rested his forehead upon the wall as he relieved himself into the porcelain. ‘Two weeks,’ he muttered. ‘Two bloody weeks. My head’s full of static.’
He was washing his hands when he heard a voice coming from the far room.
‘That you, Damien?’ he yelled. No response. ‘That you, Damien?’ Nothing.
Leslie appeared cautiously around the bathroom door. He peered down the corridor and listened. All he could hear was static rasping into the gloom at its far end. He was sure that he had heard a voice, so he looked for a weapon in case of attack. He decided on an old poker that sat in an adjacent room next to a long disused fireplace. Stealthily, he returned into the corridor and, as quietly as he could, crept along it towards the radio room. Slowly, he poked his head around the corner. He could see no-one. The white-noise still spewed from the small speakers, but apart from that, nothing.
‘Damien?’ he repeated, hoarsely. His heart was pounding. He held the poker menacingly in front of him. Crime was rife in this city and he was no hero.
Step by cautious step he entered the room, turning his head this way and that, threatening space with his extended poker.
Then, to his utter amazement, the static noise suddenly ceased and he heard a voice, an English voice, loud and clear through the speakers.
‘This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. Come in, please. Come in. We copy you, whoever you are. This is U.K. 1. Can you read me? Over.’
For a second or two Leslie couldn’t believe his ears. He stood with his mouth agape and the poker still menacingly before him. He dropped it and raced to the computer microphone.
‘U.K 1,’ he spluttered, ‘U.K. 1. Hello. Hello. Over.’ Leslie held his hand to his head in disbelief and he stared at the stars through the hole above him as he listened.
The voice came again, ‘Who is this? Over.’
‘This is Leslie Woodford,’ he replied. ‘From Corporate City. Over.’
‘From where? Over.’
‘Oh sorry,’ stammered Leslie, ‘from Sydney. Sydney, Australia.’
There was a moment’s silence and for one or two awful seconds Leslie thought that he may have lost the satellite. But, not so. The operator opened the microphone at the other end and suddenly Leslie could hear cheers and whoops of delight thundering across the globe. He was startled, until the operator’s voice came back to him again, more loudly this time, to keep above the din.
‘Sorry, old man! Hold on!’ he yelled. ‘Keep it down everyone!’ and the background party noises quickly diminished. ‘Sorry about that,’ he explained. He sounded very British. ‘But this is our first contact with Australia. Everyone here is very excited. Are there many of you? Over.’
‘Several hundred thousand, I think,’ Leslie replied. He was in a dream, but he pulled himself together for a pressing question. ‘Have you contacted other cities? Over.’
‘Twenty two. You make it twenty three,’ the voice replied, ‘but you’re the first from the southern hemisphere.’
‘Who else do you know of?’ asked Leslie. He was beside himself with excitement. He was the first man in Corporate City in well over a century to hear the voice of a foreigner.
‘We have Washington, New York and several other cities in the western hemisphere; Baghdad, Teheran and a few more cities in the Middle East; some of the major European centres and quite a few across Asia, including Rangoon, Beijing and Tokyo. Welcome to the world. Over.’
Leslie was choked up. He had tears rolling down his face. He was besotted with the love of discovery and the greatness of revelation. He yelled out with delight, but he didn’t open the microphone to let London hear his joy.
‘Where do we go from here? Over.’ he asked when he recomposed himself enough to speak again. There was a quiver in his voice and his stomach felt like someone had been wrenching it from the inside and was trying to get
He was washing his hands when he heard a voice coming from the far room.
‘That you, Damien?’ he yelled. No response. ‘That you, Damien?’ Nothing.
Leslie appeared cautiously around the bathroom door. He peered down the corridor and listened. All he could hear was static rasping into the gloom at its far end. He was sure that he had heard a voice, so he looked for a weapon in case of attack. He decided on an old poker that sat in an adjacent room next to a long disused fireplace. Stealthily, he returned into the corridor and, as quietly as he could, crept along it towards the radio room. Slowly, he poked his head around the corner. He could see no-one. The white-noise still spewed from the small speakers, but apart from that, nothing.
‘Damien?’ he repeated, hoarsely. His heart was pounding. He held the poker menacingly in front of him. Crime was rife in this city and he was no hero.
Step by cautious step he entered the room, turning his head this way and that, threatening space with his extended poker.
Then, to his utter amazement, the static noise suddenly ceased and he heard a voice, an English voice, loud and clear through the speakers.
‘This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. Come in, please. Come in. We copy you, whoever you are. This is U.K. 1. Can you read me? Over.’
For a second or two Leslie couldn’t believe his ears. He stood with his mouth agape and the poker still menacingly before him. He dropped it and raced to the computer microphone.
‘U.K 1,’ he spluttered, ‘U.K. 1. Hello. Hello. Over.’ Leslie held his hand to his head in disbelief and he stared at the stars through the hole above him as he listened.
The voice came again, ‘Who is this? Over.’
‘This is Leslie Woodford,’ he replied. ‘From Corporate City. Over.’
‘From where? Over.’
‘Oh sorry,’ stammered Leslie, ‘from Sydney. Sydney, Australia.’
There was a moment’s silence and for one or two awful seconds Leslie thought that he may have lost the satellite. But, not so. The operator opened the microphone at the other end and suddenly Leslie could hear cheers and whoops of delight thundering across the globe. He was startled, until the operator’s voice came back to him again, more loudly this time, to keep above the din.
‘Sorry, old man! Hold on!’ he yelled. ‘Keep it down everyone!’ and the background party noises quickly diminished. ‘Sorry about that,’ he explained. He sounded very British. ‘But this is our first contact with Australia. Everyone here is very excited. Are there many of you? Over.’
‘Several hundred thousand, I think,’ Leslie replied. He was in a dream, but he pulled himself together for a pressing question. ‘Have you contacted other cities? Over.’
‘Twenty two. You make it twenty three,’ the voice replied, ‘but you’re the first from the southern hemisphere.’
‘Who else do you know of?’ asked Leslie. He was beside himself with excitement. He was the first man in Corporate City in well over a century to hear the voice of a foreigner.
‘We have Washington, New York and several other cities in the western hemisphere; Baghdad, Teheran and a few more cities in the Middle East; some of the major European centres and quite a few across Asia, including Rangoon, Beijing and Tokyo. Welcome to the world. Over.’
Leslie was choked up. He had tears rolling down his face. He was besotted with the love of discovery and the greatness of revelation. He yelled out with delight, but he didn’t open the microphone to let London hear his joy.
‘Where do we go from here? Over.’ he asked when he recomposed himself enough to speak again. There was a quiver in his voice and his stomach felt like someone had been wrenching it from the inside and was trying to get
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