Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'God,' he groaned to himself. 'I'm not sure I'm up to all this.'

  'I'm sorry,' said a voice. 'I didn't quite catch what you said.'

  It was Den's secretary, a beautiful, mature black woman, whose name was Donna, and who was secretly in love with Den. Indeed so secretly, that even Den didn't know - or even suspect. She was now looking despondent behind her professional façade, enough to snap Renton out of his shock.

  'Is Mr D'Kemba OK?' he asked.

  'I think so,' replied the secretary. 'But I think he's been overworking a bit and he worries a lot. And Mr Lysaars does upset him… I mean… well, I mean…'

  'Mr Lysaars? Who's Mr Lysaars?'

  'Oh, he's a new customer. And a very important one. You know. He's been here quite a few times recently - sorting things out. And Mr D'Kemba's been helping him, in the negotiations and things… And well… well, I'm sorry, Mr Tenting, I didn't mean to talk out of turn. It's just that you know Den… I mean Mr D'Kemba… And well…'

  'No, no. It's fine. It really is. I'm glad you told me. I mean it looks as though I've come at a bad time, doesn't it? And the last thing I want to do is add to the problem… I mean… well, if there is a problem…'

  'Well, I'm not sure…' stumbled Donna.

  'Oh no, I didn't mean to suggest…'

  'No, I didn't think you did…'

  'No, it's just…'

  Renton was suffering again. Not only was the trauma of Den's behaviour still swirling within him, but now there was this rather awkward disengagement to contend with as well. 'Why is it,' he thought, 'that conversations are often more difficult to withdraw from than are wars; and perversely, especially when you've run out of verbal ammunition?'

  'Well, I'd better get back to work.' said Donna quietly. 'And I suppose you've got things to do yourself, Mr Tenting.'

  'Oh yes, there's the armistice to sign… And… I mean…'

  'Pardon?'

  'Yes. You're quite right. I should be off. I really should. Things to do 'n all…'

  And with a nervous grin, he did b. off. Very relieved that the courteous Donna had brought the not in the least hostile hostilities to a conclusion, but very apprehensive about the peace - and what it might hold for him - when he opened a small envelope…

  But it could have been worse. He did manage to catch the second subcoach of the day that failed to crash. And ultimately he made the safety of his hotel room without incident and without any harm to his hair.

  9.

  Stringi Fin knew their behaviour at the spaceport had been stupid and irrational. The curtains sketch had seemed the obvious thing to do at the time. But in retrospect it had clearly been very silly, and it was bound to have ended as it did: in their arrest and their subsequent detention.

  And it wasn't the only silly thing that they'd done.

  On the voyage to Ranamavana, Rono, the “engineering officer” (component replacer), had casually suggested after breakfast one day that they should reverse the gravitational field in their suite on the freighter. Stringi and the two other crew members, Nigel and Tisu, had agreed with this ridiculous idea immediately. Without any question or discussion. As though it was a normal daily event.

  Within minutes they were stumbling around the ceiling of the rest area, inspecting the jumble of items which had suffered an up-fall as a result of the gravitational switch. And they were all giggling uncontrollably.

  Their enjoyment of this upside down world lasted all morning and climaxed with Nigel's endeavour to prepare a large Spanish omelette for lunch in an upside-down galley. The cooking part proved to be real fun, but the dish itself was something of a let down. It was noticeably light on any Spanish bits. Most of these had found their way instead into Nigel's hair. And this had its own consequences. Nigel attempted to remove the Spanish foreign bodies and generally clean himself up by showering under the bidet in the men's room, but he succeeded only in flooding the ceiling and blowing the lights. In the half gloom that ensued, Rono then fell over an upturned chair and down a ventilation shaft, Stringi fell through a ceiling panel - and Tisu fell down up the stairs…

  It was at that point that Stringi decided it was perhaps time to resume a normal up and down configuration in line with standard space-flight practice. Although this did nothing to stop the obscene calls to the Sisters of Hope on their orbiting retreat station - nor the adulteration of three of the tanks of tonic wine in the freighter's hold…

  And now all four of them were back on their shiny red and silver spacecraft, preparing to leave Ranamavana, free of any charges, penalties or even cautions for their behaviour. They had been released from their detention and delivered back to their ship without any real explanation but with a half hint that someone had intervened on their behalf. None of them could imagine who this could possibly be.

