Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'The lid's still on, Mr Lysaars sir,' announced Doggerbat. 'Nothing's happened.'

  'Just as well, vacuum brain. You'd better just check the girl's vat. I can't see anything amiss - but make absolutely sure.'

  Doggerbat walked to the end of the barge, which he assumed correctly was the front and where Madeleine was incarcerated. He examined the lid of her prison and beamed back at Lysaars. 'No problem here, tight as a virgin's…'

  'Yes, yes, Doggerbat. No cause for coarse… no cause for coarse… ess… oh… no need to be rude.'

  'Do you want me to check that they're both OK, Mr Lysaars sir? I could…'

  'No Doggerbat, I do not…'

  In conversations with Lysaars, many of Doggerbat's sentences, whether questions or statements, never quite made it to the finishing line. They were frequently tripped up a few metres from the tape, and occasionally they barely left the starting blocks. Doggerbat took this in good heart. He ascribed it to Lysaars' intuitive grasp of his thoughts rather than to any impatience or irritation on the part of his boss. Just as well. He would have been deeply dispirited had he ever learnt the truth.

  '…I do not believe that our cause would be greatly assisted by being discovered inspecting the human contents of vats designed primarily for the transport of resinous substances and allied finishes. There may, as you have repeatedly assured me, be few people in this rather boring warehouse, but I for one do not wish to run the risk that someone might appear as we were conducting our examination of the less than usual contents of the aforementioned containers. No, what I'd prefer, my trusty dullard, is that all the green vats and all the yellow vats were stowed as quickly as decency allows onto our small freighter spaceship, you know, the one we call the Ennovator.

  'So you will go and talk to the freight control people. You will tell them that the Ennovator needs to depart as early as possible, and you will ask them whether their feeble minds can intervene in the scheduled process of their damned computer… you will not incidentally refer to their feeble minds. You will ask them whether they can coax their nice computer into expediting… into hurrying up its loading of our special green and yellow cargo onto our little freighter. That's the Ennovator, remember?'

  'You want me to get them to get their computer to load our ship quickly?'

  'Yes, Doggerbat. Spot on, hole in one, right on the nail, bullseye, vector accurate. I want that stuff on the Ennovator as soon as soon can be, if not frigging sooner. Go and do it!'

  'Yes, Mr Lysaars, I'll…'

  'Just go and do it before I forget what a nice person I am!'

  Lysaars' cheeks reddened and his abnormally wide mouth stretched into an impossible grimace. Doggerbat turned and propelled his stunted frame at a suitable double-quick pace in the direction of the freight control people.

  'What, my dears, has our Mr Doggerbat between his ears?' mused Lysaars. 'His own black hole, I shouldn't wonder.'

  He shook his head, turned and walked slowly towards Renton's hiding place behind the boxes of garden wonders. His head still shaking, he plopped his elephant buttocks onto a stack of pallets and his round drooping shoulders drooped down even more.

  Renton was no more than about five metres behind Lysaars' improvised bench. But he could see only his back. Had he been able to study his face, he would have seen at first a resigned weariness but within seconds a clinical concentration - or at least as clinical a concentration as a circle of blubber could ever muster.

  Lysaars withdrew a laserade from the folds of his ample shirt and flicked the transmitter into active mode. After a few seconds he began to speak: 'It's me, Lysaars. I'm at the spaceport. And you'll be pleased to know that our two new friends are still bottled up and that they'll soon be on the Ennovator. In fact, any time now. So it's all turned out fine.'

  There was a brief pause.

  'Of course I'm using a laserade. I would hardly be having this conversation on an open channel. This is me - Lysaars, not Doggerbat.'

  Another brief pause and then he continued: 'My dear Den, stop fretting. Listen, the real purpose of this call is to let you know that, now we're here, we're going to get off as soon as we can. And then we'll see you again in about a week - with you know who and their new memories…

  '…and yes, I'm sure they'll survive. I mean, just on the law of averages… well, we're well overdue, aren't we? And even if they don't, I'm sure we can come up with something else…

  'So now, is there anything else you need to know before we go? I don't want to call again.'

