by Karl Beecher
One of the doctors sidled up to Hanson and his guests. He was a middle-aged man with a very respectable air about him, generated largely by his respectable attire and very respectable beard. Hanson greeted him with a warm handshake, then introduced him to Colin as Doctor Gunga.
“My, my,” said the Doctor, who seemed cordial but at the same time nervous. “You’ve finally arrived.”
“Hello,” said Colin.
He proffered a hand. Doctor Gunga stared at it as though it were a chocolate cake, and he were on a strict diet.
Hanson elbowed him. “Come now, Doctor, shake the man’s hand. It’s not a holy relic.”
Gunga gave an anxious laugh. “Delighted to meet you,” he said, finally taking Colin’s hand with the very gentlest of embraces. “I hope you’ll have a pleasant stay with us.”
“And this,” said Hanson, “is Tyresa Jak from Ceti. She brought Mister Douglass to us.”
“Good day, ma’am,” came Gunga’s very curt greeting.
Tyresa began to reply, “Nice to mee—”
“Well now,” continued Hanson, cutting her off. “I guess it’s over to you, Doctor Gunga. I’m afraid I have places to be right now, but I’ll return real soon, Mister Douglass, to see how you’re settling in. In the meantime, you think of anything I can do for you, you hear? It goes without saying that when your procedure is over, I expect you to be a guest at my home. So long now and blessings upon you.” He grabbed Colin’s hand and gave it a firm shake, then turned to Tyresa. “Ma’am, can I offer you a ride back to the spaceport?”
Colin’s stomach tightened. It suddenly dawned on him that he was in a hospital and that there were rules here. He had unthinkingly assumed Tyresa would accompany him everywhere. It had never occurred to him that she might have to leave. It was like the first day at primary school, being handed over to strangers and about to witness his mother walking away.
“No, thank you,” said Tyresa.
“Oh,” replied Hanson. “You mean you’re staying on-world for a while? Well, in that case, I’m sure I could drop you wherever you’ve arranged to stay.”
“I’m staying here with Colin.”
Colin felt relieved, which actually surprised him. But then he noticed Hanson and Gunga exchange uncertain glances.
“Well, now.” Hanson hesitated. “I’m, uh… not so sure about that. How to say it? Around here, it’s, uh… well…”
Doctor Gunga interjected. “What he’s trying to say is: it’s a policy that women in the hospital be accompanied by a man. Not counting our nurses, of course.”
Tyresa put her diplomatic face on again. “I appreciate that, but I am ultimately responsible for Colin. My people would be alarmed if I left him, even in your capable hands. Besides which, I have a male chaperone.” She pointed at Colin.
The two Abramans exchanged glances once more.
Finally, Hanson smiled an uncertain smile. “Well, now, Doctor Gunga, I suppose that sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? These people are our guests, after all. You can accommodate their wishes, I’m sure.”
“Very well,” said the Doctor, looking most unamused. “I’ll ask someone to arrange accommodation for you. But please, ma’am, do try to confine yourself.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” said Tyresa flatly.
The Doctor wandered over to a nearby reception desk to make the arrangements.
“Excellent,” said Hanson. “That settles it. I’ll be away now. Like I said, Mister Douglass, if there’s anything you need, I’ll be back soon, and you’ve only to ask. Goodbye now!”
Their host strode away, pausing briefly to jovially greet a couple of passing doctors before disappearing through the exit.
“I don’t like that guy,” mumbled Tyresa. “Strange vibes. He seems to want something from us. More specifically, from you.”
“But what?” asked Colin.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to keep my eye on him.”
28
“Mokk!” yelled Inspector Tiffin. “What on Erd are you doing?”
The muffled voice of Trainee Officer Mokk, from the other end of the passageway, came back. “I can’t find my book, sir!”
“Forget it. We’ve got work to do.”
“But, sir…”
“If you don’t come here this instant, Mokk, I’m leaving you behind on the ship.”
He heard a mumble, very likely an insubordinate one.
“Mokk!”
