Chapter 11

Robert Strachan:

I came to Andromeda early on. I mean, it was an ideal opportunity and there was little to keep me on Earth. Yes, certainly there was plenty to occupy an ecologist, but on the other hand there are plenty of committed, enthusiastic people available to tackle the environmental issues. I was divorced, no kids, my parents dead, so I jumped at the invitation. That was before the falling out. I’m still not entirely sure what that was about. But Andromeda was a challenge. A depleted ecology, except in the seas. No large predators, no large herbivores, just a few small rodent analogues. And some insects and reptiles.

As we set up the colony, we gave careful thought to what we could introduce without destroying what was left of the original ecosystem, part of that being what Terran species, endangered at home for habitat loss, we could make room for. I was part of the team which was distributed about the planet to study everything, and when Andromeda was sidelined by the Council, I and some of my colleagues, stayed. We had plenty to do. Our needs were met by Andromeda, and our curiosity was satisfied too.

Anyway, by the time everything was settled between the Council and Andromeda, or at least, theoretically settled, I’d been assimilated and had no desire to return to Earth. A trickle of immigrants had begun even before, but strengthened after. I was partnered with a middle-aged woman, a pharmacist. Very knowledgable in her field, in fact, particularly in respect of plants with medical applications. The partnership made sense, and we got on quite well.

She was a few years older than me, not particularly striking, comfortable in her own skin. Our collaboration worked, and we travelled together, collecting and identifying specimens. Back at base, I was her lab assistant, watching, recording, fascinated by her findings.

She produced – and taught me to make – tablets and syrups. We dried herbs and flowers to make infusions. We ate together in the mess hall.

One afternoon, I commented, “There’s a concert tonight. You going?”

“Got to,” she laughed, “my son is playing piano. They’re performing ’Carnival of the Animals.’

“Your son?” I hadn’t realised she had a son.

“Bernie,” she hesitated, “has Down’s. He’s partly why we’re here. He’s quite able, socially, but has a gift for music.”

“You didn’t mention him before?”

“I don’t care for the explanations. Bernie stands on his own two feet. In fact, he’s in the ASN Marines. My husband walked out when we got the test results, back on Earth, when I was pregnant.”

“Bastard,” I muttered, sotto voce, but she heard me anyway.

“Better this way,” she said, “better than living with resentment over the necessary adjustments to our lives. Honestly, I’m proud of my son, of what he’s achieved, of who he is.”

I nodded. “I’ll be there,” I said. “I go anyway, usually, if I’m home. Perhaps we might sit together?”

She smiled, and it transformed her face. “I’d like that,” she said.

The concert. It’s not a large ensemble. Not more than two of anything. No harp (one came along several months later) A piano, amateur singers. The audience assembled, and the musicians filed in. A selection of solo offerings or duets. Bernie’s offering was the Humoresque. An interval, where nearly everyone sampled Gladys Ross’ beer, then we settled in for the main event.

Fourteen movements. Piano, strings, woodwind, reeds, brass, percussion. Bernie on the piano performed flawlessly, at least to my ears. Then the penultimate part. A cellist stepped forward. Syretia, Hex Finch’s wife, the Promethean. She played The Swan. As she finished I definitely heard a couple of claps as somebody started to applaud and cut it off. Yes, it was good. The finale came and went, and as the last notes faded, there was silence for several moments, then almost as one, everyone stood and clapped enthusiastically.

Anya Finch, at the podium, turned and bowed, then turned back and pointed to individual or pairs of musicians for them to stand and bow in response, each time the clapping intensified. Finally, the entire ensemble stood together and bowed.

When the applause didn’t die, Anya turned back to the ensemble, who sat once more, the audience quieted, and they repeated the finale as an encore.

We didn’t leave immediately. Like some of the others in the audience, we waited to greet members of the ensemble. Bernie came to us, held out a hand.

“Robert Strachan, I presume?”

“Indeed. And you’re Bernie Taylor. I was impressed with your playing. The whole concert, actually.”

“I love it,” he said cheerfully. “The Carnival is great fun. I thought Syretia did really well.”

“She did,” I agreed. I walked with them to their quarters, where I was invited in for tea, actually a camomile analogue which Yvonne had identified with a little help from me.