  Lysaars pressed the laserade to his ear and scratched his bald dome with his free hand. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and that hand was now a fist, a fist that was thumping his thigh repeatedly…

  'D'Kemba!' he shouted. 'You snivelling skunk!'

  Then he obviously realised how loud he had shouted, looked around and continued in a lower voice - but one filled with exasperation.

  'For the very last time, (a) the chance of that ship turning up in Ranamavana was one in a million, and another one is just as unlikely. And (b), as I was there and as I saw the crew's jitzies, which, as I've explained again and again, are very very rare "off board" so to speak, it was no more than common sense to get them shipped out as soon as we could. And (c) it's all done and tidied. And, as we both know, there's every chance that very soon indeed they'll be no more than space dust. In short, my wimpish Den, our business is safe and will remain so. I want to hear not one word more about that damned ship. Do you understand? Not a single pissing peep more!'

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he listened to whatever apology or pacification was being offered from the other end of the laserade. 'OK, OK, forget it, forget it. I'll see you in a week or so.'

  He flicked off the transmitter and stuffed the laserade back into his shirt, mumbling something which sounded to Renton like: 'blunny bead cowders, waste of fug in time'. But he couldn't quite make it out.

  Nor could he make it out of the spaceport freight area. He was stuck in his hiding place. And he was still stuck there when Doggerbat returned to assure Lysaars that their green and yellow treasures would be dealt with as a top priority request. Doggerbat appeared immensely pleased to be able to announce this. And within a few more minutes this process commenced. Lysaars and his now much chirpier retainer stayed just long enough to witness this for themselves and then they disappeared back along the walkway from where they'd first come. Clearly content and relieved.

  And Renton was finally abandoned to his own thoughts in the depths of the spaceport.

  20.

  Initially, he thought of accountancy. Specifically, he thought of how he'd recently abandoned accountancy - for his own good. How he'd decided that working with figures and other accountants was doing nothing for his lack of confidence. It was certainly not helping him develop as a person. And it certainly wasn't providing him with any opportunities to get in touch with his softer self. And, more important than all this, it was doing bugger all for his success with women. Yes, there was no doubt about it. When it came to matters of amorous entanglements, Renton was still in the “out and out duffer” category, and he wasn't improving. And something had to be done.

  It had, of course, been extremely difficult. But one day, eight months previously, something had indeed been done. Renton had forsaken the world of double entry for the world of powder puffs and face paints, and had secured himself a job in a TV make-up department. It was as bizarre and as radical a step as one could imagine, but one Renton had managed to take by seeing it merely as part of a plan. And this plan was a meticulously detailed “campaign blueprint”, which set out how he intended to transform himself, in the arena of non-platonic relationships, from a nerdy non-performer to an accomplished over-achiever.

  And so far, it had gone very well. He'd met a lot of new people - just as he'd planned. He'd been exposed to a lot of new attitudes - just as he'd planned. In dealing with the demands of his new job - and the fact that it was so different from his previous job - he'd bec
ome a great deal less reserved - just as he'd planned. And, most impressive of all, he'd kept to his plan - just as he'd planned. He'd taken every step that it called for, and no more and no less. And was therefore right on course to achieve its ultimate objectives - and all within the time that he'd set himself.

  And then he'd taken this latest step, and had come to Ioda.

  How could it all have gone so wrong and so quickly? Hell, not only did the plan not envisage actual substantive contact with females for another four months at the earliest, but it also didn't envisage anything which could be classified as “adventure” ever. Its objectives were sensual and sexual, not daring and dangerous - and nothing whatsoever to do with pipils and paint vats.

  But it was even worse than that, wasn't it? Because this adventure he'd been plunged into wasn't over. Or at least, it wasn't unless he was prepared to overlook the fact that there was a woman in danger. That the woman he'd been thrown together with was a captive in the hands of a pair of beastly villains who were intent on doing her some serious harm. And even that presupposed that this same pair of brigands had lost interest in him, which he was pretty damn sure they hadn't.

