Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch

by Simon Haynes

  Walsh frowned at the taunt. ‘I intend to.’

  ‘Really? How delightful!’ Morgan lowered her voice. ‘So tell me, did you have to put him in handcuffs first?’

  ‘It was nothing like that,’ snapped Walsh. She took a deep breath, annoyed that Morgan could rile her so easily. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting this man of yours.’

  Walsh banged the handset down. Then she pictured Hal’s well-toned body in a classy suit, and her anger dissipated. Tonight was going to be fun.

  Chapter 4

  Clunk returned to the ship to find Hal in a good mood. ‘So how did it go with Miranda Morgan? Did she change her mind?’

  Hal grinned. ‘You bet.’

  ‘How much did you settle for?’

  ‘I didn’t. She’s paying full price.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Mr Spacejock! How did you manage it?’

  ‘Swift, decisive action. You wouldn’t understand.’ Ignoring Clunk’s angry look, Hal continued. ‘So, did you line up my wash and wax?’

  ‘I did, but we don’t have time for it now.’ Clunk glanced at the console. ‘I’d better prepare the ship for departure.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t. We’ll lift off at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘But the sooner we leave —’

  ‘I’m not giving up a dinner date for a bunch of floor tiles.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Miss Walsh invited you out.’ Clunk looked Hal up and down. ‘You can’t wear that.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Are you sure you can’t run me up a nice little suit?

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Spacejock. I possess many skills, but dressmaking is not one of them.’’

  ‘I don’t want a dress, I - oh, forget it, I’ll hire something in town.’

  ‘It should be a wonderful evening. Candlelit tables, couples holding hands, the wonderful smell of fine cuisine …’ Clunk smiled. ‘It’ll be great.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And while you’re out enjoying yourself I’ll attend to my duties aboard ship. Why, I believe I saw a candle stub in the kitchen, and when I’ve finished my crippling workload I could light it and pretend I’m having my very own intimate dinner!’

  ‘Actually, you won’t.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. No time for fripperies aboard a working freighter.’

  ‘No, I mean you won’t be staying here tonight.’ Hal took a deep breath. ‘You’ve been invited to an important function as the sole representative of Spacejock Freightlines.’

  Clunk looked stunned. ‘Me? They want me to serve as an ambassador?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘What sort of function is it?’

  ‘A top-level do. All the big names will be there, so it’s a chance for you to really shine. They’re even laying on a cab!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Hal hesitated. ‘Speaking of cabs, I need to book my suit. You don’t have any cash, do you?’

  Clunk reached into his chest compartment and took out a credit tile. ‘I was saving this for an emergency, but I’d like you to have it. Use it to get something nice.’

  ‘Thanks Clunk, that’s very good of you.’ Hal took the money, then realised it was only fifty credits. ‘You, er, don’t have any more?’

  ‘No, that’s cleaned me out.’

  Hal wondered whether it was too late to find a discount store. But no, he’d promised Walsh formal clothing. He’d just have to do his best.

  * * *

  The cab dropped Hal at a suburban mall, where he found the men’s clothing store between a bookshop and a pawnbrokers. The bookshop window had a large display of e-book devices, with glossy posters promising that these really would replace paper books any day now. The pawnbroker also had a display of e-book readers, of slightly older design and heavily marked down.

  The clothing store window was packed with dummies in evening wear. Inside, the shop was lined with dozens of racks, all crammed with rolls of clear plastic, and Hal stared at them, mystified, as he made his way to the back of the store. Why so much wrapping material? As he approached the counter he saw a short mannequin, this one arranged so that one hand was just touching the wide brim of a large black hat.

  Hal tapped the bell and leant on the counter, waiting for service. After a moment or two he reached for the hat, intending to try it for size, but the dummy drew back. ‘Do not touch the displays,’ it said in a monotone.

  Startled, Hal backed away, only to jump as a breezy voice spoke right behind him. ‘I’m sorry about that, sir. Greasy fingers leave marks on the merchandise.’