With a sigh, the young apprentice appeared in the passageway looking typically flustered and unkempt. He reflexively tidied his uniform when he noticed Tiffin’s piercing glare.
“What book are you referring to, anyway?” asked Tiffin.
“My Procya excursion guide.”
Tiffin straightened up even straighter than he already was. When this mission was over, he was going to send this boy back to remedial training.
“This is a mission, you idiot, not a sightseeing tour.”
“I know, sir, but you never know, we might get some time to see some of the temples. Apparently, they’re lovely—”
“We will not be wasting time with tourism.”
Mokk looked horrified. “Tourism, a waste of time, sir? They wouldn’t be happy back home to hear you say that.”
Touché. Tiffin felt his left eye twitch. “That’s not what I meant. And you will not repeat my remark to anyone.”
Tiffin jabbed the button beside the exit ramp. The air-tight seal released and the suspended ramp lowered to reveal the spaceport outside.
“It teaches you about the culture too,” said Mokk as they disembarked down the ramp. “I’ve never been to Procya before, so I want to make sure I behave right. I don’t want to offend anyone.”
The poor sap would have no choice in that matter, thought Tiffin. The very sight of him was offensive.
“Listen, Mokk. There’s little you need to know about Abramans aside from that they’re primitive, superstitious troglodytes and they welcome outsiders as enthusiastically as they welcome haemorrhoids.” They reached the end of the ramp and stepped onto terra firma. Tiffin gestured at the spaceport interior: a large, dismal, grey hangar. “Truly, one of the real shitholes of the galaxy.”
“Be fair, Inspector. You can’t judge a world by its spaceport. They’re not designed to be pretty.”
Tiffin looked around the relatively empty hangar. Aside from an old freighter at the far end, his ship was the only one present. He began to scheme.
The first order of business was to determine whether the Ceti ship had already landed. It would also be helpful to obtain information on the ship’s occupants. That would be on the spaceport roster, which was privileged information. He needed to persuade a technician to let him take a peek. Tiffin could see only two in the whole hangar. One of them, an older, heftier man at the far end, was chatting on a communicator. The other, a skinny lad, was milling around a tool chest near the bow of Tiffin’s ship. The young one was the much likelier target: young usually meant timid and pliant, as well as an earner of low wages.
“Follow me,” Tiffin told Mokk, “and play along with whatever I do.”
“Right-ho, Inspector.”
“You there!” hollered Tiffin as they approached the young technician. It always did well to establish early who was in charge of the situation.
The lad started and looked at them.
“Me, sir?” the lad blurted. He had a wide-eyed gaze and gripped a sonic spanner tightly with both hands.
“Yes, you,” said Tiffin in his finest authoritative voice. “I require your assistance, lad. I’m presently seeking a friend of mine, and we arranged to meet on this planet. His name is Colin Douglass. Are you acquainted with the gentleman?”
The lad thought for a moment. “Don’t know that name, sorry.”
“Are you sure? He came in on a ship from Ceti.”
Then Tiffin noticed something in the lad’s face. A flash, a flicker, a trace of recognition. Something had occurred to him, Tiffin could
see. Spotting the knowing expressions on people’s faces was all part of the Inspector’s training (Module 24: Micro-Behaviour in Liars, Frauds, and Vagabonds).
“Well,” the lad said, “we’ve had a couple of Ceti ships come through in the last few days. That’s one of them over there, in fact.” He pointed to the vessel at the opposite end of the hangar.
Tiffin looked at it. That one? An old Lightfoot that resembled a metallic bread bun? There was only one way to find out. He spied the tablet computer hanging from the lad’s belt. No doubt, the roster was accessible via it.
“Ah, yes,” said Tiffin, “that could be his vessel. Would you mind if I took a quick look at your roster to make sure?”
The young man’s face became apologetic. “Sorry, I can’t give out passenger information. That’s private.”
“Of course.”
It had come to this: the gratuity. Tiffin smiled and pulled a wad of the local currency from his jacket.
