by Simon Haynes
The screen went blank.
"Well, that's a turn up," remarked Hal. "We should pull this stunt more often. We saved thousands in duty."
"And shopped Clunk to a museum," said the Navcom.
"You let me do the explaining. I don't want him getting the wrong idea." Hal glanced over his shoulder as the lift doors swept open. "Ah, Clunk. How's the generator?"
"It'll hold together until we land."
"Good. Excellent. Listen, I was reading up on Ullimo and I discovered they have a museum."
Clunk's eyebrows rose. "Do you know what a museum is?"
"Of course I do. It's a place where they stick old stuff nobody …" Hal tried again. "It's where they display valuable antiques, so that people can appreciate their origins."
"What is your interest?"
"Well, I thought we could use a bit of culture."
"We could?"
"Sure! We're always dashing around, flitting from one planet to the next. We should take our time and soak up the history of these places."
"Are you feeling all right, Mr Spacejock?" asked Clunk in concern. "I've never heard you speak like this before."
"I just think we should enjoy every planet to the full."
"So we're going to this museum?"
"Absolutely."
"What about repairs to the ship? Unloading the cargo?"
"Oh, the ground staff can do those while we're gone."
"This museum. Are they paying people to visit?"
"Well, let's not stand around chatting," said Hal. "Oh, that reminds me. Can you call the guy who wanted the pango fruit? Tell him it missed the pick-up."
"It's in the hold."
"Not any more."
"Is that why you opened the cargo doors?"
"Yup. Customs wanted three days for clearance, so I spaced the lot."
"Did you tell them we had a certificate?"
"A what?"
"A quarantine certificate. I organised it with the forwarder before we left."
Hal's eyes narrowed. "Did you organise anything else?"
"Yes, I sent our manifest ahead. It saves time on arrival."
Hal closed his eyes. "Clunk, did I see a jetbike in the hold the other day?"
The robot nodded.
"Good. I want you to go out and fetch the boxes of fruit."
Clunk raised one eyebrow. "All of them?"
"No, just the red ones with bows on. Of course all of them!"
"But the contents will be frozen solid!"
"We've got twenty minutes before we land. Defrost them."
"How?"
"I don't know - stick 'em under the generator or something. Use your head."
The robot returned to the lift.
"Clunk," called Hal.
"Yes?"
"Next time you organise something, how about letting me know?"
The lift doors swished to, cutting off the robot's curt reply.
*
Clunk threaded his way between the large reinforced cages containing huge rolls of fabric. Near the back of the hold there was an empty space where the fruit had been. Clunk tutted to himself at the sight, and he was still clucking disapproval as he walked past the back doors to a waist-high enclosure in the corner. It was a large box with rounded corners, built into the rear bulkhead, and when Clunk opened the door he saw a gleaming white spacebike inside, clamped upright in its cradle. KleenAir Corporation had once been a mighty conglomerate with manufacturing standards second to none, but a cursory glance told him their ZoomMaster 4000 jetbike was a hastily conceived product designed to look good in glossy adverts. The swept-back windscreen was patently useless in a vacuum, and the padded leather seat was hardly necessary in zero gravity. However, the bike did have a tracker, and the oversized 3D display fitted neatly between the handlebars and the shield.
Clunk lifted the access flap and stepped into the enclosure. There was barely enough room to get a leg over the bulky jetbike, and how anyone was supposed to get aboard wearing a spacesuit … Clunk shook his head. All that room in the cargo hold, and they had to cram the bike into a tiny little launch tube.
He clipped his feet into the stirrups, then reached up and closed the flap. The instruments lit up and Clunk scanned the status displays: Fuel levels were fine, hydraulic pressure was optimal and the brakes were off. He gunned the motor, twisting the throttle to maximum, and the bike emitted a deafening roar as thrust poured from the jets.
It didn't move.
There was a treble-boost button alongside the throttle grip, for use in dire emergencies. Clunk pressed it.
