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106 pages

English

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Description

Written in near-diary format, this is probably one of the

greatest epic adventures ever told. Adapting to life in the

more advanced human world of Vluvidium, Tony shares it

all with the Reader, “as he lives it”, while relentlessly rising

through its social ranks; propelled by fate, circumstances, and

some of his “attributes” ... But more than Power and Wealth,

he seeks to understand the ultimate Why of it all, without

betraying his roots or allegiances.

Taken from Earth seemingly by chance, Tony and Vera

find themselves on board the giant Interstellar Vessel “The

Guardian”, heading for Vluvidium, in the system of Alpha

Centauri. Naturally apprehensive at first, perhaps from all

the UFO abduction stories we hear, they soon realise that

their fears are unfounded, after learning the reason for their

predicament. And with supportive newly found friends, they

embrace the idea of voluntary integration.

Informations

Publié par	Book Printing UK
Date de parution	01 octobre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781906352202
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0002€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE VOYAGE

Vluvidium Collection
Volume 1 The Voyage
Copyright © Tony AMCA/ The Caldeira Family 2018 All Rights Reserved © 2018 Tony AMCA – All Rights Reserved. (Second Edition 2018 - © 2018 The Caldeira Family)
Unauthorised reproduction of the whole or part of “The Vluvidium Collection”, names and/or characters, or the manufacture and commercialization of any products derived from the Story, is forbidden and will be an infringement of Copyright.
THE VLUVIDIUM COLLECTION is a work of fiction and the mentioning of any names/statements, made by/attributed to known Public Figures are only in the context of the story and should not be considered factual, or of historical value.
The rights of Tony AMCA/ The Caldeira Family to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced, adapted, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author or publisher.
Spiderwize
Remus House
Coltsfoot Drive
Woodston
Peterborough
PE2 9BF
www.spiderwize.com
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
The views expressed in this work do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Copy Edited by Christina Willis 2013
Designed by Camilla Davis
ISBN: 978-1-906352-13-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-906352-20-2

VLUVIDIUM
VOLUME ONE
"THE VOYAGE"

(Original Version 2nd Edition)

TONY AMCA

I dedicate this book to the memory of my Father

For best enjoyme nt of your
"VLUVIDIUM COLLECTION"
Given the unusual names of some of its characters and places, each follow-on Volume contains an alphabetical list of the names used in the previous Volume/s (what they are, mean, or r elate to).
Because of the cumulative information contained within each volume, we strongly recommend that your reading should start from Book 1 (TH E VOYAGE)