  OK, he could just back off and let the local constabulary take over. But he knew he couldn't really. By the time he'd alerted them - and then finally got them to believe him - Lysaars' vessel would probably be outside planetary jurisdiction, and Madeleine Maiden might well have been unremembered. And not only that. He had a nagging suspicion that not every division of the local constabulary could necessarily be trusted. He hadn't really understood Lysaars' reference to getting some people or other 'shipped out as soon as we could', but that sort of expression might just imply some collusion with certain of the authorities here. And that could be with certain of the constabulary authorities. He couldn't be sure, of course. But it was just what he felt.

  And on top of all this, that Madeleine woman wasn't even his type. Yes, he might be able to convince himself that substantive female contact could be brought forward a full four months. And he might, if he really worked at it, even be able to convince himself that some adventure could be accommodated in his life - up to a point, that is. But, however hard he tried he'd never be able to convince himself that he'd ever fancy this girl. To start with, her luscious brown hair had been cut into one of those “bob” things, which he just couldn't stand. And although she had a body that might be described as both pert and very fit, her face was just a little too fine-boned and her eyes were just a little too cool. Add to that the fact that she was clearly far too assertive and far too sure of herself - and that she had no compunction whatsoever about starring in a skin-flick, and she was definitely not the sort he would fall for. And he imagined the feeling was mutual.

  And having thought all these thoughts, Renton then thought he'd better just get on with it. Yes, forget the plan. Forget how well it had been working before he'd come to Ioda. Forget common sense. Forget caution. Forget this woman had a bob and an assertive nature, and just get on and do it. Go and rescue the Maiden in distress - but don't ever admit to anyone that you'd thought up such a naff pun at such a critical stage in the proceedings….

  21.

  Lysaars was still fat but now very happy. His plans had been threatened but they had stood their ground. His interfering captives were now on board his ship. The Ennovator had already entered hyperspace. And they were all safely on their way to Crabbsbab. The interferers would soon be interfered with themselves and, all being well, they could then be returned, innocent and harmless to their silly, humdrum lives, leaving Lysaars free to attend to his own rather more important life. The interlude might be something of a nuisance but really only a very small item within his grand scheme of things. And trials such as these he had learned to endure.

  And now that they were clear of the planet and its authority, there was just one priority for Lysaars, one essential: some food.

  Since daybreak, his oversized stomach had been stoked with only a modest helping of macerated sperk, and whilst high on fibre and low on calories, this stringy relative of the prune was not a long-lasting filler. Lysaars had endured an extended and exhausting morning, and his stomach was now insisting on a further and more substantial delivery.

  Finally its demands were addressed.

  A gush of malty beer announced the good news. This was followed immediately by ten disintegrating scoops of egg-cheese and a similar number of barely-chewed meatik cubes, interspersed with more gushes of beer, the odd pickled spumechick and a couple of salted vrukas. There then followed a small cascade of diced trotters, a few gobs of gooey guava and the remnants of five fatty faggots. Lysaars' taste in matters of taste was as stunted as his charitable nature and he would eat anything with anything. A truly simultaneous omnivore. It was disgusting. But his stomach was happy.

  It enjoyed this revival in its fortunes for some time and was even beginning to forget its earlier neglect. But then, just when another delivery of meatik cubes, this time slicked with “the universally popular Hellish Relish”, was well into its stride, everything stopped. Suddenly. A premature and very distressing end to a promising meal. But now a meal unrounded by sweet things and savouries. A meal now reduced to a snack.

  The food avalanche had stopped at the same time that Doggerbat had approached Lysaars' table to announce that he'd now checked the vats and Tenting wasn't there - or indeed anywhere on the ship. Lysaars' stomach then had to make do with just a massive dose of nervous acid - and it didn't like it. It would have to get its own back with a bout of painful and loud indigestion - as was its habit when it was annoyed.