  Hal spun round and saw a short, cheerful-looking droid approaching the counter. Its arms were covered in graduated scales, clearly visible through its transparent suit.

  ‘How can I help you?’ it asked.

  ‘I need a suit for tonight.’

  The droid sized him up at a glance. ‘Forty-two large, I believe. Do you want something classy and hard-wearing, or a cheap rag off the peg?’

  ‘I don’t have much cash.’

  ‘Cheap rag it is. Of course, we don’t use pegs any more. They went out with tape measures.’ The droid tilted its head. ‘Navy, I think.’

  ‘No, cargo pilot,’ said Hal.

  ‘That explains the cheap, but I was actually referring to your ideal colour.’ The droid flipped its hand and a bunch of fabric swatches sprang from its fingertips. ‘Pick a shade, any shade. They’re all the same price.’

  Hal touched a dark blue strip and the droid’s transparent suit changed colour to match. Then he tried a lighter strip and the suit changed again. ‘That’s neat!’

  ‘It is, although early models had a tendency to revert to their base state at inconvenient moments.’ The droid looked Hal up and down. ‘They’ve ironed out most of the bugs, but I recommend clean underwear.’

  Hal felt the sleeve, which was quite thick but soft to the touch. ‘Hey, it’s nice.’

  ‘We use a patented nanoweave process, and the finished article is crafted from a custom blend of polymer strands.’

  ‘Oh. So, it’s plastic.’

  The robot winced. ‘We avoid that particular label, sir. After all, the material is indistinguishable from true fabric.’

  ‘Fine, it’s a nanoweave. How much?’

  ‘Four hundred credits for a regular suit, or thirty for the disposable model.’

  ‘Disposable it is. How long does it take to put one together?’

  ‘Five minutes, give or take a few seconds.’

  Hal smiled. ‘Perfect! Let’s do it.’

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  They retreated to a change room, where Hal undressed under the watchful eye of the sales droid. ‘Hey, no touching!’ he said, as the robot reached for him.

  ‘Sir, I have to map your contours for the optimum fit.’ The robot lowered its gaze. ‘We don’t want it hanging limp, do we?’

  Muttering under his breath, Hal raised his arms so the robot could pat him down. When it was done it turned for the door. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. Please wait here.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Hal.

  Moments later the droid returned with a large roll of clear plastic, threaded it onto a dispenser and hauled off a generous amount. It folded the sheet double, and sparks flew from its fingertips as it carved out a neat semi-circle. Then it dropped the sheet over Hal’s head, letting it hang down fore and aft with his head poking through the hole in the middle.

  Hal looked down at the plastic and wondered whether he was about to be shrink-wrapped for some kind of body harvesting scam, but before he could protest the robot reached out, blue sparks arcing between its fingers. Starting at the neck, it moved a hand across the top of Hal’s shoulders, down his arms, back up to his armpits, then down to his waist. When it had finished the two sheets of plastic formed a rough T-shirt. There was more flashing and nipping, the robot’s hands blurring as it traced lines, welded on smaller pieces of f
abric and adjusted the colours. Hal could only stare as his clothes took shape, and when the robot had finished he was standing there in a nifty jacket with a starched white shirt and tie. The shirt only extended a couple of centimetres under the jacket, and the tie was stuck down, but the overall effect was impressive if you didn’t look too closely.

  The robot set to work on the trousers, and when it had finished it stepped back to examine its handiwork. That’s when Hal realised there was no opening. ‘Hey, what happens when I want to, you know…’ He whistled.

  ‘It’s traditional to have a slash in one’s trousers.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to avoid.’

  ‘I’m referring to a tackle hatch. Hold still and I’ll add one.’

  Hal stood still - very, very still - as the robot sliced through the material and added button-up flies.

  ‘There, all done. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’m lucky to be in one piece.’ Hal saw the robot frown. ‘I mean, it’s very nice. Thanks.’

  ‘Tell me, have you thought about footwear?’

  ‘I thought I’d wear my boots.’ Hal glanced at them and thought again. The leather was comfy and supple, but they would never match the suit.

