Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Whether it was issuing an exposure draft on a new code for inflight-sanitation standards or whether it was a review of the densities of laserade abusive calls in a particular segment of a galaxy, it would fall to their Stuttfut monopoly to undertake the task. In whatever aspect of travel and communications, if there was a rule to draft, a regulation to be reviewed, some gobbledegook to be made more impenetrable or some unwanted data to be collected and collated, then Stuttfut was there, Stuttfut was ready and Stuttfut would do it. They legislated, they arbitrated, they regulated and they administrated. They also prevaricated, obfuscated, strangulated and irritated. Such is the nature of bureaucrats. And all this nonsense was conducted through a host of institutes, councils and secretariats - full of advisers, clerks, translators, (hundreds of thousands of translators), PR people, liaison officers - and more other hangers-on than you could ever imagine. And one of these institutions, one of the best known, was the grand Pan-Universal Registration Council, the agency responsible for issuing all space-vehicle operating licences in the universe and for enforcing the daunting plethora of regulations that surrounded these licences. And it was also responsible for Renton being here - on Stuttfut. Or more particularly, one of its employees was…

  And this was because Boz had not been confident that either Spiripid Tak or Professor Polisible would come up with the necessary information on Lysaars' whereabouts. And if they didn't, where better to rendezvous than the home of Mr Gruspic, an employee of said Council who, as discovered by Renton and then rediscovered by Boz, was a frequent correspondent of one Mr Lysaars? And therefore, a potential further source of the lead they required.

  So, even though Renton really had no time for the place, here he was, in one of its trendier restaurants, with Madeleine and with Boz again, establishing whether they would need to pay a visit to Mr Gruspic - and trying to get to grips with a new eating experience…

  'Apparently, they used to do this on a planet called "Rome",' he said. 'And it's supposed to be very good for the digestion.'

  'Mmmm, just like their pavements are supposed to be very good for the balance, no doubt. Well, if you ask me, it's just plain ridiculous…'

  Madeleine was alluding here to one of the aspects of Stuttfut that had already failed to impress: its moving pavements. They were everywhere, and they were nothing less than an active manifestation of the planet's pompous stupidity, born out of its own bureaucratic idiocy but financed out of everybody else's money. And they were bloody dangerous - as Renton had already discovered when he'd first tried to use them.

  '…but there again,' continued Madeleine, 'you do seem to be enjoying the view. Or hadn't you noticed it?'

  And here Madeleine was alluding to the view, afforded to Renton and all the other diners in this restaurant, of the waitresses' underwear. For the “Roman” way of eating in this “Romulust” place entailed reclining on cushions on the floor, set around tables built to Eviva-Village specifications. And here, as one picked at one's food, one was constantly distracted by the comings and goings of its squad of “toga” dressed waitresses - whose togas were little more than loose-fitting micro-dresses, ending only millimetres below the lowest part of some of the briefest drawers that Renton had ever laid his eyes on - or indeed anything else on. And that this was distracting - from a floor-level perspective - was a fact - and probably the only reason that the restaurant was doing as well as it was. The food really wasn't very good, but the place was already packed - mostly with men. Or, at least, with what passed for men on this most weedy of planets…

  'Not much,' responded Renton. 'I have other things on my mind. And anyway, it wasn't my idea to come here. It was that guy at reception…'

  'Yeah, that guy who looked like a cross between a pimp and a pop-head. He was really the right sort to ask, wasn't he? He was really going to send us to a nice place…'

  'You know, if I didn't knows better,' interrupted Boz, 'I'd think yous two were here to pass the time o' day, rather than to try an' find out where that there Lysaars has gone an' shunted his carcass to. An' that you think yous got all the time in the worlds to chew over a load o' nonsense 'bout eatin' an' gawkin'…'

  'Point taken,' conceded Madeleine sheepishly. 'And thanks for reminding me - as if I should need it.'

  'Yeah, you're quite right,' added Renton contritely. 'We've got no time to lose. And we should be working out what to do. Now. While we've still got a chance.'