  And it wasn't the only one that was annoyed.

  Lysaars was not a violent man. He had others to attend to any physical brutishness when needs arose. His violence lay more in his warped thinking and in his absolute disregard for the suffering of others. It was therefore something of a surprise when he punched Doggerbat. His anger at the news of Tenting's escape was that great. And he was still angry when he waddled off to inspect the vats for himself - a futile but necessary ritual.

  But then his anger subsided. Surprisingly quickly. Because, with the aid of a few indigestion capsules and a cup of steaming hot saffron tea, he'd been able to work out what would happen next - by putting himself in Renton's situation. He was good at this: thinking things out from somebody else's perspective. And he had to be. He had to be one step ahead of all those who might stand in his way. And this was a jolly good way of ensuring that he was.

  So when he'd worked out that Renton would involve nobody else, but instead direct all his energies into finding out where the Ennovator was bound for - and then into following it, he began to relax. For this meant that although the Tenting idiot would succeed in tracking them to Crabbsbab, he would arrive there alone, defenceless and eminently vulnerable. He may have been able to struggle free from the web, but he was quite stupid enough to fly straight back into it. And for Lysaars, this knowledge was fact…

  Good. Life could be kind to you even when you were a disgusting fat thing.

  The indigestion receded and Lysaars realised he was still hungry. His meal wasn't so much completed as started afresh.

  22.

  In common with most new spaceports in the universe, movement between the different areas of Ranamavana's own was easy. Passenger traffic and freighter traffic were accommodated in separate areas of the edifice, but there was no restriction between the two, and both were designed to handle arrivals and departures together. Similarly anyone could move between the people, luggage and freight areas of the building with no hindrance or bother or challenge.

  This total freedom of movement was made possible by the spaceport's BIG computer and, in particular, its discrete unit logging logic (DULL) system, which controlled ingress to and exit from the spaceport as a single, seamless operation. Anybody or anything that entered its empire was immediately saddled with this logging logic. And whether it was a miniature pilot from Pingopel, a space-freighted package of peppered sala
mi for a favourite fat nephew - or an ungainly barge-load of freight - it could then only ever leave through a known and effectively authorised route. This control was so specific and so accurate that, although its primary purpose was flawless traffic handling, it also served as the near perfect security system. There was no way, for example, that the BIG computer would allow a passenger to leave with an article of luggage that he'd not brought in himself. Even though arriving and departing passengers mingled in the same area, BIG would not allow anyone or anything back through the loading umbilicals - unless they were properly identified as legitimate departures, previously processed through the appropriate entry point to the terminal. The computer would intervene physically to prevent an unauthorised and inappropriate departure.

  The BIG computer had, earlier that day, logged in thirty-five green resin vats as they emerged into its underground heavy freight area. Shortly afterwards it had logged out the same number when they were loaded onto the Ennovator. There was no demand within this process to challenge the contents of the vats. Security was not a positive issue, especially as this method of goods shipment involved only despatches from large reputable businesses in Ranamavana - such as the depressingly respectable Spazum. They were not in the habit of boxing up sentient beings as interplanetary cargo.

  The computer, therefore, had no knowledge of Renton. He was invisible to its DULL system and he was certainly not in the spaceport. Definitely not in any part of it.

  This was not an immediate problem. For now, he was able to make his way unhindered to the freighter bay area, and there he was able to discover from the flight information board that the Ennovator had already departed and was on its way to Crabbsbab.

  He was not surprised to learn that this was its destination. It tied in perfectly with his detective work on the despatch documentation. Neither was he surprised that there were no scheduled flights to that far away place - and that he'd have to charter himself a monoflight to make his pursuit on his own. And fortunately he was able to do this. He still had all his documents including his private pilot's licence, all his credit discs, and most importantly, enough credit on them to allow for the cost of the charter. It was expensive, and he was still trying to come to terms with this expense as he approached the charter departure check-in desk. This was where his invisible status was about to prove a distinct problem.