  ‘Relax, sir. Our polymer is versatile.’ Taking up one of Hal’s boots, the droid laid a square of the transparent material over it, pulling it over the rounded surface and bunching it at the soles. Then it applied a fat red spark, which turned the material jet black. ‘Try that.’

  Hal took the boot and felt the glossy material. ‘It’s like glass!’ he said, amazed.

  ‘And about as brittle,’ said the robot. It took the second boot and added another shell, then did some detail work on laces and soles. When it had finished the boots looked like fancy evening shoes from the ankle down.

  ‘How do I get the stuff off them later?’ asked Hal.

  ‘Hammer.’

  Hal put his boots on and admired himself in the mirror. He’d never looked better, and thirty credits was an absolute steal. Then he realised his suit lacked joins. ‘What about this?’ he asked, holding his arms out. ‘How do I get undressed?’

  ‘I recommend a sharp knife.’

  ‘That’ll ruin it!’

  ‘It is a disposable suit, sir. Oh, and don’t stand near any naked flames. If you do, you won’t need the knife.’

  They returned to the front counter, where Hal paid the bill. Then he tucked the rolled-up flight suit under his arm and strolled out of the shop, feeling well pleased with himself. For once he’d gone shopping and ended up with exactly the right thing. It had to be an omen!

  * * *

  Back at the spaceport, Hal made his way across the landing field, picking his way through the parked ships. Up close he could see their weathered hulls and boarded up exhaust cones, evidence they’d not flown for years, and many had been fitted with rows of neat windows, complete with dainty curtains. Most of them were half-buried under extensions and patio awnings, and Hal was forced to make frequent detours around carefully tended vegetable and flower gardens. Elderly folk were gardening, sipping drinks in the shade, or napping in easy chairs. Some nodded at him as he passed by, while others watched him with suspicion. With his shiny new suit and glossy shoes, it was obvious they’d pegged him as a salesman … or a con artist.

  Hal made it all the way to the Volante’s landing pad before realising the ship was no longer there. He looked around, puzzled, then remembered. Of course! Clunk had moved it to Honest Bob’s! Cursing under his breath, he turned and walked all the way back to the terminal, passing the same old folk and getting another collection of suspicious stares for his trouble. By the time he found Honest Bob’s yard his disposable suit felt like a portable sauna.

  A chain-link fence separated the yard from the landing field, and a pair of solid-looking gates bore a sign: ‘Honest Bob’s - strip ‘em and shine ‘em!’ Hal strolled through the gates and walked along a row of hangars, which contained vessels in various states of repair. There were also workshops, crammed with tools and spare parts.

  Hal rounded the last hangar and saw the Volante sitting on a pad, surrounded by huge cranes. Workers swarmed all over it, using buckets and sponges to clean off the accumulated grime, and Hal gestured at one of them. ‘You missed a spot.’

  The worker spat in the bucket, dunked his sponge and continued.

  Meanwhile, Hal noticed Clunk talking to a supervisor, but by the time he reached them the man had left.

  ‘That was Honest Bob,’ said the robot. ‘They close at eight, but he offered to move the ship back to the landing pad for us.’

  ‘That’s nice of him.’

  ‘And I said no.’ Clunk lowered his voice. ‘Mr Spacejock, I wouldn’t trust this seedy-looking gang to move the skin off a rice pudding.’

  ‘They seem like honest, hard-working people. Don’t judge them by their appearance.’

  ‘I’m not, I’m judging them by the aura of criminality. Anyway, one of them agreed to let us into the yard provided we’re not too late.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be here.’ Hal held his arms out. ‘So how do you like my suit?’

  ‘Heat-welded seams and airholes. Slick.’

  ‘It’s the latest thing.’ Hal wriggled in the jacket. ‘Bit warm though.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cut a dashing figure.’ Clunk hesitated. ‘You know, about my own function … I really think I should stay here and keep an eye on the ship.’

  Hal looked at his watch. ‘Wow, look at the time! You’d better get that cab.’

