by Simon Haynes
"I'm aware of that, but why are you giving me the money?"
"Come on, hop in," said Hal as the car drew up. "Quick, or you'll get wet."
"But —"
The door sprang open and Hal bundled Clunk into the car. "Try and get the fare back off the museum."
"But Mr Spacejock —"
"Ask for Arlene, she'll look after you." Hal closed the door and leaned through the open window. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."
Clunk looked up at him. "But —"
"But what? The repairs are booked and unloading is progressing nicely."
"But —"
"But nothing. See you this afternoon." Hal slapped the window, and the cab shot away from the landing pad. As it drove off he waved at the astonished face peering through the rear window. Once the car was out of sight, he made his way back to the ship.
"Is the air safe?" he called through the airlock.
"There is no perceptible variation from the usual chemical composition," said the Navcom.
Hal made a face. "It smells like old socks."
"Precisely."
Hal entered the flight deck and made himself comfortable. "Once the generator's fixed we'll have to find out where to collect the bank's paperwork."
"You're really going to perform the cargo job on your own? Is that wise?"
"Relax, I'm in charge of this one. Anyway, I've got no choice. Clunk's halfway to the museum by now." There was a buzz from the console. "That must be the repair team. Right on time."
"Shall I let them in?"
"No, tell them to use the tradesman's entrance."
"We don't have a tradesman's entrance."
"Tell them to come up the cargo ramp. No, cancel that. They might steal something. Tell them I'm coming down."
"You can tell them yourself if you like," said the Navcom. "They're listening on the intercom."
Chapter 10
Still dazed by the sudden turn of events, Clunk was decidedly uneasy as he watched the Volante recede into the distance.
"First time on Ullimo?" said a warm female voice.
"Yes." Clunk stared at the driver, a copper-coloured robot wearing a faded blue cap. "Excuse me, but could you turn the cab around?"
"I'm afraid not. The human said I was to take you to the museum."
"But I don't want to go there."
The driver shrugged, squeaking slightly. "I have my orders."
Clunk sat back in the padded chair, his brain whizzing. Why was Hal sending him to the museum alone? And who was Arlene? He glanced out the window. They were driving alongside a stream, with foaming water cascading between narrow banks. On the far side, several large animals were grazing in a field, and as the car hurtled by they raised their heads to watch, their liquid eyes expressionless as they chewed rhythmically. Clunk frowned at them. If he had to choose a pet for himself, cows would be at the foot of the list - a list currently headed by man-eating tigers.
Suddenly the scenery vanished, replaced by a scrolling line of red text almost a metre high: This view sponsored by KleenAir Corporation. For advertising, contact …
Clunk shook his head. He'd seen visifences before, but this one had fooled him completely. Looking down, he spotted the bottom edge three or four metres from the road, the image carefully blended with the gravel and weeds to disguise the join. Behind it, no doubt, was the local slaughteryard, or a row of derelict factories, or a polluted industrial wasteland.
He looked away and realised the car was approaching the city, which was nestled between the mountains at the head of the valley. The road led through a massive glass corkscrew: soaring loops of steel which held countless panes of mirror-finish glass in a frozen embrace. Clunk craned his neck to get a better view as they shot underneath, but the car entered a narrow tunnel.
The driver glanced over her shoulder. "I hear they're getting some clapped-out robots in for the display. Are you helping to set them up?"
"No, just visiting."
"Lucky you. I was almost one of the exhibits."
"Really?"
"The museum asked my boss if they could borrow me. He refused point blank. Said I was essential to his business." The driver shook her head. "Imagine standing there all day with sweet wrappers stuffed in your knee joints, sticky hand prints on your legs … Still, I'm sure they'll deactivate the robots before they put them up. Poor old things - probably their last chance for a spot of fame."
Clunk said nothing. Pieces of information were moving around in his head, but they wouldn't quite mesh. "Did they offer to pay your owner?"
"No, they wanted a free loan." The robot laughed. "Fat chance."
"Tell me, who's running the exhibition?"
"One of the museum directors … a local woman."
