Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Renton and Madeleine were now alone. The indignant scunger had resumed her grazing, the original crew were coming to terms with their new status as pedestrians, and Renton was driving his very first milker - very carefully.

  He hadn't cracked what the vertical sticks next to the steering column did nor had he any idea how to stop the vehicle, but he had sussed how the steering wheel worked and he was quickly learning how to tame that accelerator pedal… and almost enjoying it. He had just satisfied himself that he at least had the vehicle in a controlled forward motion when Madeleine joined him, dripping fresh milk down his own still-dripping clothes.

  'Some luvvie. That, I have to say, was a pretty sound performance.'

  Renton grinned. 'I think if you're planning to go into the film world, even if its only the blue-film world, you should understand that the term: "luvvie" is generally only applied to the thespian brigade, not to their mere make-up artistes. And furthermore, this is a no-standing charabanc. So please sit down. Here.'

  Madeleine squeezed herself into the driver's seat with Renton and for once looked less than entirely resentful. There was now a suggestion of some grudging gratitude there as well. Although only a suggestion. And when she spoke, it wasn't there at all.

  'Why didn't you just hit him?'

  'You might have arrested me for assault. I mean hitting's against the law, isn't it?'

  'It might not be. Not if there's been provocation.'

  'You mean like if someone's soaked all your clothes in warm milk?'

  'Yeah, something like that. And especially if they're not even warm any more.'

  'Uhm, I know what you mean. They're getting awful, aren't they? And colder by the minute.'

  'Yes, they certainly are. And I think we should do something about it…'

  'Sounds fine to me. But not just yet. First, we need to put some distance between ourselves and our two travelling companions back there. Oh, and second, when we're far enough away, we then need to find out how to stop this damn machine. It may have escaped your notice, but my tutor left before he could tell me.'

  'Yes,' said Madeleine. 'Maybe he was pushed for time. Although, from my perspective, I think he was more pushed for space…'

  'Ah,' thought Renton, 'so this woman has a sense of humour to add to her common sense. But does she have the sense to see that we're in this thing together. And that if she doesn't try and learn a little more about me - and reveal a little more of what she's made of herself - then neither of us will be prepared for whatever we're next exposed to…'

  As he was soon to discover, never had he entertained a truer thought.

  33.

  They ploughed on over the plain for about half an hour, speaking little and seeing nothing, save for more of those giant scungers, animals that Renton now regarded with deep affection. After all, one of them had helped save his life. Indeed his affection for them was now so strong that he'd have liked to know a lot more about them, about their habits and about their temperament. But, alas, all that sort of stuff would have to wait. For now, there were more pressing unknowns to address - concerning, in particular, this damn milker thing. Like how, for example, to stop it…

  'It's got to be one of these levers,' said Renton. 'There just isn't anything else. I think it might be this one here.'

  He pulled the smallish lever nearest the steering column and the machine slowed to a stop, its engine still running.

  'Uhm, well done,' said Madeleine. 'You're becoming a regular little expert, aren't you?

  'Well, thanks very much. But, you know, that was more down to luck than anything else. And I don't think we should push it - our luck that is. I'm going to leave the engine running. No point in trying to stop it. We might not get it started again. So I vote we just let it idle. And then when we want to go, we'll just push that same lever. OK with you?'

  'Certainly,' agreed Madeleine. 'And what's more, I've got an idea. The engine exhaust - and the vents…'

  Renton knew immediately what Madeleine meant. He peered around the side of the engine housing. And sure enough, there they were: a row of vents along its full length. And there was a similar row on Madeleine's side.

  'Well, we can't wash these clothes, but we can certainly dry them,' announced Madeleine. 'So you take the left and I'll take the right. And… well, I think we ought to pretend we've just met. I mean, with me as a traffic cop - and not as a… well, you know, not as a prospective starlet.'

  'You mean observe a bit of decorum?'

  'Yes, a lot of decorum.'