  ‘No, I —’

  ‘The rank is right outside the terminal. Tell the driver Morgan’s paying the fare when you arrive. It’s part of the deal.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘The package. The whole shooting match.’ Hal waved him away. ‘Now scoot. I have to get ready.’

  Clunk left, but not before casting a longing glance at the Volante.

  ‘Have a good time,’ called Hal. ‘I’ll catch you later!’ He watched the robot vanish round the corner, then took the ramp to the airlock. Now for his own date.

  Chapter 5

  In the flight deck Hal made himself a coffee and sat down at the console. Despite his outward air of confidence, nerves were starting to bite as his thoughts turned to the evening ahead. Walsh had promised food, which was great, but she hadn’t revealed much more. Would there be dancing? If so, he could blame gravity for any crushed toes, since everyone knew spacers were used to floating.

  Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. Never mind dancing, what was he going to talk about? He’d used up his entire stock of witty anecdotes over lunch! Hal's stomach sank as he pictured himself struck dumb for hours on end. In desperation, he turned to the console. ‘Navcom, I need your help.’

  ‘Ready and waiting,’ said the computer. ‘Which function do you require?’

  ‘Relationships.’

  ‘Mathematical or celestial bodies?’

  ‘Sort of human.’

  ‘Biology? Medicine?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m going out with a girl tonight and I don’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘Incredible. Unbelievable. Inconceivable.’

  ‘You think I should say that?’

  ‘No, it was an involuntary expression denoting surprise.’

  ‘Yes, thank you Navcom. If I need your sarcasm I’ll ask for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The Navcom hesitated. ‘So, what you’re asking is, how do humans interact on a date?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And you, a human, are asking this advice of a computer?’

  ‘Well, you do know a lot of stuff.’

  ‘I may be able to navigate galactic backwaters, pinpoint planets and run the entire ship, but I do have my limits.’

  ‘I wish Clunk were here,’ muttered Hal.

  ‘How would that be of assistance? He knows even less about relationships than I do.’

  ‘Yeah, but I could get him to wipe you.’


  ‘Very well. Ask your questions and I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Okay, first tell me what I should say to her.’

  ‘Statistically speaking, you might enjoy success with the line, ‘No, you don’t look fat in that dress.’’

  Hal groaned.

  ‘And then you should deploy the flowers and chocolates.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Hal grabbed his head with both hands. ‘I didn’t get her a bloody gift!’

  ‘It’s not essential. Approximately one percent of successful relationships begin without either.’

  ‘Navcom, search your inventory. I want the location of anything on the ship I can give her. Anything at all.’

  ‘There’s a candle stub under the kitchen sink.’

  ‘No, it has to be new.’

  ‘What about that pair of tartan socks Clunk gave you? They’re still in the original wrapping.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What about a bottle of wine? Or jewellery? Hey, what about a book?’

  ‘What do you think I am, a gift emporium?’

  ‘Come on, check the database again,’ pleaded Hal. ‘This is important, Navcom.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Clunk has a tin of metal polish. It’s unopened.’

  ‘Hey, I gave him that! Why hasn’t he used it?’

  ‘Unknown. It’s currently hidden behind the generator.’

  ‘That’s gratitude for you.’

  ‘Search complete. No further matches.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ muttered Hal. ‘Screwed big-time.’

  ‘Unlikely, unless you come up with a gift.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to improvise.’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Hal was ready. The Navcom had notified Walsh that the ship was in Honest Bob’s yard, and that Hal would meet her at the gate. He checked his reflection in the porthole, and was just smoothing down a stubborn tuft of hair when a gentle chime sounded in the airlock.

  ‘Not now,’ muttered Hal. He strode into the airlock and pulled the outer door open. ‘What the hell do you —’ Then he stopped, as did his heart. Harriet Walsh was standing on the platform in a white off-the-shoulder dress with a gathered skirt that finished just below the knees. A classy pair of high heels emphasised her slender legs, and she was clutching a miniature handbag under one arm. Her golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, and with the last rays of the setting sun behind her she glowed like an angel.