Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  This was their quarry all right. But should they go ahead? He really did look like a rat. And could Madeleine manage it?

  Madeleine knew she could.

  So far she'd been a bit of a passenger on this adventure. Despite her credentials, she'd been pushed to the side and treated as just something to be rescued, something to be protected, something to be kept out of harm's way while the boys had all the fun. And while she did appreciate what her two companions were doing for her - even the one who had pried into her inner and most embarrassing thoughts - enough was enough.

  Madeleine Maiden was a capable, intelligent, resourceful young woman who had relied upon herself for as long as she could remember. She might have been wrenched from the arms of the mundane and plunged into a whirlpool of alarming intensity, but she wasn't about to abandon her self-reliance and her self-respect. And that meant there was no way she was going to settle for just a bit part in this production. No, it was time to take centre stage. It was time to take the initiative. It was time to take her clothes off.

  Renton's misgivings about their plan were probably still debating the issue between themselves when Madeleine made her move. She discarded the long overcoat she'd been wearing and strode forward towards her “stage”. She was now wearing just a short toga and a pair of minimilistic knickers that together constituted the uniform of a Romulust Restaurant waitress.

  She emerged from the baggleberries and tiptoed slowly towards the seated figure of Gruspic. She held her arms behind her back. Her attitude and her expression were as demure as her outfit would allow. But her heart was racing.

  Gruspic's expression was that of a horse trainer regarding a new filly - reserved detachment with just a hint of excitement. His eyes had conducted a brief inventory of the component parts of this new arrival and they were now fixed upon the toga hemline - and what it failed to hide. He remained seated.

  'Mr Gruspic, I presume?' opened Madeleine, a touch of self-consciousness creeping into her voice.

  'And I suppose you're Fanny, my dear. Or am I mistaken?'

  Gruspic's detached demeanour had now transformed itself into one of leering expectation. And it soon became apparent that his rodent-like features extended to his teeth. He was truly gruesome.

  'No, you're not mistaken, Mr Gruspic. But let's not talk here. Let's move over to that tree there. I mean, we don't want any hovers disturbing our little rendezvous, do we?'

  Madeleine veered off towards a large ornamental zelkova, the branches of which provided further seclusion within their already secluded position. She really didn't want anything to upset these proceedings. She was about to invest far too much in them to allow any chance of that.

  She felt Gruspic watching her as she bent towards the ground. Then when she'd settled into a sitting pose, he rose to join her. As he approached her he withdrew the pair of panties from his pocket. They were made from an off-cut of lace and a square inch of cotton.

  'These yours, are they?'

  Madeleine smiled wickedly. 'Gosh yes, I wondered where I'd left them. Difficult to know whether they're on or whether they're not. If you know what I mean.' She giggled.

  Gruspic lowered himself to the ground at Madeleine's side. He repeated his stocktaking procedures. 'You in the habit of sending these sorts of things to gentlemen and inviting them to elevenses in these sorts of places?'

  'No.'

  'You're not!?'

  'No,' said Madeleine. And she followed this with a suitably affronted: 'do I look like I'm that sort of girl?'

  'That, my dear, is a matter of opinion. And for what mine's worth, yes, you certainly do. But that's not the point. What I want to know is what's going on here. Why the invite in the first place? And why me? And who the hell are you? Where have you come from?'

  'Well, Mr Gruspic, that's an awful lot of questions. I'm not sure I can remember them all. But why are you so worried? Why don't you just take your clothes off? And then we can do something other than just talking. Talking's all right, but it can be so… well, you know, so unsatisfying.'

  Madeleine began to lick her fingers and tried to look as sultry as possible. But it wasn't easy.

  'My dear, I tend to agree with you. But that doesn't answer my questions. I repeat. Who the hell are you and where do you come from?'

  Madeleine laughed convincingly. 'I'm a present! It's as simple as that. I'm a thank you. And you do like this sort of present, don't you? It is your… your sort of hobby, isn't it? Bonking, I mean. It is what you like?'

  'A present?' responded Gruspic, ignoring her questions. And who, my dear, would send me such a present?'

  'Who do you think?'