"Her name?"
"Arlene Farquhar."
Clunk stared. "Are you certain?"
"I'm a taxi driver. We're never wrong."
Mr Spacejock couldn't have … He wouldn't have! Despair washed through his circuits. Hal most certainly would have.
The car entered a park, all grass and no trees. Vehicles of all kinds zipped across at different heights, avoiding collisions by millimetres. The cab zoomed across the park and plunged into another tunnel, hurtling through it for several minutes before slowing sharply, pressing Clunk against invisible restraints. When they emerged from the far end, they were barely moving.
The car pulled up to a platform and stopped. "Seventeen credits," said the driver. "Enjoy your visit."
Clunk peered up at the museum. It was an imposing structure carved from blocks of concrete, with deep-set windows and an ornate entry. It reminded him of a prison.
"My next client is waiting. Please pay and exit the vehicle."
Still in a daze, Clunk handed over the money. "Keep the change," he said automatically.
"Thanks."
The doors opened and Clunk climbed out of the car. It zipped away with a loud hum, breaking his last link with the Volante. Resigned, he crossed to the entrance and raised his hand to the panel, but before he could touch it the doors opened by themselves. Inside, Clunk found a large entrance lobby with a high vaulted ceiling. There was a counter on the far side, and when he reached it he saw an elderly man behind the desk. The man looked up, peering at him through thick spectacles. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Arlene."
The man smiled. "Ah, the old robot. I'll call her for you. Sit down, take the weight off your feet."
"That won't be necessary," said Clunk.
"As you wish."
While he waited, Clunk pondered the situation. Mr Spacejock had planned the whole thing behind his back, which was a shock because he thought he'd covered the human's every move. The Navcom was supposed to be his ally, and yet there hadn't been a hint of warning! Clunk's lips thinned. They'd have words over that.
A nearby door swept open, and Clunk saw a large, grey-haired woman advancing on him.
"Where's Captain Spacejock?" she asked, looking around her as if Hal might appear out of thin air.
"He's attending to the ship. I'm afraid he couldn't be here."
"What a pity. I so wanted to meet him. Still, you're the one I really want." The woman grabbed Clunk's chin and turned his head, inspecting his profile. Then she pulled his jaws open and looked into his mouth. "You'll do. Follow me, please."
She set off for the main entrance, walking fast. "It's not far," she called over her shoulder, "but if you can't keep up just call out and I'll slow down. Don't be embarrassed - after all, this is a museum. We're used to old things here."
Clunk drew himself up. "With respect madam, I'm half your age."
*
Hal stood before the airlock door, a look of concentration on his face as he ran through several quick apologies. "Did I say steal? I meant heal," he muttered. "Oh, I thought you were the other mechanics!" He frowned and tried again. "Sorry guys, that was my robot talking. I had him junked."
After trying out another couple of excuses he gave
up and prodded the button. As the door opened he stepped back, ready for anything. The first thing he saw was an elderly man with a large toolkit in one hand and a small lunch pail in the other. He was dressed in faded overalls, and his name tag identified him as 'Tom'. Behind him, a gangly youth was strolling up the ramp. The young man's overalls were clean and pressed, his cap was set at a jaunty angle and he had a pair of wraparound sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
"SorryitwastherobotIgotridofit," said Hal.
"Hang on a tick," said the old man loudly. He set the toolbox down then reached up to his ear and twiddled. "Try now, son."
Hal breathed a sigh of relief. The old coot was deaf. "I said, are you here to fix the ship?"
"I ain't delivering milk, son." Tom gestured at the youth. "Come on, you lazy sod!"
The young man raised his middle finger and slowed his pace to a crawl.
"Can't get the help nowadays," said Tom. He glanced at Hal, his eyes bright blue under shaggy grey eyebrows. "Watch him, he'll help himself to anything what's loose."
"Eh?"
"Danny. Thieving little beggar." The mechanic hefted his toolbox and entered the airlock. "Nice piece of kit," he commented, looking around. "I usually fix the older ones. Break down more often." He tapped his ear. "Sorry about the hearing - I had to turn it down when a ship took off. Now, tell me about the problem. Generators, right?"
