Gay City and Other Stories, Alan Keslian [early readers txt] 📗

Gay City. You have seen the research facility. The potential exists to produce entire new species able to survive in other regions of the universe where environmental conditions are very different to those on our own planet. Already life can be prolonged through tissue and organ regrowth, the main procedures which keep me alive. If work to regenerate an individual from a small number of specialised cells is successful, death may soon be a thing of the past. Our advances in these fields are major benefits which we would bring to our relationship with Gay City.'
'Yes Gay City is very interested in your research programmes. Certainly you have made a huge investment in the medical field. There are differences though. You have a declining population and concentrate resources on a few privileged individuals. Gay City's population is growing and there is more emphasis on medicine which will prove of wider benefit.'
'But surely for a few of your people, for the elite, long term preservation of life would be worthwhile. You could maintain access to the talents of your most gifted citizens.' He held his left arm out towards me. 'Look at this hand. Fifteen years ago it was withered by age, useless; but look now, the sense of touch has returned to my skin; there is blood flowing once more through my veins.'
He became very excited as he showed me his renewed hand. His breathing became erratic, speeding up briefly into shallow quick gasps, then faltering into drawn out suckings and blowings. As he moved his arm I glimpsed a series of tubes running beneath the oddly cut jacket, presumably part of his life support system. Behind him I heard a click as concealed doors swung open and one of his doctors appeared.
In his now faltering artificial voice he struggled not to loose his dignity altogether. He apologised for ending the interview so abruptly, and hoped that I would take good reports back to Gay City. He told me that I would always have a second home there, whenever I chose to return. The motorised chair or throne on which he sat began to move under him. It pulled him away from the table, turned him around, and conveyed him through the recently opened doors. At the back of the room or laboratory I could see a large tank like a great green glass coffin resting on a stand. Presumably he was in urgent need of some treatment or life support system not available from his chair. Within a minute the woman who had met me when I arrived at the airport was by my side.
On my way back to the space station I could think only of Rostan. He was a different individual, a different person, from my old lover, and I had no grounds to expect him to have further interest in me. Yet I badly wanted my future to include some form, any form, of contact with him, whether as a lover or as a friend. I wondered how difficult it would be for me to arrange another visit.
Later, when I looked down from the space station to the blue oceans of the planet far below, and later still when I looked out at the sea from my apartment, I could think only of the deserted jetty Rostan had shown me on the security screen, stretching out endlessly into a steel blue sea.

PRATS DE MOLIERE

Monsieur and Madame Hulot, proprietors of the Hotel des Promeneurs in the little town of Prats de Molière in the Pyrenees, have successfully attracted a number of English visitors by advertising in the Ramblers’ Association magazine. Guests are presented with a little booklet in English with maps and directions for walks in the mountains and valleys around the town. There is also a large ruled book intended for the British visitors to record their comments. The following entries were made during the second week of May 2003. Neither Monsieur nor Madame Hulot has more than a few words of English. If they had they might well have carefully cut out these pages, to avoid the curious impression they give of the type of client they attract.

Simon and Jemima Plumb, Purley. – Arrived here on honeymoon at end of a long and not entirely trouble free day. On her way to church, Jemima unfortunately pierced her finger on a rose thorn in her bouquet, necessitating the application of a plaster, which made it very difficult to put on the wedding ring. Regret to say that my efforts to force it over her injury caused her to shriek loudly during the crucial part of the ceremony.
On our way back down the aisle, I accidentally trod on the hem of her dress, pulling free a loop of frilly lace which, later in the bedroom, caught around her neck and almost throttled her as she was changing into her cami-knickers. Whilst these were not major disasters, they were a shame as everyone had worked so hard to try to make it the perfect day.
Glad to report that all went well on the journey down here, but must own up that during the first few days we did not get out of the building to try any of the walks. When we eventually set off we were unfortunately caught in a downpour and decided to try a short cut back to the hotel, though it was described in the booklet as very steep. The path zigzagged perilously downwards over mud, slippery rocks and sodden tree roots, and Jemima slipped over backwards four times (not funny!). Helping her up from the last of these – she had landed with such a thud she squealed – I pulled a muscle in my upper thigh, the last thing you want to happen on a honeymoon. Hotel staff sympathetic and helpful when we returned, and a fellow guest, Mr Lilliman, kindly offered to massage my thigh, but due to the hazardous nature of the recommended short cut can only award the holiday six points out of ten.