CHAPTER 1
“SHABBY”
England, June 1974. (Sunday 7 a.m.)
The City of London.
I opened the office window to air the room and contemplated the familiar view for a few moments, with that vague excited feeling of departure day. The early summer morning was cloudy and typical of London, mild and neutral, like the average day of a perpetual season, with the distant hum of city sounds from all around for company. It was the first day of my long-awaited holiday on the south coast of Cornwall, but I felt in no hurry.
Inside, the kettle had boiled and I returned to the couch with a hot coffee, ready for an overview inspection of the room in between sips. It had been a long year, made even longer by the crazy routine of getting up at three on weekday mornings, to erase any sleep traces and avoid the cleaning lady, along with the scandal this would have caused. The savings made however, had helped to get what I needed to transform the old Cottage into some sort of future home, and now, it was all down to my untested D.I.Y. skills, assuming the materials had been delivered as promised.
After the usual triple check around the room, I locked the office door and made my way to the street where I had left the green Austin 1100, relentlessly pursued by the rolling rattle of an empty beer can. It was good to find the car still where I had parked it and complete with four inflated wheels! I placed the two suitcases of clothes on the back seat, squeezed the night sack in the boot among the tools and switched on the ignition, while going through a final mental checklist of es sentials.
A few minutes into my journey the sky grew darker and by the time I reached the Bayswater road the first drops of rain began to fall, quickly turning into a heavy downpour that brought the traffic to a near standstill. The Sunday Painters were rushing in all directions to rescue their exposed works hanging from the Hyde Park railings, and nearby, a bunch of walkers that huddled by a hot dog van made me think of a family of penguins making space on a tiny iceberg. “The good old English summer!” I thought… That enigmatic time of the year remained as unpredictable as ever and an endless source of spe culation.
Continuing west through suburbia, the locals were up to their Sunday rituals en masse; the men lovingly washing their cars, awaiting opening time at the pubs perhaps, while the women would most probably be in their kitchens, preparing the traditional Sunday roast. The world seemed at peace with itself, but for the Portuguese Carnation Revolution and all the predictions of doom and gloom from the car r adio news.
Out of London, the weather slowly turned into summer and I stopped en route by a small countryside petrol station, for some fuel and anoth er coffee.
“There’s your change, love,” said the smiling little old lady with a lively twinkle in her eye, as I finished the drink.
“Thank you.” I accepted the coins sh e gave me.
“You’re not from these parts, are you?” she asked hesitantly, making me feel like a fresh cake in a bake ry window.
“No, just passing.” I confirmed, trying to ignore her visual inspection. “Are you always open o n Sunday?”
“Every Sunday. Oh, yes,” she emphasised. “I only live upstairs… And since my husband passed away… it keeps me occupied, you see.”
“Well, it’s good to know… For the next time I come this way,” I added with a smile, getting ready to leave.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…” she went on, with unashamed curiosity. “Where do you c ome from?”
“Portugal,” I replied with pride, gradually moving towards the exit.
“Oh! You must be worried, with all that’s going on there.” She insisted on making con versation.
“It will be OK,” I reassured her. “I need to be on my way now. I’ll probably see you soon. Thanks.”
“Bye, love. And take care… See y ou soon.”
I got in the car with a clear conviction of what might have killed her husband and regained the road west to my destination, after returning her wave.
The radio played the sounds of Glen Miller this time and Enoch Powell made another passionate speech on immigration. England seemed forever nostalgic for the “Battle of Britain” years and the media would never waste an opportunity, however subliminal, to try and perpetuate that feeling of camaraderie and unity, reminiscent of the War years. This obsession with individuality had always attracted me to the Country and its people, from the driving on the other side of the road and different measuring units for everything except time, to the complicated process of currency decimalisation, resisted by all those who found it far less complicated to divide a pound by 20 and again by 12, rather than simply by 100, not to mention t he Guinea!
Between daydreams and blanks, almost three hours later, I finally reached the turn-off into the narrow and dusty coastal road to my journey’s end, a couple of miles on. I slowed the car down to snail’s pace and opened the window fully, to take in more of the sea air. It was late afternoon and in places, some of the sand particles that glittered under the warm sun seemed to whisper the word Welcome, as if giving me a message of joy and inner peace from the great beyond...
By the entrance gate of the property, heavy tyre marks on the muddy soil reassured me that the materials had been delivered, and I drove on up the densely wooded driveway with renewed enthusiasm, enjoying every single bump to the top of the small hill, where the ground then levelled to reveal the cottage, some twenty yards away from the cliff’s edge. “Home at last” I let escape aloud, parking the car in the front yard, next to where the delivery men had dumped all the stuff.
The place sat in two hectares of land, between the dusty coastal road and the sea, well secluded from outside view. On the road side, old chestnut trees and undergrowth gradually rose to a small orchard of pear and apple trees to the west, and southwards from the top of “Chestnut hill”, the cottage stood in splendid isolation in the middle of a plateau, with a drop of some fifty feet to the sea below, contrasting with a gentler incline onto its sandy beach bay to the east.
The grounds had been completely neglected for some ten to fifteen years and the cottage for at least five. In fact, the actual building was perhaps more of a small farm house than a cottage, with two floors and a huge external crack top to bottom on the bay side. The front door faced west on to the yard, where some aged rusty machinery had accumulated and scattered over the years, and I decided to enter the house for a quick look round before emptying the car.
A flight of stairs, four or five feet from the front door led up from an open plan living-dining room, illuminated by two windows; one facing the front yard in the west and the other east overlooked the bay. In the middle of the south wall there was a large fireplace, to the right of which, a door opened into a kitchen, with wide tiled windows that looked out over the cliff, typical of the 1920s and ‘30s. A water closet could be reached from th e kitchen.
The livin