Hal nodded. "First they got hot, then they stopped. Then they started but got hot again. Then they stopped again."
"Sounds like the armature. Never mind, we'll have you right in no time."
A shadow fell across the flight deck as Danny sauntered in, sunglasses pushed back over his dark, wiry hair.
"Make yourself useful," growled Tom, holding the toolbox out to him.
Danny eyed the box for a moment or two, clearly deciding whether such manual labour was beneath him. In the end he reached out a languid hand and took it casually. His superior expression changed to one of alarm as the heavy toolbox caught him by surprise, and there was a crash as it slammed into the decking between his feet.
"You just can't get the help," growled Tom, shaking his head.
Hal led them to the lift and ushered them in. The floor dropped away and a few seconds later the doors opened on the lower deck. "This way," said Hal, striding along the passageway. He palmed the access pad and the engine room door slid open.
"Phew-eee!" exclaimed Danny. "It smells like a zoo down here!"
"You been putting organics in the fuel?" demanded Tom.
Hal frowned. "I didn't mess with anything. You can check the logs if you like." He touched the light switch but nothing happened. "Navcom, what's with the lights?"
"Unknown fault," said the computer. "Would you like me to create a repair docket?"
"No need," said Tom. "We'll take a look after we've dealt with the generators."
Hal stared into the engine room, but all he could see was the shadowy bulk of the main drives, glistening in the light from the corridor.
"On the right," said Tom.
Hal led the men into the engine room and up to a small, heavy door. It opened silently, revealing a pitch-black alcove. Hal reached in and activated the light, blinking in the sudden glare.
"Nice pair of Rikoff-Sangs," said Tom, pushing past. "Very unusual for these to go wrong."
Danny set the toolbox down and opened it. Tom extracted several instruments.
"What are those?" asked Hal, who was leaning against the door frame.
"Probes," said the mechanic. He plugged two into the control panel and laid another on the nearest cylinder. Next, he took a pair of headphones and a mallet from the toolbox. After placing the headphones over his ears, he raised the mallet and brought it down sharply on the generator housing.
"Hey!" cried Hal. "It's damaged enough already!"
Tom removed the headphones. "What's that, son?"
"Why are you hitting my generator?"
"Why don't you attend to your duties?"
"My what?" Hal blinked. "Oh, er, yeah. Duties. I'll go and attend to some of those."
"That's the go." Tom turned to his assistant. "Hand me the bigger one, lad."
*
The recreation room had always been a source of disappointment to Hal. To him, 'recreation' meant pool tables, a dartboard and a fully stocked bar. To the Volante's designer it meant a bookshelf, two armchairs and a reading lamp.
Apart from these modest entertainments, the rec room contained the ship's AutoChef: a jet-black cabinet with a touch screen, a speaker grille and a dispenser slot. A KleenAir Corporation product, the AutoChef could dispense boiling soup to all points of the compass and drive meatballs the size of hand-grenades through panes of toughened glass. It also had a nasty habit of misinterpreting orders - not only had Hal consumed enough chocolate mouse and lamb pissoles to last a lifetime, he was also carrying bruises from a particularly vigorous serve of tea and stones. Speaking clearly didn't seem to help - it was as though the AutoChef understood a completely different language.
Hal positioned himself at a safe distance and addressed the machine. "Give me a double cheeseburger with fries," he said, which seemed like a phonetically safe choice.
The machine beeped and the screen displayed a juicy hamburger and a plate of chips. "Please confirm your order," said a metallic voice.
"Go ahead," said Hal, his mouth watering.
The AutoChef hissed and burped like a snake with indigestion. "Please call service with code C6."
"What?"
"Please call service with code C6."
"What does that mean?"
"Please call service with —"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard." Hal reached for the commset on the wall. "Navcom?"
"Yes, Mr Spacejock?"
"What's error code C6?"
"Obstruction in the dispenser."
Hal sidled up to the machine, lifted the flap and withdrew a squidgy white ball. "What the hell's this?" he demanded, sniffing the object.