  'But thanks anyway,' thought Stringi. 'And now let's bugger off before they change their minds.'

  The traffic control computer was talking to the space freighter computer, and had just agreed with it that the umbilicals could be withdrawn. They snaked away from the craft and at the same time Stringi heard a faint hiss as the vessel's fiz-fuz engine awoke from its rest. The docking lug deactivated and the hiss became just perceptibly louder.

  'Thank God we're on our way,' said Stringi.

  'Bloody right,' agreed Tisu.

  The red and silver mass slid away from the wall of the freighter bay and towards its exit path. It moved effortlessly and accurately, picking up speed as it approached the open sky. And then there was a sensation - as though the huge ship had muffled a sneeze. At least that was what Stringi thought - although he knew spacecraft couldn't sneeze.

  Rono was put in mind not of a sneeze but of a hiccup. Tisu thought it was a like a nudge - from something outside in the bay. And Nigel had thoughts of a trip, a slip as their ship gathered speed. However, these impressions would not be compared. As with the shudder they'd experienced on their way in, they chose not to discuss it. None of them could really believe that such a thing could actually happen, but to talk about it would have confirmed that it really had happened. And they certainly didn't want to give it life by recognising it. No way!

  Nobody spoke at all until Ranamavana was visible only as a hazy speck on the planet's surface. Then Nigel broke the silence.

  'Jeez, I'm as dry as a dead dingo's donger. Anyone fancy a capsule?'

  Without waiting for an answer he pulled a capsule of lager for each of them from a pack beneath his seat and handed them round.

  'Soddin' Ranamavana,' he said, as he undid his own. 'I'll be highly delighted if I never see another bloody floral fabric for the rest of my soddin' life.'

  He never did.

  10.

  Renton's eyes stopped at the “cuisse de canard” on the extensive room service menu.

  The English language had spread throughout the entire inhabited universe and was now the dominant currency of communication. Nevertheless, whenever it arrived on a new planet, it would never be there on its own. The French language would be there too. It was always on all the menus. Most people had no idea of where this language was from - or whether indeed it was from was a place that still existed. But “service compris” and its wide circle of gastronomic colleagues now had a life of their own, independent of any source other than one spelled with an “au”.

  'Mmmm, duck will be perfect,' thought Renton, 'and some Lyonnaise and some salade verte rounded off with a little Chardonnay. Yes, that will go down very nicely. And maybe a jatte de chocolat to follow. Mmmmm.' He called room service, informed them of his culinary requirements, and with the job done, took a swig of his strong gin and tonic. He was now sitting against the headboard of his hotel bed, naked save for a pair of black underpants, and an old-fashioned, dial-faced watch. Without looking at it, he knew it was time to prepare for his evening's work. But first he needed to clear his mental desk, file away current business for future attention.

  He shuffled through the brought forward list. It was reall
y very short indeed, and comprised only:

  • item 1 re-emergence of blurting

  • item 2 serious awkwardness with body-paint

  Well, the blurting was still languishing in the pending tray, and still represented a significant worry for the future. But not so the body-paint item… For this had taken on an entirely new tenor. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Its apprehension rating was now “very low”. It had lost most, if not all, of its dread.

  Now, whether this was the result of all the other trauma he'd experienced, or whether it was the postponement of the demonstration - and the discomfort this might cause his hosts - he really wasn't sure. But whatever it was, the body-paint session rescheduled for tomorrow was something he knew he could now easily cope with - and he would drop it from his list.