  'OK, you two. Don't overdo it. I was jus' suggestin' we made a start. An' before we work out what to do, I reckon it'd be a darn good idea if we like got a handle on what we like know. I mean, to make sure we ain't missin' anythin' we might need to take 'count of - in our plannin' an' things. An' seein' how yous, Mr Tenting, is good at pullin' stuff like that together, why don't you do that for us right now? So we knows where we're at.'

  'You want me to summarize what we know?'

  'You got it,' confirmed Boz. 'I'm all ears. Figuratively speakin', you understand…'

  'Right,' began Renton. 'One summary coming up.'

  And then he hesitated. Impromptu speaking wasn't his forte. Especially when he had to speak lucidly as well.

  'Errh,' he began. 'Errh, I don't think there's that much to summarize really. But if we start with the vats and the fact that they're filled with water… well, I think we've already agreed what this means - that Lysaars is using his… well, let's call them his "contacts" for now, to route all his paint vats back to Spazum - because they have to be returned there…'

  'Yes, interrupted Madeleine. 'But you've missed out what he's done with the paint first. And why he can't just return them from Crabbsbab…'

  'I was just getting to that bit,' retorted Renton. 'If you'd just wait a minute…

  'You haven't got a very ordered mind, have you?

  'I certainly have…'

  'Childun,' announced Boz. 'The summary.'

  'Yes. Well, Lysaars can't be using the paint on Crabbsbab. Because there's nothing on Crabbsbab to use it on. So he must be shipping it out somewhere. But not in the paint vats. Cos they're all going to his contacts - filled with water. Although, as far as the authorities on Crabbsbab are concerned, they're filled with paint, and they're going to Red Inc's customers. Just like it's a regular business.

  'And you know something? I suppose he might even want to sort of implicate them as well. You know, his "contacts". Cos that way, if anything went wrong, he could prove they were in on it too.'

  'Yes,' agreed Madeleine. 'I hadn't thought of that. Very good, Renton. Very good indeed.'

  Renton scowled at Madeleine, and then addressed her directly.

  'Thank you. Thank you very kindly. And here's something else you haven't thought of. I reckon he ships all the paint out as milk. You know. In the same way he's shipping out water in paint vats, he's shipping out paint in milk vats - or giant milk cartons - or whatever it is they use to ship out all that scunger stuff… I've just thought of that. While you were busy being condescending…'

  'Ummm, that's right good thinkin',' interjected Boz, obviously keen to avoid another spat between his colleagues. 'You ain't gone and thunk up where he's shippin' it to as well, have you?'

  'No,' responded Renton. 'But I'd lay money on it being to just one place - and that place being where Lysaars is at this very moment.'

  'Yeah,' agreed Boz. 'Pity we didn't pay a bit more attention to that milkin' stuff at the time. An' that way, maybe we'd be there too. Like right now.'

  'Well, all water under the bridge, as they say. Or spilt milk, or… yes, well, as I was saying, in essence we've found out a bit more about Lysaars' affairs, but we still don't know where he is. And to finish off this summary, and before I'm reminded to mention it, we also know that these contacts of Lysaars are all mixed up in the business of everlasting life…'

  'We don't know all of them are,' challenged Madeleine. 'We only know two of them are.'

  'No,' pronounced Boz. 'I'm afraid, my dear Madeleine, that I am in the same camp as our young sum
marizer here - in thinkin' that if we've tripped over two life-everlastin' types in our sample of jus' two, then hunchistically, if maybe not statistically speakin', we'd trip over a whole heap more of them, the more we explored. Mind, what that all means… well, I ain't got a clue. Been scratchin' my head 'bout it, but damned if I can see any connection 'tween paintin' an' perpetuity. An' even if I could, I'm not so sure that would get us anywhere nearer findin' this Lysaars hoodlum anyway. No, I reckon we gonna have to do that in another way entirely…'

  'Gruspic,' offered Madeleine.

  'Yes, Gruspic,' confirmed Boz. 'Or to give him his full name, Mr Pustel Paul Gruspic, bachelor of this here town - and odds on to stay so…'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, my dear, that this here Gruspic dude… well, accordin' to my information, he ain't what you'd call pretty, and he ain't what you'd call fastidious in his behaviour or what you'd call exactly charmin' in his dealin's with the opposite sex. In fact, far from it.'

