Art Pact 135

Jones and Forester walked out onto the edge of the desert, past the last of the squat prickly shrubs that clung onto the dry land around the mountains. Just shy of the furthest point that the shadow of that tenacious plant stretched, they spread out their blanket and lay down, placing the containers of food between them to form a little wall against intimacy.

Jones, sun-toned by her years at the outpost, lay face up and draped her hands over her eyes to shield herself from the insistent sun, from the endless light blue reaches of the sky. Forester lay face down on his side of the blanket, close to the musty smell of the wool that had been stored badly throughout the winter and the drier scent of the fine sand.

"I heard from Carly today," he said to the tartan fabric, and across the little wall of food Jones took one hand away from her face, and - turning on her side towards him - used it to prop herself up.

"Oh? How is she?"

"Pretty freaked. They're saying on the news that it might be another four months until a plane gets out here."

Jones rolled onto her back again.

"Hmm," she mused.

"You think Chris is lying?"

"About the plane? No... No. I mean, in a way I kind of want him to be, but no."

"I know what you mean."

She propped herself up again, regarded the young man with fascination.

"You do?"

"Sure," he said, without looking over. "I mean, he's been such a dick you just want him to be wrong about something, or you want him to be lying because he's sure to be exposed, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah! That's exactly it."

He awkwardly twisted up his right arm so that he could give her a thumbs-up.

"Told you I wasn't just a pretty face."

"I didn't think of it like that before," she said, "but you've hit it on the head. I do want him to be wrong. I do want him to get his comeuppance. Just - you know, not like this. I'd rather keep my indignation and for us all to be home. Hmm, or would I?"

"You're not that cruel."

"No," she admitted. "I couldn't do that to you and Carly."

"Or Nigel," he said. "Jesus, did you see him in the all hands this morning?"

"God, yes. I thought there was going to be - you know." She mimed, punching the sky with a balboa rhythm of two quick jabs followed by a slow hook. "Chris looked like he was going to have a heart attack."

"They've got to get him out of here. Soon."

They fell silent, still staring in their opposite directions. Jones saw a black speck zooming against the featureless expanse of sky and for a moment thought it a plane before realising that it was just one of the dry grey crows that eked out their precarious living from the station's detritus. On the woollen blanket Forester watched one of the tiny iridescent desert beetles clamber through the tough forest of hairs and make its way from one edge to another before disappearing beneath into the cool shadow beneath.

The desert was quiet - unnaturally quiet, perhaps, next to the low din in the station. The cooling generators were louder than the heaters had been over the winter, and everywhere within there was the constant murmur of discontent, of people wondering how long it would be before their fuel ran out or the rescue plane came or before one of Chris's edicts tipped the module seven biologists over the edge into outright rebellion. There it was hardly possible to hear yourself think, but out in the desert Jones and Forester could hear each other's breath, and without knowing it as they relaxed they slowly began to drift into a lazy synchronisation, albeit out of phase so that each deep in breath Forester made from the must-scented air that clung to the blanket was paired with a warm damp breath out from Jones that sent an invisible little plume of moisture up into the bone-dry desert air.

Eventually Forester's hunger got the better of him, and he levered himself away from the ground into a pushup and walked his legs in to bring himself into a low crouch. He had left an impression in the sand and blanket bearing the rough shape of his body, into which a tiny avalanche of sand poured from the back of his trousers.

"What do we have, then?" he asked.

"Apples," Jones told him, pointing to the container that had been between their heads, then counting off each of the thick plastic-ceramic pots in turn until she reached the one between their hips: "Bread rolls with butter, yoghurt, rice cakes, baklava."

"Nice," Forester said, nodding appreciatively, then: "uhh..."

"No nuts in the baklava," she said. "I didn't forget. Just honey and pastry. It's not quite right, but I tried a couple when I was making them. They're fine."

"I'm sure they're excellent," he said, fishing a roll out of the second container.

"I got the recipe from Carly."

"Eh?" He looked surprised.

"From her website, I mean," Jones quickly amended.

Forester brushed a little area of the blanket clear of the fine sand that had by that point covered everything, carried there by some otherworldly wind too light for them to feel, and set down his roll on the blanket, one bite out of it. He opened the container of baklava, quickly plucked up one sweet and ferried it whole into his mouth hurriedly, as if he were trying to do it before he could come to his senses. He chewed - slowly once, then again, then swallowed and smiled.

"Nice," he confessed. "I mean, I assumed it would be nice, but - I don't know, maybe my subconscious thought otherwise." He frowned. "Carly's never made these for me."

"Oh?" Jones looked away. On the far distant horizon, swimming towards them in the heat haze, she was surprised to see a car.

"I wonder why," Forester said, picking up another of the sweets and examining it carefully.