  'I really can't imagine.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you can.'

  'My dear, I have no idea…'

  'What rhymes with “nice arse”?'

  Gruspic's expression collapsed in on itself. His eyes became pure rat eyes.

  'Yes him,' said Madeleine cheerily. 'I'm nice arse from Lysaars. He's pleased with you. It's going great. He wanted to give you a surprise present. So here I am. Nurse Fanny Antix. And yours for the day!'

  Gruspic remained silent and he now looked distinctly ill at ease.

  'Oh, come on now. Lysaars said you might be a bit surprised, but he didn't say you'd go into a coma.'

  Madeleine had never acted in her life, but if ever thespian talents were needed it was now. She had some convincing to do here and it wouldn't be easy. But she was, after all, centre stage. This was her big day. She went on. 'Look, I haven't got a gift label on me signed by Mr Lysaars, and I can't show you a certificate of origin or anything like that, but who the hell else would do something like this? You got many friends who'd stump up for a present like me? I'm expensive, I can tell you. And I'm picky as well…

  'But ahh, I know!' she exclaimed, interrupting herself. 'Tell me, Mr Gruspic. Have you ever been to Crabbsbab? I mean, have you ever been to his bunker there?'

  Gruspic refused to abandon his policy of silence, but there was now a different expression in his eyes. There was renewed interest there - and a desire to hear more.

  'Well, OK. I'll assume you have. Well, when you met Mr Lysaars, was he sitting at his desk with a jug of pepper water and was Doggerbat fiddling with…' And Madeleine then went on to describe in intimate detail the interior of Lysaars' den in his Crabbsbab bunker, detail absorbed during her visit there just a few days before. She even embroidered it with a few perceptive observations of both Lysaars' and Doggerbat's habits. And then she knew she had him. Gruspic had taken that large, intricately barbed hook into his mouth, and had clamped shut his teeth just as tight as he could. '…but, of course, if I can't convince you, I imagine our little assignation will have to come to an end. And we'll both have to forget that any of this…'

  'Fanny, my dear, why don't you start with my tie. I'm all fingers and thumbs when I'm horny.'

  'Wow!' thought Madeleine. 'That was quick. What have I got myself into?'

  Well, whatever it was she'd got herself into, she couldn't get out of it now. So she started to undress him as requested. Gruspic just grinned - obscenely. But then he spoke again.

  'And where did you get that outfit? It looks really great. I mean, really sexy.'

  Before Madeleine could respond, he continued his interrogative chat up with: 'and how big are these anyway?' - and accompanied this with a sudden squeeze of her boobs - both of them. She was now fumbling with the last button of his shirt and had to restrain herself from slapping him around the head.

  'You seem to be finding out for yourself.'

  Gruspic snorted with laughter and then made some of the most unpleasant nasal noises that Madeleine had ever heard. She wondered whether he had ever not had to pay for it. He really was an absolute toe-rag when it came to the warm-up routine.

  But at least the losing of his shirt meant the losing of his grip on Madeleine's assets as well - for which Madeleine was immensely grateful. She quickly pushed him onto his back and started to remove his shoes and t
hen his socks, all the time wearing a look of “passion” upon her face. It was an expression that would have made another woman laugh, but men were so stupid. And this one was more daft than most. He was clearly convinced that he had above him a broad who was just desperate for his sexual attentions. It was almost pathetic.

  And now, with his rat eyes glinting, he took a hand in his own undressing. He attacked his fly in a blur of fingers, and before Madeleine had a chance to steel herself, his trousers and his multicoloured underpants were down around his knees.

  'Come on, my dear,' he encouraged. Let's get this stuff off. An' then get it on…!'

  Madeleine had a strong constitution, and there was little possibility that she would have actually thrown up at this point. More of a problem was trying not to laugh. The ridiculous sight before her was bad enough, but his belief that this was something special, something that would melt her knickers off, was almost too stupid to bear. She managed to contain the desire to giggle, but only by concentrating on Gruspic's instructions and removing the last remnants of his clothing.