  'So what you're saying is that he's a bit of a loner and that he's not very good with women?'

  'No, my dear. What I'm sayin' is that he's a bit of a loner and that he ain't very good without women. Like he can't get enough of them - ever - for… well, you know, for foolin' round with. An' often, apparently, for foolin' round with in the most amazin' o' ways.'

  'You mean…'

  'Yes, my dear. That's precisely what I mean. Our disgustin' Mr Gruspic is a regular ole sex-fiend. An' by all accounts, he indulges himself as often as he can. An' it costs him a fortune…'

  'Hey, said Renton, rejoining the conversation. 'How the hell do you know all this, you devil?'

  'Jus' don't ask,' responded the scaly one. 'You jus' wouldn't want to know. Not a nice, clean-livin' boy like y'self…'

  'Yes,' added Madeleine. 'And a nice, clean living boy like yourself probably wouldn't want to know what happens next either.'

  'What do you mean?' queried Renton, with an edge of concern in his voice.

  'I mean how we use this information - that Boz has so cleverly acquired - to get this Gruspic guy to cooperate.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'No, I don't suppose you do. But it's really very simple. And all it entails is our exploiting his weakness, his taste for this "foolin"' with women.'

  'But how? How could we do that?'

  Madeleine sighed and gave Renton an almost pitying look. Then she spoke.

  'Renton, as you may have observed in the past, and cannot have failed to have observed on Crabbsbab, I am a woman. The very thing which this dirty old Gruspic lusts after. And I am therefore ideally suited to exploit his particular weakness - through the simple expedient of seducing him…'

  'But you can't!' exploded Renton. 'I mean, you couldn't possibly…'

  'Keep your cap on,' interrupted Boz. 'I suspect this young lady here ain't suggestin' seduction in the sense of the whole shootin' match, so t' speak - but well, jus' a touch of it, before the shootin' gets under way - if you knows what I mean… An' hell, that ain't such a bad idea…'

  'Spot on,' confirmed Madeleine. 'And very well put. I've certainly no intention of letting any discharges take place… Shrivel the thought…'

  Renton's mouth opened slightly. He was going to make a further point about the dangers of this seduction idea, and how things could get out of hand, but Madeleine went on.

  'And as for being effective, Renton… well, I don't think that'll be too much of a problem. Judging by the interest you've been showing in the waitresses' underwear, any fully paid up sex-fiend is going to be a pushover. You just wait. When I turn the charm on, he won't know what's hit him. And he won't even care…

  'So come on, you two. How am I going to use my siren charms to best effect? How are we going to trap this Mr Gruspic? And where are we going to do it? And when?

  'And when, Renton, are you going to shut your mouth again? You look like a bloody goldfish…'

  43.

  The offices of the Pan-Universal Registration Council boasted a roof garden. Gruspic had visited it only once before.

  It had been a very long time ago, when he had no choice in the matter. He'd not wanted to go, but he'd simply had to. He was then the most junior of bureaucrats, working for the Council in a rôle so menial it had bordered on the useful. And one did what was expected of one. But now, in his present elevated position, there was no longer any need to visit that green canopy in the sky, and nobody forcing him to do so. Just as well. He had not enjoyed that first visit. Not one little bit.

  It was a leaving-do for some fellow minion. And in those days the roof garden was a popular venue for such events. It was then the largest roof garden on the planet, a statement of the importance of the Council and the size of its overweight budget. This endowed it with a number of attractions, not least the remoteness of its edges from the site of these drink-laden binges - which meant that one could get falling-over drunk on this roof garden without falling off it.

  Not that such considerations had ever occurred to Gruspic. He had no taste for alcohol and he loathed the thought of his being in any way vulnerable to his colleagues in the Council or, more importantly, incapable of rising to a chance sexual opportunity. Penetrating as many women in the universe as possible was, after all, Gruspic's principal objective in life. All his scheming, all his cheating, and more recently, all his criminal activity, were directed to this one end. And no way would he have wanted booze to get in the way of that.