For a split second it was like sharing his personal space with a box of exploding hand grenades. Thrusters belched in the small enclosure, and the heat was incredible. Through the shuddering vibration Clunk felt the bike lurch, and when he looked down he discovered it was still latched to the cradle. This was a safety mechanism to prevent over-eager pilots from gunning the throttle and ramming the jetbike straight into the thick door sealing the end of the tunnel. The thick metal ribs holding the bike down were bending forwards under the extreme forces, and even as the STOP impulse travelled from Clunk's brain to his thumb, they gave way.
From a standing start the bike took half a second to travel the first five metres towards the airlock door. By this time Clunk had released his thumb, reversed the throttle, applied both air brakes and stuck his legs out the sides to try and stop the runaway machine. The next four metres took a quarter of a second, with the bike slowing from over two hundred kilometres an hour to just under fifty. The final metre was a relatively pedestrian affair, as he brought the heavy bike to a stop in a whirling cloud of smoke and dust only millimetres from the inner door.
Clunk glanced back up the tube. Through the exhaust haze he saw a large scorch mark and bits and pieces of cradle, and he was suddenly glad that Mr Spacejock didn't inspect the ship very often.
He operated the inner door, eased the jetbike into the compact airlock and waited for the outer door to open. The haze thinned out, and then he was facing a jet-black disc of space, dotted with distant stars. He fired the engine and shot out of the tube, then activated the tracker. Immediately the display lit up with a dozen small blips and a huge area of solid green. Clunk aimed for the furthest crate and the bike leapt forward, leaving the freighter behind as it streaked towards the first target.
Chapter 8
Sonya strode along the maintenance corridor at the Ullimo spaceport, heading for the landing field. A heavy rucksack swung from her hand, with Dent's briefcase computer crammed inside. Not that it was necessary to hide the thing - it was just that she hadn't been able to peel off the inane smiley sticker.
She came to a security door, which opened smartly as she touched her palm to the contact. Outside there was a U-shaped collection of buildings surrounding half a dozen landing pads. The buildings were connected by covered walkways, their inward-facing windows heavily shuttered against the arriving and departing spaceships. There were two vessels nearby - a small flyer and a towering Delta class liner. A crane was busy with the latter, removing a section of hull over the right-hand engine while half a dozen mechanics lounged around watching.
A siren wailed and the mechanics downed tools and ambled away from the parked ships, chatting to each other and paying not the slightest attention to a growing rumble in the sky above them. They reached a door and filed inside, and there was a series of bangs as the shutters facing the landing field slammed shut.
Sonya darted back into the maintenance corridor, closing the door even as the panes darkened against the glare. The rumbling got louder, and through the black glass she saw a dim glow high in the sky. The building shook from the noise and the glow became a flare, then a flaming torch, then a rising sun, before it was obscured by billowing smoke and dust. The walls shook as the spaceship hovered above the landing pad, engines howling, and there was a solid thump when it set down. The engine noise tailed off, the shutters re-opened with a series of crashes and the glass
turned clear again, driving bright daylight into Sonya's eyes.
The Volante was an impressive ship, with sleek lines and a pure white hull. Hot air from the jets made the tailplane shimmer like a mirage, and a ramp began to extend from the airlock.
A door opened in the building opposite and several mechanics made for the ship. One was pushing a trolley with catering logos, another was dragging a length of fuel pipe and a third carried a large mallet over his shoulder.
Sonya donned her sunglasses, hefted the rucksack and went outside. As she approached the ship, one of the mechanics took his mallet and tapped it on the landing leg. He tilted his head to listen for the echoes, then nodded to himself and set the mallet aside. Pulling a grease-stained rag from his equally grubby overalls, he wiped his hands and approached the mechanic dragging the fuel pipe.
"Going to the game, Nat?"
"To see our lot hammered again? Gotta be kidding, Sam."
Sam sighed. "Gonna bet on the Woritans?"
Nat screwed up his face and spat on the rough concrete. "You see the odds, man? I'd rather chuck the money down a sewer." He stood back and stared at the landing leg through half-closed eyes. "You finished that fatigue test?"
