100TWC - Day 62: Irregular Orbit

"Excuse me," Marcus said quietly, attempting to squeeze past the errant trolley which had drifted out to block almost the entire aisle while its temporary owner stretched to the bottom shelf to retrieve essential supplies.

"I'm sorry," said the owner, clutching a three-pack of Fray Bentos as he straightened up and turned to give Marcus an embarrassed smile. The smile died on his lips, replaced by a half-puzzled, half-incredulous look.

"Marcus?" he said hesitantly. "It is Marcus, isn't it? Fancy bumping into you!"

Marcus looked more closely at the man's face. That is to say, he continued to look in much the same way as he had before, only this time he devoted more of his attention to the visual signals. Nevertheless the added brainpower he brought to bear made no difference. He did not recognise the tanned and bearded stranger that stood before him.

"Yes, but--"
"Fenton," the man offered, stretching out his non-corned-beef-holding hand and thereby releasing the trolley which rolled even further into the aisle before being stopped by a stack of baked beans, on offer that week at four for a pound. "Fenton Grainger. Remember? Beauforte House?"

The words trickled through Marcus' language centres like overripe bananas. Beauforte House was a good clue, of course. The old company training house where he'd spent several painful weeks on and off over the last thirty years of his career. But Fenton Grainger? No bells there.

"The Sales and Marketing sheep dip," Grainger continued. "You must remember."

Ah, that explained it. Marcus had never had much time for marketing twaddle, and when the company had decided that everyone - all their managers, salesmen, technical staff, even all the architects and programmers - would benefit from a basic grounding in Marketing (always with a capital M), they had all been forced to spend an agonising week at the Beauforte House training centre in deepest, darkest Berkshire. And as soon as he had returned from that week, Marcus had tried his damnedest to blank the entire experience from his mind.

"I'm so sorry," he began, suddenly aware that he had been woolgathering for almost a minute and the man -- Grainger -- was still stood there with his mouth half open and his hand held out. Marcus took it. A slightly damp, slightly too limp grip. He shook and let go quickly, suppressing a shudder. "I remember the course, well, that is to say I remember going on it -- not so much the content -- but I'm afraid the name doesn't ring a bell. Sorry," he repeated.

"Oh that's OK. I shouldn't be surprised really. I looked an awful lot different back then," Grainger blustered. "No beard. Almost certainly no tan. And as far as I can remember, about a hundred pounds heavier."

Marcus squinted slightly, his mind's eye trying to picture the man in front of him with those new parameters.

"Oh, and red hair of course," he added, ruffling his sweaty hand through his wild pepper-and-salt locks.

The penny dropped! Gringer! Of course. Such flaming ginger hair as Marcus had never seen before or since, and which had led the others on the course to corrupt his surname in merciless taunting. Gringer the Ginger.

"Fenton Grainger!" Marcus exclaimed, hiding his inadvertent internal humour at the resurgence of the memory. "Now I remember. How are you? What have you been doing in the... er..."

"Almost twenty years," Grainger offered. "Where does the time go, eh?"
"Indeed."
"Never did much with Marketing after that."
"You and me both. In fact as far as I know, no-one did. Hardly surprising really though is it? Weren't we all techies that week?"
"Apart from Rickman," Grainger reminded him, holding up a finger as he bent to retrieve his trolley and dump the tins into it. "He was sales I think. Kept himself pretty much to himself."
"Ah yes. I vaguely remember," Marcus lied. "So, what have you been doing the last twenty years? If not Marketing."
"I've been off-world," Grainger whispered conspiratorially, pointing to the ceiling with his still-raised finger.

Marcus looked around, thankful that there were few other shoppers about this early in the day and trying quickly to think of an excuse to cut the conversation short.

"That's where I got such a good tan," confided Grainger. "Stuck in orbit around Vega with a worn-out UV shield."
"Right. Sounds hairy."
"You're not joking," Grainger laughed. "Hence the beard. The Vegans don't believe in shaving. By the time I got back, I'd quite got used to it."
"And you lost weight on account of their food, eh?" Marcus offered, having not come up with the excuse he was searching for yet.
"You've tried it?" Grainger asked, surprised.
"A lucky guess."
"Ah. Well, you'd know what I mean if you had tried it," Grainger continued. "Almost a year on nothing but water and seaweed. That's one thing I did change when I got back."
"Understandable. Look, I'm sorry to cut this short -- it's been great to see you again -- but I have to get all this done before I start work for the day, so I'll have to--"
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," Grainger said, smiling. "I'd suggest going out for a pint to catch up, but I'm off again tomorrow."
"Back to Vega?" Marcus asked nonchalantly, as if it were the most normal place to return to.
"No! Wouldn't go back there if they paid me double! No, it's a different kind of trip altogether this time."
"Oh?"
"Staying exactly where I am, geographically speaking."
"OK. So what kind of trip is it?"
"I'm heading five thousand years into the future," Grainger said, raising his finger again but pointing it ahead of him, down the aisle.