently.

If the call had been from anyone else she would have replied instantly, but her father hated his days to be interrupted by “importunate calls,” as he called them-even from loved ones. She would be in the sleepy Suffolk village of Little Tinningham, if all went well, before the early December sunset. Then she booked a seat on the noon flight from Orly to Stansted and took a taxi to the airport. She rounded the story off with a couple of vox pops and some infographics, squirted the file to her editor in London, and then forwarded it to her street team to get the social buzz going.įolding her screen away, she sat back and replayed her father’s message, but she didn’t pick up anything new from his words or tone. She was in a borrowed apartment in Paris, finishing a piece about corruption in the European Parliament.

Series: The Tales of Gorlen VizenfirtheĪs soon as the recorded message pinged in her peripheral vision, she accepted and listened to the call on her cochlear implant.

Series: From the Lost Travelers’ Tour Guide.

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