  And so, with the desk cleared, his thoughts passed on to the business in hand: the envelope mystery.

  He had, of course, already looked inside the envelope, and he knew it contained two discs. But they were unmarked, and he had no idea what might be on them. But whatever it was, it was obviously of some importance to Den, and Den had wanted to bring it to Renton's attention. Even if it had cost him his dignity and the loss of his reputation for being entirely predictable and unerringly dull. So it might be quite interesting.

  He slid off the bed, walked over to the room console, and fed in the first disc. Five minutes later he had removed it and was feeding in the second disc. And he was feeling both disappointed and perplexed. Five minutes after that he was removing the second disc and feeling even more disappointed and completely bemused. He could think of only one thing to do. Ignore Den's discs for the time being and put the TV on - and let it all sink in a bit before he tackled it again. Yes, a little distraction for a few minutes. That might just do the trick…

  So he turned on the telly and he began to flick round the channels - for something that might suit his mood. A quiz show? No. A debate? No. Another quiz show? No. Sport? Yes! Renton was no sports fan normally, but this “sport” was different. This was a programme on skiing - lava skiing!

  In the colonisation of space, a number of planets had been discovered, which were so young that they hadn't yet formed a proper crust, a surface that stayed where it was. Instead, what covered them was a lacework of rock, a thin and patchy skin of terra-not-very-firma - and even these more solid bits were peppered with volcanoes and fissures. And everywhere there was lava. They were red and fiery with the stuff. And that meant they were inhospitable and untameable, of real interest only to professional volcanologists. But gradually that changed. Gradually their tourist potential was realised, and a few of the less explosive examples were chosen as holiday destinations - for the brave and the curious. They were never, of course, intended to have an appeal for the masses - as they were hardly the sorts of places where the masses could engage in their normal holiday pursuits. But perversely, they did spawn one spectacle, one competitive spectacle, which itself drew the masses in droves. Because who'd not be fascinated by the sight of some lunatic “skiing” down a lava flow!?

  From its beginnings as the ultimate penance practised by a band of religious fanatics - which had literally burned itself out - the whizzing down red-hot sausages of lava had become a strictly-controlled, well-organised, interplanetary sport. It had a galactic series, galactic championships, sponsorship, disciplinary procedures, cheating and drug taking. If it lacked anything at all it was intelligent competitors. They were all of them a load of complete thickos.

  Successful lava skiing was all about maximising the skier's speed by necessarily minimising his protection against the heat. Any competitor overly garbed and with a generous level of insulation for his feet wouldn't finish a standard lava course before it had cooled into rock and had sprouted with trees. Winning competitors were those whose kit was on the point of combustion as they went over the finishing line. And of course they'd not fallen over on the way down. Any lunatic failing to stay upright in a race was considered very lucky if his fall landed him on some jagged but cooled solid rock, rather than on the molten variety. Broken arms, legs or even heads were far preferable to roasted limbs. Although it was never completely clear to Renton whether this distinction was made by the competitors themselves. Those whom he'd heard interviewed all seemed to have a distinct problem grasping subtle concepts like danger, pain, mutilation - and death.

  The race on TV was from Pauararau, one of the less well-known lava worlds. In fact, Renton couldn't think of a single famous skier who'd been incinerated there.

  A bright blue, crouching shape was hurtling down the glowing red mass of the flow. It was an exciting sight and at the same time a supremely graceful one. The man's line was perfect through the meanders of the flow. He seemed to read the different speeds of the lava perfectly, rapid at its centre and through constrictions, slow and then ponderous towards its edges. This chap was good.

  Then he lifted one ski where even Renton knew he needed both on the lava. And as he brought the ski down he raised the other. He was no more than halfway down the course and the heat was through his skis! Whoever had minimised the protection for his feet had made a pig's breakfast of it. Our man had hot tootsies.

  The rate of alternation of his skis rose quickly to degenerate into a high-speed double hopping action. He had lost all his former elegance and was now very close to losing his balance and his life.