Clarice and Toby Pottering, Henley-on-Thames – Hotel comfortable and welcoming, food excellent, lovely countryside and excellent guidance on routes including several over mountain passes. However have to comment that maintenance of footpaths generally is a disgrace. Many are badly overgrown with patches of brambles and nettles. Others have been made hazardous by accumulations of loose stones, and still others eroded by watercourses. Clarice and I are veterans of Mount Kinabalu in Malaya, where the whole route is properly maintained by parties of locals working around the clock to ensure any deterioration is promptly put right. We have also walked the Inca trail in Peru, which rises to an altitude far higher than the Pyrenees, but despite thousands of years of use througout history there is no sign of the negligence of pathways found here in Prats de Molière. If the Malayans and Peruvians, poor countries in comparison, can maintain their footpaths properly, why can’t the French?
PS – from Clarice Patterson. Endorse what Toby has said, but would also mention that the hotel does not cater exclusively for walkers. One couple here are so large they can hardly shuffle from the bar to the dining room!
Also the shower in our room. No doubt all very clever of the French to invent an all in one cubicle where hot water comes from half a dozen different nozzles, with shampoo, shower gel and even hot air to dry you off are all available via the high tech control panel, but I began to wonder if I pressed the wrong button it might turn into an express lift and shoot me up to the next floor!

Hilda and Ron Bartmunster, Harrington – Were planning a week much closer to home but hotels in Scarborough were, surprisingly, all booked up. Especially disappointed that there were no rooms at the Grand, where they have a bowl of prawns on the bar to help yourself to with your pre-lunch drink – you need to get there early, they don’t last long!
Came here to Prats on recommendation of work friend of Ron’s (Instant uPVC Replacement Windows Ltd – top discounts!) who is a fanatic for the countryside. General standard of hotel acceptable but do not know how other people can praise the food. We are not impressed by the much vaunted French cuisine. Portions also very stingy; we have had to compensate by ordering additional courses, for which we find we are to be charged extra. The Coquille St Jaques we had as a starter yesterday was not nearly as yummie as the shellfish we buy at a stall Ron found at the south end of the viaduct in Scarborough. Can’t wait to get home to our usual Indian restaurant.
Tried one of the walks, but had to turn back due to the most enormous stinging nettles we’ve ever seen. We bought Ron’s shorts specifically for this holiday, but just going near the vicious leaves of those plants brought his legs up in horrendous red blotches. I’ve been worried enough about his varicose veins, without him having bright red hives superimposed on top of them. Not a word about this hazard in the hotel’s booklet. Staff had no idea where the path we were complaining about was; kept insisting the field was no more than a few hundred yards away metres as the Frogs call them, when it was obvious to Ron and I that we had walked miles.
Next day decided to drive into nearby town, which the booklet said had more shops and several restaurants; well there were a few more compared to Prats, but that’s not saying much, there was not even a single Indian. Although we drove round the one way system five times there was NOWHERE TO PARK THE CAR!!! Nothing for it but to go back to the boring cuisine of the Hotel des Promeneurs. Tried the sun-beds put out on the lawn so we could lounge and enjoy the panorama of the mountains. Ron had hardly begun to settle himself on his when one of the legs broke – obviously flimsy French manufacture. We propped it up with rocks, but before we had finished our first glasses of Pernod a heavy shower came on. Hotel staff had done absolutely nothing to warn us this was coming. Decided we had had enough of France and cut the holiday short. We will take turns at driving and should get back home in time to take our regular Friday night table at the local Indian, The Bombay Banquet. Really looking forward to our supersize pertions of chicken Vindaloo; we certainly won’t be washing it down with French wine.

Ursula Batty and Gudrun Merryfeather, Hove – Holiday recommended to us by a friend – like us a regular at the Klondyke Bar. Prats has fully lived up to all expectations, if not exceeded them. Found walks quite adventurous, wonderful streams in mountains, even passed a pocket of melting snow on the longest of our treks. Only possible crib, and it is not a crib really, is limited choice of filling available for lunchtime sandwiches, cheese or ham, or both! Luckily on the fifth day Ursula spotted some cute little edible mushrooms in a meadow – she is something of an expert – and we picked and sliced some up to liven up our meal.
Somehow afterwards we must have taken a wrong turning, for we strayed into what appeared to be a weird kind of theme or wildlife park. Thought my eyesight had gone when a Giraffe’s head peered at us through the trees. You don’t realize how big their faces are until you see one staring straight at you a few feet away. Further on we found ourselves in the middle of a herd of rainbow coloured zebra, must have been genetically engineered, or coloured