  'Wouldn't have it any other way. Life's difficult enough as it is…'

  'Uhm, I suppose it is,' concluded Madeleine icily. And then she was climbing from the vehicle, and Renton turned to do the same on his own side.

  Two minutes later, two naked humanoids were sitting like bookends against the two front wheels of the vehicle, their clothes wedged into the vents of its engine compartment. Madeleine's idea was a good one. Soon their milky garments would at least be dry.

  It was an odd respite from the trials of the last few hours but a welcome one, and Renton used it as best he could - to rest his over-used limbs, to ease his aches, and to come to terms with his recent experiences. But not to talk. The idling engine between them was still extremely noisy and conversation was just too difficult.

  Indeed when Renton finally decided to re-open communications with his hidden neighbour, he had to turn up his volume to “very high”. 'How are yours doing, Miss Maiden?' he shouted at the top of his voice.

  'Should be about done, I think,' shouted back Madeleine. 'Let me just check.'

  She rose and felt the line of clothes in the vents. Then she took her tights from their drying place and gave them a stretch.

  'I think they're about ready,' she shouted again.

  This conversation was really quite painful. The idling engine was noisier than ever. But it was a short conversation. For when the engine noise rose to a scream and the milker started to move forward, further discourse of any sort became completely impossible.

  They both watched in amazement as the vehicle moved away. And as it gained speed, they noticed that whatever aspiration process was employed in the workings of the engine, it required a reversal of the vent system as the engine came under load. And they noticed this because their clothes were sucked out of sight and into the engine housing. In an instant. Never to be seen again. In fact, Renton and Madeleine never even saw the vehicle again. Whatever lever Renton had pulled had chosen not to stay pulled, and the milker was now bound for another part of Crabbsbab at a pace well beyond their ability to chase it. Not that chasing it had even crossed their minds.

  They were both still stunned at the milker's sudden departure. As it vacated the space between them they were then further stunned to see each other's condition. Madeleine had a pair of grey shoes lying at her feet and a pair of tights in her hands. Renton had only a pair of milk-stained desert boots. Other than that they were possessionless, unencumbered to the point of nakedness on the great Crabbsbab's plain.

  As the shock wore off, Renton experienced mixed emotions. But Madeleine, it appeared, had a more single-minded view of their situation. Or that's what Renton thought when she addressed him with a series of expletives and then made an enquiry about his parentage and his acquaintance with the concept of species regression.

  She really wasn't very pleased - even when he applied himself to the task of restoring some decorum to their present predicament. And he did try. First with her shoes - which proved incapable of covering anything at all other than Madeleine's feet - and then with the desert boots and the pair of tights, which proved far more amenable.

  Indeed it wasn't long before he'd disassembled the footwear into its two separate boots and two separate laces, and the tights into two separate stockings. And only minutes after this, that he'd re-assembled the six components into two “garments”, each one consisting of one stocking (as a waistband), one shoelace (as a “suspender”) and one desert boot (as a m
odesty device at the end of the suspender); for him a “dangling desert boot codpiece” and for her a “dangling desert boot g-string” (items of clothing with the same agenda, but with very different territory to cover).

  She still wasn't pleased when he then handed her the result of his efforts, or when it then came to decide which path to take across the featureless prairie - something Renton resolved by choosing the direction he was facing when he came to make the decision. It was as good a method as he could think of. And Madeleine agreed, albeit not without the help of a few more expletives in the process… She was still very angry.

  But so be it. Renton knew that in no way could he appease her. Not at the moment. And that all he could do was to lead her to safety. Or at least try to lead her to safety. And so they set off, two figures, each naked save for a desert boot bouncing round their privates. And without even shoes on their feet - Madeleine having decided before they departed that wearing that grey pair with the rest of her ensemble made her look rather silly…

  And just a quarter of an hour into this novel perambulation, Renton spotted a hover coming towards them. It was the same model as the two he'd seen in Lysaars' compound. And its pilot had apparently spotted them. He was descending towards them.

  'Hell!' thought Renton. 'It's just one thing after another!'

  They had company. And judging from that hover, he had a good idea of the name of the company.