  It had rained during this leaving-do. All the time. Everybody was being jolly under umbrellas, making jokes about the weather and pretending not to notice the dripping shrubs and the damp buffet. Everybody, that is, except Gruspic.

  He stood on the edge of the proceedings, in his undersized macintosh and his oversized deerstalker, rainwater diluting his mineral water and his will to remain at this wretched event. But he wasn't going to leave before a bloke by the name of Buttonake did. Buttonake was his immediate superior in those days. Leaving before he did would send out the wrong signals. It would be politically inept. He had to stick it out for as long as Buttonake did - but “Butt-ache” was taking his time.

  When, after two hours of this misery, Gruspic shuffled the wrong way onto one of the narrow-gauge moving pavements, which snaked through the garden - and was tipped into the ornamental carp pool, he was already very wet anyway. But this didn't seem to temper his reaction to his topple. He was furious. Then the laughter, which accompanied his rising from the waves, didn't help either. Neither did Buttonake's remark about his trying to screw the fish.

  But despite all this, Gruspic managed to contain his anger. He maintained a poker face. He betrayed nothing of his inner feelings to the laughing crowd. And as he stepped from the pond, he simply occupied himself with his headgear - slowly and deliberately adjusting it - to return its peak to the front.

  He was good. The laughter died down and then there was silence. And he had almost succeeded in turning what could have been a memorable disaster into a memorable demonstration of admirable cool. But then he took a gulp of mineral water from his glass, the same glass that had remained in his hand throughout the entire aquatic experience. Unfortunately the mineral water was now only an insignificant part of the total contents of the glass, and the predominance in the receptacle of pond water complete with pond life became apparent very suddenly. Suddenly enough to catch his gullet completely off guard. And when the water U-turned in his throat it was joined by an unpleasant gob of what had once been krill-flavoured crisps. And as this half-digested upswallow landed at Buttonake's feet, the chorus of laughter was resumed. Only Buttonake didn't join in.

  Gruspic reckoned that this stupid bloody leaving-do had cost him a promotion delay of at least six months. And it did nothing for his reputation in the Council's offices or for his chances with its female population. Indeed, very soon afterwards, paying for it became the only way of ever getting it at all. And all because of that soddin' roof garden. It would take a lot to get him back up there ag
ain - an awful lot. Something like a scented package containing an insubstantial pair of panties and an invitation to elevenses on the roof with someone who described herself as: 'Nurse Fanny Antix, The Succour of Men'.

  As with every other day at the Council, Gruspic had nothing pressing to attend to, and he had very quickly overcome his longstanding dislike for the roof garden. He was now sitting in the appointed clearing in a baggleberry grove, a secluded corner of the roof garden reached by the outermost branch of its moving pavement network. He felt the foreign pair of smalls in his trouser pocket, threading them between his fingers. His thoughts were disgusting - but entirely free of memories of the carp pond.

  Finally, a little after the promised eleven o'clock timing, he heard rustling in the baggleberries.

  44.

  Our heroes had moved quickly. This was the morning after the evening of their planning. There had been no time to question the wisdom of their scheme. They were into it without the baggage of calm deliberation. They were into it now. It had to work. First time. This time.

  All three of them had been crouching in the baggleberry grove for almost half an hour. When Gruspic had finally arrived, they'd been sure it was him, that this was their man. He so looked the part. Indeed if Madeleine had ever been asked to produce a picture of a really nasty, really dirty, I'm-only-here-for-the-sex-type pervo, then she would have produced something like Pustel P Gruspic both in looks and in dress.

  He was all slicked down. His hair was plastered to his head. His moustache was black and waxed. And so were his heavy eyebrows. His face was thin, sallow and shiny. His suit looked shiny as well. And pressed down. As though it had been steam-pressed every day of its obviously long life. His tie was thin and as black as his moustache. There was something of a rodent about his appearance. And, like a rodent, he kept scratching himself - only with more vigour and with more focus on the pants zone…