  And then there he was: a nude on the grass - and as tempting as phlegm-flavoured flan…

  'You seem to be rather overdressed, my dear. And I think the toga should go first. So we can see what we've got.'

  Madeleine couldn't stop now. She wasn't going to enjoy this bit, but it had to be done.

  'Well, I hope you don't go blind,' she warned, 'but if that's what you want…'

  And with that she drew the toga up from her body and over her head. Then she laid it on the grass, and after a short pause for a pose, she laid her body on his.

  'Well, I still have my sight,' said the rat. 'And you still have some clothes on - which I'd rather you didn't.'

  Madeleine smiled, pecked Gruspic's cheek and sat up as if to attend to her drawers as required. But then she quickly got to her feet, picking up her discarded toga on the way.

  'I don't think that'll be necessary,' she said. 'Because I think we've now got what we want.' She raised her voice. 'Isn't that right, Karl?'

  Renton “the Karl” Tenting responded with a firm: 'sure have'. And as she slipped the toga back over her head, two new players emerged from the baggleberries. And the principal villain of the piece leapt into the vertical as if possessed.

  'What the hell's going on!?' he screamed. 'Who are you!? What the hell do you think you're doing!?' Gruspic was not happy any more, and the deflation in his mood was quickly spreading to his favourite organ - which for the rest of the cast was a most welcome development.

  'Shut up, you toad!' shouted Madeleine. 'These two are with me. And as you see, one of them has a holovideo - on which there is now a record of our recent encounter. So remember that, Gruspic. You're now on record!'

  'And so? Going to blackmail me, are you, you slut?'

  Madeleine approached Gruspic and slapped him across the face. He looked surprised. Renton and Boz looked impressed.

  'I'm no slut! How dare you call Mrs Lysaars a slut?'

  'Mrs Lysaars?' whined Gruspic. 'Mrs Lysaars?'

  'Yes. Mrs Lysaars. How else do you think I know about his bunker and about Doggerbat and, of course, about my dear, darling husband himself? You stupid idiot!'

  That finely barbed hook was still firmly in place.

  'But… but I didn't mean…'

  'Shut up. I couldn't give a toss. We've got you by the balls now. That's all that matters. Do you understand that? If Lysaars sees that holofilm, you're dead.'

  'But…'

  'I'll make it very clear. I'm taking over. I'm taking over from my dear, devoted husband. He's losing his grip, you see. Things aren't going to plan. He's making mistakes. He's threatening the entire scheme. I've got to do it. And I've got to have you - obviously. But I didn't think you'd be too willing… So we had to go through with this little charade. I'm no slut, Mr Gruspic! What I did makes me want to throw up. But I had to do it. For everyone's sake. Get the picture?'

  'I didn't even know he had a wife,' was all that Gruspic could manage.

  'Well he did and he does - for what it's worth. I mean he's always in that damn bunker now. Or if he's not, he's cocking things up.

  'So listen. And for God's sake put your clothes on…. What I want you to do now is simply what you've been doing all along. But now you keep me copied in. OK?'

  Gruspic nodded as he pulled up his colourful underpants.

  'So keep issuing the false licences as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. OK?'

  Madeleine suddenly felt cold. If she and her colleagues had got it wrong about Gruspic's rôle in this thing, then this was when they'd discover their error. But they had not got it wrong. Gruspic simply nodded again.

  'So that's all I want. Business as usual, but now with me in the loop. And you'll get a new Bastard reference in the next few days…'

  'But how…?' Gruspic started to interrupt.

  'Oh, and one very important point,' continued Madeleine. 'Don't see Lysaars. The last thing I want is for you to come face to face with him - now or in the future. Understand?'

  'No, no,' spluttered Gruspic. 'That's just what I was going to say. I'm supposed to be seeing him on Dumpiter in two days time. He told me to turn up to some big bash there…'

  'Dumpiter?' shrieked Madeleine. 'Dumpiter?'

  'Yes, I thought it was a bit rash as well. I've always worked on the basis of keeping well away from Dumpiter - and every damn thing that goes on there. Raydox and P R C officials don't exactly mix - as I'm sure you'll understand.'