  His heart sank.

  34.

  Madeleine watched the hover's approach.

  Madeleine, the girl who sought adventure, the girl who wanted new experiences and who wanted “intensity” in her life. Well, she'd found adventure. And she'd got herself some new experiences. And there was so much intensity in her life at the moment there was hardly room for anything else. But despite all this, despite her aspirations having been fulfilled quite so comprehensively, as she watched that hover approach, she felt simply despondent.

  And she knew why. It was the wrong adventure. It was full of the wrong sorts of experiences. And it was all so intense it was dreadful. And almost worse than this was how she'd been ensnared in it - by a birdbrain with problem hair. And that wasn't his only problem. So too was his unwelcome attention. She felt as if he were stalking her. And even if his motives were rather nobler, and he was actually trying to rescue her, hadn't he noticed that he was a little out of his depth in this endeavour? And far from helping her, all he was doing was exposing her to more trials. Like this literal exposure, for example, which was not only an embarrassing burden but also a further potential problem. And with this hover coming in, there was no doubt about it. Hell, they could hardly claim they were just tourists, could they? Even eco-tourists…

  Oh, what she wouldn't give now for her old blue uniform in place of this size-9 desert boot dangling from her belly. And those dusty pavements of Ranamavana in place of this dusty expanse of prairie. And as for a career in the film industry, forget it. She'd be happy to stay a traffic cop for as long as she could - and learn to live with an absence of intensity for some time to come. In fact, right now, she'd almost settle for an absence of intensity for all time - if it meant that she could avoid the company of whoever lurked behind the mirror-glass of that approaching hover.

  And now the hover was landing. It was less than twenty paces from where Madeleine stood with Renton. Their guests had arrived. Madeleine adjusted her desert boot and then considered the rest of her condition. She folded her arms across her chest. Even without her shoes on she looked fairly ridiculous. Renton's appearance was equally laughable.

  He touched Madeleine's shoulder. 'You stay with me, OK?'

  'Damned right OK,' agreed Madeleine. 'And you stay with me. Don't you dare disappear again.'

  She glared at Renton, and when she returned her gaze to the hover, a door was opening. And then a boot appeared from its bottom edge. Then another. Then the owner of the boots emerged into full view. It was a substantial reptilian with scaly limbs and a horny snout. His huge green eyes glinted. And then they narrowed as he spoke to Renton. 'Well now, I see yous ain't got my suitcase no more!'

  'Boz!! I don't believe it. I just don't believe it.'

  'Well, you better, ole Renton, cos seein's believin'. An' I think yous a-seein' me. Ain't I right?'

  They both burst out laughing and Renton turned to Madeleine.

  'It's Boz. He of the suitcase. Boz, meet… Madeleine. Madeleine, meet Boz.'

  Madeleine and Boz met. It was probably the most bizarre meeting she had ever had in her life, but definitely the most welcome. Even if, in intensity terms, it was almost overwhelming.

  35.

  Doggerbat stood outside the door to Lysaars' office and belched. Acute nervousness was making its presence felt throughout the entire length of his digestive tract. He felt acid in his throat, his stomach rumbled, and there was the promise of worse down below.

  He had spent the last fifteen minutes considering what to do. Early retirement? A cataleptic fit? Religious conversion? Running away? Running around in circles? It was no use. He was trapped. He had to tell Lysaars. He couldn't avoid it. And it had to be now.

  But the phrasing? 'We've located their general situation.' No, that promised far too much. 'We know Tenting and the girl are together.' Ummh, but where are they together? 'We know they're hungry and they smell of milk.' No, it really needed to be more along the lines of: 'they escaped on a milker, they overpowered the crew, and they could now be anywhere on Crabbsbab - cos they've got the milker.'

  He belched again. His hands were perspiring. His colon was becoming a little petillant. He closed his eyes, wiped his hands on his trousers, opened his eyes again, took a very deep breath and tapped on the door.

  He let himself in.