  Renton's mouth dried. This was a live broadcast.

  Then some survival instinct must have swung into place. Both skis were slapped down onto the furnace heat of the lava, the ski sticks were discarded, and the man in blue raced into a slightly banked curve of the flow and launched himself over its lip and into the darkness beyond. The camera followed his progress. He was again elegant as he flew through the air and no less so as he rejoined terra-very-firma. He glided over an escarpment of solid rock as though it was a field of packed snow, and swerving, he came to a halt facing his abandoned lava course. He stood for two or three seconds and then obviously remembered the temperature of his feet. He sat down and began to discard his skis, apparently more in disgust than alarm.

  'Stroll on!' mouthed Renton.

  The commentator was gabbling on and the TV was in multiple angle replay mode, but Renton's thoughts had now moved on - to adventure in general…

  Here he was on a paint-buying trip, pretending to himself that it represented a real challenge in his life - and waiting here to tackle all the dangers that might confront him in a hotel, room-service meal, and there they were: people throwing themselves down rivers of molten rock. 'Some frigging adventurer, you are, Tenting!'

  'Why,' he thought, 'do some people become lava skiers, or star miners or undercover drug agents? How do they get started? Is it by accident or is it by design?' Why had he never come within a light year of doing anything that could be described as really adventurous?

  He looked at himself in the mirror on the wall. The face he saw there and the sight of his familiar black underpants brought him back to his senses.

  'Lava skiing's no adventure. It's just bloody stupid. An adventure has to have a purpose. There has to be a quest. The reaction of an intelligent being when confronted with a river of red-hot rocks should be to get out of its way - not onto it. And if real adventure doesn't present itself, then you just have to do without it. And that's no great problem. Most adventures are grossly overrated anyway.

  'And furthermore, I have my own little plan to work to, my own little step by step plan, which has absolutely no room for any adventure of any sort. So forget it. It just isn't on.'

  And his logic was just about to take him back to his discs, when there was a knock on the door.

  'Room service.'

  'Coming,' shouted Renton, looking round for his colourful bathrobe.

  He tended to mumble at the best of times, and on this occasion, even with his voice raised, the final “g” of his instruction didn't make it through the door. The truncated command had the inevitable effect. The door opene
d and in walked room service in the form of a mini-skirt outfit (floral, of course) filled with as much as it could manage of a luscious young lady.

  'Good evening, sir. My name's Brunehilde. I hope you're enjoying your stay. Shall I put the tray over here?'

  'Errh yes, yes,' managed Renton. Conversation, embarrassment, and a search for a bathrobe, not being easy to cope with, all at the same time.

  'The weather has been nice today, hasn't it? The forecast for tomorrow is good as well. That's nice, isn't it?'

  'Well… errh, yes, I suppose it is.'

  There was an awkward pause, awkward enough to distract Renton from his robe hunt. Instead he peered at Brunehilde who was now studying her feet, her hands clasped loosely behind her back.

  She broke the silence. 'Sir, is there anything else you would like?'

  Renton would have liked very much some more clothes round his near naked body, but he lied with a simple 'No!'

  'Sir, are you sure?'

  'Oh quite sure, thank you… errh, Brunehilde. Nothing at all. If you want me to sign something for the food, then you can…'

  'Sir, you do realise that there's a special offer on this week?'

  'What special offer?'

  'On RP services.'

  'On what?'

  'RP services, sir. They're described in full on page 20 of our service guide.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' frowned Renton.

  'RP services, sir. Rumpy Pumpy services, the businessman's perfect way to relax. And what I'm saying is that there's a special offer on this week. 30% off with an entirely free service if you go for…'

  'Wait a minute,' interrupted Renton. 'Are you suggesting… well, that I can buy…?'

  'Yes, that's right,' beamed Brunehilde. 'With the 30% discount, I'm actually cheaper than the chef's lobster meringue this week - by a little bit anyway.'