You could say what you liked about paper money. It may have been archaic, but there was no better way to bribe people. On more advanced planets who’d long since abandoned it, bribing via electronic transfer was always so awkward.
“What’s your name, lad?” asked Tiffin.
“Um… Spudge.”
“Well, Spudge,” said Tiffin, “about that roster.” He licked a thumb and began to count off several notes. His knowledge of the exchange rate was rusty, but he was sure he’d counted off a week’s wages for a grunt technician.
“It’s not a matter of money,” the lad said.
“I’m sure of that,” said Tiffin. A hard bargainer, eh? He counted off a few more notes and waved them under Spudge’s nose. “Then again, there must be two weeks’ wages here, Spudgey, my boy.”
He looked for the subtle signs of capitulation: a biting of the lip, a lingering stare at the cash, maybe even a little drooling if he was really poor. But there was nothing.
“I’m sure there is, sir, but rules are rules. Sorry.”
Tiffin was taken aback. This grease monkey was refusing perhaps the easiest easy money he’d ever earn, simply because of his mindless obedience to the rules? Tiffin’s respect for him ballooned in an instant.
But, respect or not, Spudge was still an impediment. Tiffin scrambled quickly for a change in strategy. He found one when, from the corner of his eye, his spotted one of maintenance panels on his ship’s hull.
“Oh, you misunderstand me,” gushed Tiffin. “I was going to say: ‘About that roster, forget it.’ I’m sure I’ll find my friend another way. I was offering you this because I wanted you to repair something on my vessel.”
Inwardly, he congratulated himself on such a smooth change of strategy. He looked at Mokk, hoping the apprentice was taking mental notes on this masterclass. He quickly came to doubt it when he saw that Mokk was staring at the ceiling and scratching his crotch.
Spudge looked cheerful. “A repair? I can do that for you, sir. It’s part of my job. It’ll get added to your bill automatically.”
“All the same,” Tiffin said, reaching to stuff the notes into the lad’s top pocket, “here’s something for your trouble.”
Spudge held up a firm hand before the money could go in. “No, really, sir. I’d prefer not.”
This kid really was an odd one.
“What are you?” said Tiffin, slipping the wad back into his overcoat. “A rich philanthropist slumming it, or something?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He reached over to his ship’s hull and grabbed the handles of a panel located just below an exhaust vent. With a twist and a tug, the panel came off to reveal several thick cables.
The young technician recognised it instantly. “The secondary coolant system for your landing jets.”
“Yes,” said Tiffin. He pointed at Mokk. “My assistant here tells me we experienced a temperature spike during the landing and believes the coolant pump has a blockage. Isn’t that right, Mokk?”
Mokk perked up. “Huh, what?”
“Exactly,” said Tiffin. “What do you think, Spudge? Blocked?”
“Dunno, yet,” he replied. “Easy enough to find out.”
Just as expected, the young technician unscrewed the central cap of the coolant pump and started to inspect the mechanism. Time to make the key move.
“Of course,” Tiffin said, reaching towards the pump, “I’ve tried the diagnostic switch here already.”
“No, please,” said Spudge, “don’t press th—”
Click!
Too late. The diagnostic routine had been activated, and the coolant pump buzzed into life. It began to circulate coolant, but with the cap now removed, the luminous purple liquid shot all over the floor in spurts. The three men leaped backwards.
“Oh dear,” said Tiffin, scarcely even bothering to feign surprise. “What a clumsy one I am! Should I switch it off?”
“No, don’t get too close,” replied the lad. “The coolant can burn your skin.” He stepped gingerly, avoiding the spurting coolant and reaching towards the panel. “Besides, you need to reset flow control before you can turn off the diagnostic.”
Tiffin knew all this, of course. It would take a few moments of careful work to shut off the coolant.
“Don’t just stand there, Mokk,” Tiffin bellowed. “Help the lad!”
His gormless assistant jumped to Spudge’s aid, pressing the wrong buttons when prompted and turning valves in the wrong direction. Tiffin knew Mokk’s ‘help’ would only lengthen the whole process.