  'Ah, Doggerbat, my good man. It's good to see you. Are you well, eh?'

  Lysaars was lying on a nasty, striped chaise-longue in an alcove of his large office. In his hand he had two or three sheets of plasper. He had been examining them when Doggerbat entered the room.

  'Uhh yes. Yes, I'm very well… errh, thank you, Mr Lysaars sir.'

  Lysaars levered his fat torso into the vertical and his short sausage legs flopped to the floor. He beamed at Doggerbat. 'What brings you here, Doggerbat? You have a purpose, don't you? I know you're not a man to do something without a reason. Without reasoning sometimes, but never without a reason. Eh? Eh?' Lysaars laughed a plughole sort of laugh.

  Doggerbat felt the clamminess spread over his body. This was worse than their previous encounter. Lysaars was positively pleasant. And this was desperately unnerving.

  'It's about Tenting and the girl,' managed Doggerbat.

  'Oh is it?' chirruped Lysaars. 'Our absent friends. You have news of them, eh? And tell me - this news, is it good, bad or indifferent?'

  'Different from what, Mr Lysaars?'

  'No, Doggerbat, indifferent, not different. It means… oh well, never mind what it means. Let's just stick to the good and the bad, shall we? Or better still, why don't you just tell me your news - and I'll be the judge…'

  'Well, Tenting and… errh, the Maiden woman. Well… errh, well… errh…'

  'Doggerbat, let me guess. This is not news that we would file in our good news file, is it? You have some bad news, don't you? Come on, tell your nice uncle Lysaars what it is.'

  Doggerbat had the feeling that he was melting. He knew that if he looked down he would see a pool of melted Doggerbat spreading out from the bottom of his legs across the polished floor of Lysaars' den. 'Well,' he managed to say, 'Tenting must have been in the compound. It looks as though they both hid on a milker, one of the milkers that went out earlier today. And well, they overpowered the driver and the operator and… well, they made off with the milker. Errh, we don't quite know where they are. Errh, not yet anyway.'

  Lysaars' piggy eyes went into slit mode. 'Overpowered the crew, eh? Made off with a milker? I'm impressed. We must congratulate our Mr Tenting. He's proving himself to be a very resourceful young chappie. Or pe
rhaps our Miss Maiden is the super-hero. Well, in any event, they're giving us a bit of a runaround, aren't they?'

  Lysaars grinned. 'Doggerbat, shall we double the guard? They're probably gathering for an attack. God, we may be overrun! Man the walls! Seal the bunker! Lock up your daughters!' He burst into a horrible laugh which tailed off into something like a death rattle.

  Doggerbat knew he'd melted up to his knees by now. He was sure he was a full foot shorter.

  'Never mind, Doggerbat,' Lysaars continued in a low voice. 'Life is full of little surprises. I'm sure all will be well. I have every confidence in you. It's only a matter of time, isn't it, eh? You'll just have to buy yourself a bigger butterfly net. Don't worry, Doggerbat, I'm not going to eat you.'

  The word “eat” obviously had its Pavlovian effect on Lysaars, and at this point in the proceedings he reached into the folds of his shirt and extracted his oefedge box. He studied the contents of the box, selected a shiny yellow morsel and then pushed it into his mouth.

  Doggerbat's mind was in turmoil. It was wrestling with the meaning of this display of unnatural, good-natured calm. But at least that dreadful melting sensation had disappeared…

  Lysaars scrunched his eggshell, poked a finger into the orifice in his face, unlodged a sliver from his back teeth, cleared his throat and smiled at Doggerbat again. 'Have you seen one of these things recently, Doggerbat?' He waved the sheets of plasper.

  'It's a letter, what's called "correspondence". These sheets of plasper came in a plasper "envelope". And somebody has written words on these sheets with what's called a pen and has then put the sheets in the envelope, like a thin package. And then sent it to me. Like miniature cargo. It's come all the way from Ferricantor. And what this somebody has written is not just good news, Doggerbat, it is simply wonderful news! This may be it. This may be the key I've been searching for!'