  Madeleine didn't understand at all - not what Gruspic meant by this last remark - but she did understand the significance of Dumpiter and what this meant for their quest. And Renton and Boz would understand too. Her thoughts were now racing: missing spaceships, the universe's breaker's yard, diverted paint, false licences…. Where else would you hide an illicit respray set up? Dumpiter. That's where! Bloody Dumpiter!

  This was quite a thing to get to grips with. But first she had old rat-features to deal with. And so she gathered herself and re-adopted her new rôle as his master.

  'Go sick! Get something unpleasant and contagious! Something that really turns people off,' she said abruptly.

  'Yes, like the plague only not so terminal,' added Renton helpfully. 'I'm sure you can think of something.'

  Gruspic nodded and attended to his redressing, seemingly happy to miss the big event on Dumpiter and apparently confident that he could dream up a sufficiently offputting disease. Finally he'd restored himself to office respectability if not to sartorial elegance - and now he just stood looking dumb. Their business was done but he was clearly unsure of how to disengage. As was Madeleine. It was left to Boz to come to their aid.

  'Well man, we're through. So go now an' quick. An' get y'self sick. An' don't be a dick. An' you knows what I mean…'

  'Yes, I know,' managed a miserable looking Gruspic. And then with a narrowing of his eyes, in a final act of defiance, he turned and walked slowly away.

  When he was well out of sight, Renton was the first to speak.

  'You were brilliant, absolutely brilliant,' he said. 'Talk about taking candy from a baby. And we've got everything we wanted - within minutes. Fantastic! Really fantastic!'

  'Renton's right,' added Boz. 'Hell, I thought Lysaars really was your ole man. You really had me goin' there.'

  Madeleine felt really good - about her reviews by the critics, about what she'd achieved, about what she'd discovered - and about what this might mean for her chances of survival. For, above all else, her play-acting had all been about staying alive - and staying Madeleine.

  But then she felt nervous - about Dumpiter. For she knew that very soon, they would be there, on that scrap-yard of a planet - and having to confront whatever they found there.

  'Because I bet,' she thought, 'it's bound to have its own surprises. And I hope that's all they are though: just minor surprises - and not major shocks…'

  Gruspic had entertained similar thoughts himself - on his way
to the roof garden. But now, as he was about to leave it, his mind was anywhere other than on his immediate surroundings. He had been entirely distracted by the events of the last few minutes, a dangerous state to be in on the Pan-Universal Registration Council roof garden - where moving paths emerging from overgrown vegetation prey on the unwary. It was ironic really, that when Gruspic was toppled over by one such mean-minded walkway, it was into a pond again - and the very same pond that he'd been in before.

  As he entered its murky wetness, the memories came flooding back. Only too literally. Far, far, too literally.

  45.

  Doctor Rattlepitt's hands were his most elegant feature. They were silky smooth and a delicate ivory white. Their proportions were superb; the narrowness of the hands themselves echoed in finely drawn fingers, each a tiny model of pure perfection. They were hands made to hold an artist's paintbrush or to skip along the keys of a piano machine. They were beautiful hands, exquisite hands. But they were on the wrong body.

  Rattlepitt was an insectal. He did have the most elegant of manual appendages. And they could, on their own, be mistaken for the hands of a human. However, as there were four of them, this was not very likely. And they were connected to a body that was the antithesis of anything human and, for that matter, anything that could be described as elegant.

  The ivory whiteness of his hands extended along the length of his lower arms, but the smooth whiteness soon gave way to grey. And the grey was hairy. And it was hard, the brittle hard of an insect. And this grey, hairy hide covered the whole of the rest of his body, his beetle-shaped body with its funny, squat legs and its large helmet-head. It was a truly ugly body. It was not the body of a great painter or of a gifted pianist.

  He was sitting at a table in the wardroom of the Ennovator, picking greedily at a pile of fruit. And needing only one pair of hands to do this, his other pair was occupied in a spot of body-picking, head-scratching and leg-rubbing, and a few other pastimes equally inconsiderate to the sensitivities of his fellow diners. There were two of these. Opposite Rattlepitt sat Doggerbat, and to his right sat Lysaars.