With the leaking ship absorbing all the lad’s attention, Tiffin’s filching of the tablet from Spudge’s belt went unnoticed.
All too easy.
Tiffin called up the roster, a record of all ships passing through Procya. The list appeared on the primitive little computer’s screen. Just two ships registered to Ceti had arrived in the last couple of days. He tapped on the first one, a light freighter named SS Turtle. A message appeared:
LOADING…
Damned, archaic Abraman piece of crap. Precious seconds passed as the device’s pathetic CPU struggled along, until the ship’s details finally appeared onscreen. The passenger list contained just two names:
JAK, TYRESA
DOUGLASS, COLIN
Bingo!
He tapped on Colin’s name, which brought up some details and a passport photo. Tiffin committed the image to his memory.
The other name was unfamiliar to Tiffin. Presumably, this was his Cetian escort. Best to know what she looked like too. He reached to tap on her name…
“Hey!”
With his attention absorbed by the computer, Tiffin had failed to notice the coolant had stopped leaking. He looked up to see the red-faced young technician.
“That’s mine!” Spudge yelled, reaching for the computer. “Give it back.”
Tiffin shoved the young whelp back with one hand, and with the other held the tablet behind his back. “Just a minute, my lad, this is important.”
“I said, give it back!” He lunged at it, but the taller, stronger Tiffin kept him at bay.
“Calm down, Spudgey boy, or I’ll— ow!”
Pain shot up the arm Tiffin held behind his back. He tried to yank it around, but he couldn’t. Someone had taken hold of it.
“What’s going on here?” roared a voice from right behind Tiffin’s head.
“Grizzel,” moaned the lad. “This guy has taken my tablet.”
Tiffin felt his hand being emptied. Finally, his arm was released, and he spun around to see who or what had been restraining him. He wasn’t altogether certain it was human. A domesticated species of ape maybe, one they’d overfed and taught to use tools, but whatever he was, he was now holding the tablet.
“Why’d you take this?” growled the man accusingly.
Tiffin nursed the sore flesh on his wrist and examined Grizzel. While he could doubtless prevail against the man thanks to his training in superior and sophisticated fighting techniques (Module 18c: Hand-to-Hand Combat A
gainst Ruffians and Defenceless Civilians), violence would do his mission no good. This one was all about remaining low-key and in the shadows. He’d have to forego teaching this particular ruffian a lesson.
“I didn’t take his tablet,” Tiffin said innocently. “It fell on the floor, and I picked it up for him.”
Spudge piped up. “He was looking through it, Grizzel, reading the roster. He’d already been asking me about ships from Ceti and their passengers.”
Tiffin tried to chuckle amiably, but even he knew that a robot without AI could do a more convincing job of it. Tiffin genuinely laughed about three times a year—four, if that year’s exam results had featured a high failure rate among cadets. “The boy’s mistaken,” he said.
“I’m not,” protested Spudge. “Look!” He held up the tablet, which displayed a list of ships from Ceti.
The old technician glared at Tiffin, expecting an answer. “Well?”
Niceties weren’t working. Tiffin instead decided to take a stab at some indignity. “Oh, I see,” he insinuated. “The grease monkeys all close ranks when one of their own messes up.”
“Messes up?”
“Yes.” Tiffin pointed to the panel and the pool of coolant on the floor. “This incompetent clown of yours broke my coolant system.”
“I never!” exclaimed Spudge. “He ran the diagnostic cycle after I took the central cap off.”
Grizzel stepped forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with Tiffin. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said, his foul-smelling breath wafting over Tiffin’s face. “Calling my lads liars and unskilled. I’ll tell you this: that lad’s clever. He understands more about ships’ systems than you’ll ever know. Now, I suggest you drop all this and go about your business. Keep it up, and I’ll call spaceport security. Clear?”
Indignity thus joined nicety as a failed stratagem. There was always the violent approach—images flashed into Tiffin’s mind of his civilised martial arts easily besting the grease monkey’s swinging fists—but he restrained himself. The mission came first.