"According to my records, it's an orange," said the Navcom.
"It can't be. It's all white!"
"Mould," said the computer. "Our landing must have dislodged it from the chute."
"What was it doing there in the first place?"
"You must have ordered it and forgotten to consume it."
"Not me," said Hal, tossing it in the bin. "I hate the things."
"Perhaps you ordered something which rhymes with orange?"
"Oh yeah?" Hal put his hands on his hips. "Like what?"
"Like er … er … er …" There was a crackle and the overhead lights flickered.
"Navcom?" called Hal.
"Boot sequence initiated," said the computer. "Requested information unavailable."
"Don't bother. I'll deal with it myself."
The AutoChef whirred and shuddered, and soon Hal could smell frying onion, cooking meat and hot bread. His mouth watered some more, and then the machine beeped and a green light shone in the corner of the display panel.
Hal peered in the slot. Inside, a soggy-looking bun sat on a curled paper plate. He took it out and opened the bun, revealing a narrow strip of meat-coloured goo. "Thirty-five centuries of technology, and this is the best we can do?"
The AutoChef beeped again, and several dozen fries cascaded from the slot, straight onto the carpet. Hal picked up one of the curly grey shapes and frowned at it. "Is this supposed to be a chip?" he demanded, as it fell in half.
The AutoChef beeped.
Still muttering to himself, Hal scooped up the fries and took his meal to an armchair. He put his plate on the armrest, turning away to select a title from the bookshelf. When he turned back the plate was gone.
Hal gaped at the empty armrest, then leaned over the side of the chair to look at the equally empty floor. At that moment he heard frenzied snacking sounds from directly behind the armchair, as if someone were thoroughly enjoying his meal.
"Danny," muttered Hal. He reached over the back o
f the armchair and grabbed a generous handful of hair. "Come out of there, you thieving little monkey!" he shouted, hauling the offender upright. His eyes widened as he saw his catch: an orange ape, about a metre in height, with soft, downy hair, an oval face and large brown eyes. The eyes stared at Hal in shock, and his heart sank as realisation dawned. It was one of the creatures from Oliape II.
The ape whimpered, pawing at his hand. "All right girl, it's not your fault." Hal let go, and the creature ducked down and began stuffing fries into her mouth. "Hungry, eh? That's it, eat up."
The ape sniffed around for the last crumbs then looked up, licking her lips.
"A drink, eh?" Hal turned to the AutoChef. "Give me a chocolate thickshake."
"Unknown food or beverage."
"Milkshake. Chocolate."
The AutoChef hissed and burped. "Please call service with code C9."
Hal operated the intercom. "Navcom?"
"Yes, Mr Spacejock?"
"What's code C9?"
"Raw material required."
"How do I fix that?"
"The AutoChef is an environmentally friendly device which maximises the re-use of organic material while simultaneously reducing your waste bill."
"Organic material? Waste?" Hal stared at the machine. "That doesn't mean …"
"Yes," said the Navcom. "To supply more raw material, you need to go to the bathroom."
"Urgh!"
"However, it does have an emergency reserve. I shall activate it now."
There was a noise like a flushing toilet, and the machine began to rumble and shake. The ape was watching intently, and when a paper cup appeared in the slot, she rushed over and crammed it in her mouth. While she chewed, the machine sprayed a stream of brown liquid straight onto the floor. The ape spat out the chewed cup and threw herself at the mess, licking it straight off the carpet. When she'd finished, she looked up at him hopefully.
Hal patted himself on the chest. "I'm Hal," he said. "You can be, er, Lucy."
The ape pointed at the AutoChef.
"Still hungry, eh?" Hal grinned. "AutoChef, give me another chocolate milkshake."
*
Sonya woke up with her cheek pressed to the cold engine-room floor and a headache like a throbbing quasar. She probed the back of her head and winced as she found a huge lump. Suddenly she remembered the grasping hands reaching out of the darkness. She stared into the deep shadowy corners of the engine room. Where was it? What was it?