"Yup."
"Swap, then."
As the men changed places, Sonya cleared her throat.
"Whatcher want, miss?" demanded Sam.
"Mr Curtis sent me to fumigate this vessel."
It was Sam's turn to spit on the concrete. "Curtis, huh? Okay, sprayer's in the shed."
Sonya resisted the urge to spit right back, turned on her heel and marched towards the door Sam had indicated. Inside she found a hazard suit which smelled like a football team, a helmet that smelled like a football team's socks and a large oval canister covered with warning labels. Sonya put the rucksack on the floor next to the canister and went to work with a screwdriver.
A few minutes later she was ready. Clad in the suit, wearing the helmet and with the canister strapped to her back, she went back outside, where she found Sam and Nat standing in a puddle of fuel, arguing over the fuel hose. "Excuse me!" called Sonya. "Can one of you call the ship and tell them I'm coming aboard?"
"Do it yerself," said Nat.
Sonya walked up to him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you through this helmet."
"I'm busy, call the ship yerself."
Sonya's knee flashed up, and a split second later Nat was rolling on the ground. Sonya turned to the second man. "Sam, isn't it?"
"I am, miss. I'll just call the ship for ya, miss."
"Thank you so much."
*
Hal leant back in his seat and took a deep breath. Although the computer controlled every aspect of landing with ease, he still got nervous each time the ship fell towards a tiny concrete landing pad. What if something went wrong? What if the thrusters failed? He reassured himself with the thought that modern spaceships were hand-built by robots, then caught sight of Clunk sitting next to him and immediately felt worse.
"Did you say something?" asked Clunk, who was busy scanning instruments.
Hal shook his head and gripped the armrests.
There was a bump and Clunk started throwing switches, cutting the engines and preparing the ship for a lengthy stay on the ground. The overhead lights flickered as the ground crew switched the Volante onto mains power, supplied by one of the assortment of cables, pipes and tubes now attached to the ship like oversized umbilical cords.
"I'm going to top the tanks up," said Clunk. "The gravity here is a fraction higher than standard, and we'll burn more fuel than usual when we leave."
Hal frowned. "I've always wondered - where does standard gravity come from?"
"Earth."
"What, the stuff you stand on?"
"No, Earth the planet."
Hal laughed. "Get away. Next you'll be telling me there's a moon called Moon."
"There really was a planet called Earth," said the robot firmly. "It was the birthplace of humanity."
"Really?" said Hal. "Where is it?"
"Nobody knows," said the robot. "There was an expedition once, but nothing came of it. Didn't they teach you anything in school?"
Hal shook his head. "I spent all my time making paper planes."
"Pity you didn't learn more about planets."
"Why?"
"Because it's not unheard of for spaceship pilots to learn a little about celestial mechanics and the laws of physics."
"Whoa!" Hal raised his hands. "Laws of physics? That crap's for the boffins."
The robot stared at him. "It's part of the training!"
"Negative, Clunk. They make the ship, I fly the ship."
"You don't fly the ship at all. You just tell the computer what you want."
"Something wrong with that?"
"It's not flying, is it? You might as well be ordering food from the AutoChef."
Hal frowned. "Don't talk to me about that thing. Anyway —"
A chime rang out from the console. "Incoming call," said the Navcom. "Orbit ground crew."
"Put them through," said Hal.
"Ground here. We gotta deconta - docan - dacci - er, we gotta spray yer ship. You need to git down here."
"Is that normal?"
"Sure. We do it all the time. Bugs 'n' stuff."
Clunk leaned forward. "I'd like to finish our landing procedures first."
There was a muttered exchange. "Okay, but you got to make it quick."
"We'll need at least ten minutes." Clunk cut the connection and continued working on the console.
"Where do they get these people?" asked Hal, who was still shaking his head in disbelief.
"Ex starship pilots."
"And I don't like the idea of them spraying gunk around."
"A quarantine sweep is probably just as well after our visit to Oliape II."
