Free The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber Page A

inside, he opened the fridge, verified that the empty ice cube tray was the only thing in it. An apple wouldn’t have been too much to expect, would it? Or perhaps it would. He kept forgetting how far from home he was.
    It was time to go out and face that.
    He got dressed in the clothes he’d worn yesterday – underpants, jeans, flannel shirt, denim jacket, socks, lace-up shoes. He combed his hair, had another drink of greenish water. His empty stomach gurgled and grunted, having processed and eliminated the noodles he’d eaten on the ship. He strode to the door; hesitated, sank to his knees, bowed his head in prayer. He had not yet thanked God for delivering him safely to his destination; he thanked Him now. He thanked Him for some other things, too, but then got the distinct feeling that Jesus was standing at his back, prodding him, good-humouredly accusing him of stalling. So he sprang to his feet and left at once.
    The USIC mess hall was humming, not with human activity, but with recorded music. It was a large room, one wall of which consisted almost wholly of glass, and the music hung around it like a fog, piped from vents in the ceiling. Apart from a vague impression of watery glitter on the window, the rain outside was felt rather than seen; it added a sense of cosy, muffled enclosure to the hall.
    ‘ I stopped to see a weeping willow
    Crying on his pillow
    Maybe he’s crying for me . . . ’ sang a ghostly female voice, seemingly channelled through miles of subterranean tunnels to emerge at last from an accidental aperture.
    ‘ And as the skies turn gloomy ,
    Night blooms whisper to me ,
    I’m lonesome as I can be . . . ’
    There were four USIC employees in the mess hall, all of them young men unknown to Peter. One, an overweight, crewcut Chinese, dozed in an armchair next to a well-stocked magazine rack, his face slumped on a fist. One was working at the coffee bar, his tall spindly body draped in an oversize T-shirt. He was intently fiddling with a touch-sensitive screen balanced on the counter, poking at it with a metal pencil. He chewed at his swollen lips with large white teeth. His hair was heavy with some sort of gelatinous haircare product. He looked Slavic. The other two men were black. They were seated at one of the tables, studying a book together. It was too large and slim to be a Bible; more likely a technical manual. At their elbows were large mugs of coffee and a couple of dessert plates, bare except for crumbs. Peter could smell no food in the room.
    ‘ I go out walking after midnight ,
    Out in the starlight .
    Just hoping you may be . . . ’
    The three awake men noted his arrival with a nod of low-key welcome but did not otherwise interrupt what they were doing. The snoozing Asian and the two men with the book were all dressed the same: loose Middle Eastern-style shirt, loose cotton trousers, no socks, and chunky sports shoes. Islamic basketball players.
    ‘Hi, I’m Peter,’ said Peter, fronting up to the counter. ‘I’m new here. I’d love something to eat, if you’ve got it.’
    The Slavic-looking young man shook his prognathous face slowly to and fro.
    ‘Too late, bro.’
    ‘Too late?’
    ‘Twenty-four-hourly stock appraisal, bro. Began an hour ago.’
    ‘I was told by the USIC people that food is provided whenever we need it.’
    ‘Correct, bro. You just gotta make sure you don’t need it at the wrong time.’
    Peter digested this. The female voice on the PA system had come to the end of her song. A male announcement followed, sonorous and theatrically intimate.
    ‘You’re listening to Night Blooms , a documentary chronicle of Patsy Cline’s performances of ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ from 1957 right through to the posthumous duets in 1999. Well, listeners, did you do what I asked? Did you hold in your memory the girlish shyness that radiated from Patsy’s voice in the version she performed for her debut on Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts ? What a difference