"Listen, I want you to forget we ever went there. In fact, I want to forget we ever went there."
"How can I forget anything? I'm a robot."
"I don't know. Erase bits of your memory."
"I can't …" Clunk frowned. "I don't think I can do that."
Hal laughed. "Sure you can. You've just forgotten how."
"Incoming call," said the Navcom. "Orbit ground."
"Again?"
"This call is from the office."
"Okay, put them on." Hal gestured at Clunk. "Go and tidy yourself up."
"What for?"
"You can't turn up to the museum looking like that."
"Volante, ground here. Please advise how you wish to pay for your fuel."
"On account. Didn't my computer send the details?"
"Yes, but the payment was declined."
"There must be a mistake," said Hal. "That's my trading account. There should be enough to cover it. Check it again."
"One moment, sir."
Hal waved Clunk towards the lift. "Go on, go and polish yourself." He brushed biscuit crumbs off his flight suit. "Personal appearance is important if you want to create a good impression."
"What's wrong with my appearance?"
"You're all dull. Now get moving."
Clunk opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a voice came through the speakers.
"I tried to process the transaction again, sir. It was declined."
"Okay, charge it to my ship."
"Certainly, sir. What's your Spacer's Guild number?"
"One two three four."
"One moment."
Hal waved Clunk away, and after a long, thoughtful look the robot departed.
"I'm sorry, sir. That number is invalid."
Hal tutted. "I must have misplaced my card."
"Then I'm unable to extend credit. How do you propose to pay?"
"How much do I owe you?" Hal turned pale as the operator told him. "What did you fill it with, mineral water?"
"Standard, sir."
"Last time it was half that."
"I don't set the prices sir, I just collect the money."
"Okay, okay. Navcom, give this guy my savings account number."
"Confirmed. Transaction processed. Your balance is now —"
"I don't want to know!" interrupted Hal.
"Minus seven hundred and thirty-three," finished the Navcom. "I have an incoming call."
"Who is it?"
"Pilots First Bank. Overdraft department."
"Get rid of them," said Hal hurriedly. "And get me the museum. I want to speak to the manager."
"Complying." The main screen showed a pair of rotating cogs beneath a company logo.
"Welcome to the Ullimo Museum," said a male voice. "How may I help you?"
"I need to speak to someone about an exhibit." Hal lowered his voice. "They're borrowing my robot."
"Can I say who's calling?"
"Hal Spacejock, from the Volante."
"You want Arlene. I'll just find her for you."
There was a slight hiss from the speakers, and a few seconds later an elderly woman appeared on the screen. She had a large, cheerful face and a mass of grey curls piled up on her head, held in place with a clip shaped like a clam. "Captain Spacejock?"
"That's me. Are you Phillip's aunt?"
"Arlene, please. Phillip told me all about your robot, and we're simply thrilled. It's so kind of you."
"It's nothing, really."
"Don't be so modest! Phillip told me about you, too. The rugged starship captain, the lone entrepreneur fighting red tape, the successful businessman —"
"I do my best," said Hal modestly.
"And then there's your legendary generosity."
"Eh?"
"Shall we discuss your donation over dinner this evening?"
"No!" Hal stared at the screen. "I mean … I can't. I've got a cargo to deliver. Central Bank. Paperwork. You know how it is - we entrepreneurs never stop."
"Such a pity. Never mind, we can discuss the matter when you deliver the robot."
"How do you want me to get him there?"
"I suggest a cab. They'll deliver to the door. See you soon!"
"And, er, about the fare …"
But the screen was blank.
Chapter 9
Hal and Clunk emerged from the Volante's airlock and stepped onto the passenger ramp. Together they strode towards the ground, enjoying the early morning sunshine. The Ullimo spaceport was set into a valley between majestic snow-capped mountains, and in the clear morning air Hal felt he could almost reach out and touch them. Closer to the ship a large passenger liner was being serviced, and the spaceport buildings beyond it were designed to blend in with the wooded slopes.