Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Like the brig.

  VanDerGard was conferring with the pilot. Probably requesting the armed escort, the leg irons and shackles.

  Well, as his old sergeant used to say when they came under enemy bombardment, nothing to do but hunker down, sweat it out.

  Jamil hunkered down and began to sweat.

  Chapter 10

  Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.

  Charles Welter

  Customs was not as bad as Darlene had anticipated.

  After a critical inspection, she wasn’t required to wear a mask, as were some of her more unfortunate fellow passengers. The customs agent did recommend, however, that she do something with her hair. Having assured the agent that this would be her first priority, Darlene offered the computer case and her overnight bag for inspection. The agent cast a bored look at the computer and a skeptical look at the small and shabby overnight bag.

  “How long are you staying?” he asked.

  “A week,” Darlene replied. “I’m here for Carnival.”

  The agent lifted a plucked and skeptical eyebrow. Opening her carry-on, he peered disdainfully inside. “You are going to one of the nude colonies, I assume,” he said.

  Darlene added hurriedly, “I’m here on a shopping spree. I plan to buy a whole new wardrobe.”

  The agent indicated—with a meaningful glance at what she was currently wearing—that this would certainly be highly advisable. With a languid wave of his hand, he passed her on through.

  Darlene was leaving customs, smiling over this episode and searching for Raoul, when she encountered a party of Adonians who were most obviously on their way to visit one of the nude colonies. It was an impressive sight. Darlene was still staring when Raoul and the Little One found her.

  Raoul greeted her with a fond hug and kisses, as if they’d been separated for thirty years, not thirty minutes. This was the typical Adonian form of welcome, however, as she learned from the kissing, hugging throng around her.

  “You’re not masked! Congratulations!” Raoul gushed, then paused—fearful—and asked in a loud whisper, “What did they say about your hair?”

  “I’m to have it done,” she whispered back.

  “Nothing more than that? I thought they might sentence you to ... Well, never mind. They didn’t.” Raoul breathed a sigh. “We’re not out of this yet, though.”

  He looked around, all directions, scrutinizing the crowd closely. Darlene, assuming he was searching for the Hung assassin, was about to ask him if he had noticed anyone suspicious, when he pulled out a silken scarf from his purse and handed it to her.

  “Put this over your head,” he said in the hushed tones. “We have to reach my abode safely and the magnet is simply crawling with cops.”

  Darlene might have welcomed this, had she thought the police were posted in the “magnet” (whatever that was) for the protection of the citizenry. Knowing Adonians, however, she guessed that the cops would be far more interested in outrages perpetrated against fashion than such sordid and distasteful crimes as muggings, theft, or murder. No doubt they would arrest her assassin if he gunned her down in public (especially if he splattered blood on someone’s fine white leather shoes). But the police would be apt to arrest the assassin a whole lot faster if he was wearing polyester at the time.

  Accordingly, Darlene tied the scarf around her head and accompanied Raoul through the spaceport to the baggage claim, to arrange for the delivery of fourteen trunks—all the clothing he considered necessary for a week’s vacation.

  “I hope I brought enough,” he said worriedly, watching the trunks slide down the conveyer. “Yes, what is it?” he asked distractedly.

  The Little One was tugging on Raoul’s sleeve. They held one of their silent conversations, then Raoul turned to Darlene.

  “The Little One says that no one is following you, that no one is taking the least bit of interest in you. The scarf’s working,” he continued, and, nodding in satisfaction, he began pointing out trunks to a luggage retrieval ‘bot.

  “Thank you,” Darlene said gratefully to the Little One.

  The fedora nodded. The small hands came out of the raincoat pockets, fluttered about the head, which jerked in the direction of Raoul. The small shoulders shrugged.

  Yes, thought Darlene, that pretty much says it all.

  Having determined that all his trunks were present and accounted for, Raoul entered the delivery data into the ‘bot, added a generous tip. (“I forgot to tip once.” Raoul sniffed. “Only six trunks made it. The rest of my clothes ended up spending Carnival in Jardina. I trust they had a good time. I couldn’t set foot outside the house!”) The three left the spaceport, headed for the main form of transportation in Adonian cities, known as the magnet.

  The magnet was a glistening silver commuter train which ran whisper-soft and extremely fast over magnetized tracks. Magnets went everywhere in an Adonian city, and people went everywhere in them. Driving oneself around in one’s own vehic was considered demeaning, not to mention the fact driving was stressful, which caused wrinkles, and being seated in a vehic any length of time was thought to contribute to poor posture.

  A short walk through the spaceport—walking was good for a person, developed shapely calves—brought them to the magnet station. Like the spaceport and every other building in Adonia, the station was the epitome of luxury, comfort, the very latest in style and design.

  Traveling in the magnet, gazing out the windows, Darlene marveled at the beauty of the world. Every object she looked on—even an object as mundane as a waste container—was elegant in shape, graceful in design, lovely to behold. Mountains, valleys, sky, grass, trees, flowers, rivers, buildings, people, animals—all were comely to look upon, pleasing to the eye.

  “I’d probably grow tired of this if I lived here,” she said to herself. “Like eating candy. I couldn’t make a steady diet of it. But a dark chocolate raspberry truffle now and then is heaven.”

  Raoul lived in the city of Kanapalia, which was located on the larger of Adonia’s two continents. Kanapalia, built on the side of a mountain, overlooking the glittering blue waters of the Bay of Kanapalia, might be described as a resort city. But then so could every other city on Adonia.

  Since factories—ugly, dirty, smelly things—were not allowed on the Adonian home world, all materials which required manufacturing were imported. This made the cost of living extraordinarily high on Adonia, but since only those with high levels of income were permitted to remain on-world, the high cost of goods was not a problem. Any Adonian whose income fell below a certain level was deported. Poverty is so unsightly.

  Kanapalia, with its year-round perfect climate, its magnificent views of mountain and sea, its picturesque mansions adorning the cliffs, its splendid, sun-drenched beauty, brought tears to the eyes of the off-worlders. As, of course, it should. Most Adonians were well-traveled. They’d been to other parts of the galaxy, mainly in order to reassure themselves that, after all, there was no place like home.

  Seated in the comfort and elegance of the magnet, with its wide leather-cushioned seats, its quietly appointed interior that was not permitted to draw attention away from the spectacular scenes of mountain, sea, and clear cobalt sky, Darlene felt herself start to slip under the spell of Adonia. The beauty of the world, the beauty of its people, the air that blew bright and crisp from the sea acted on an off-worlder like one of the mind-altering drugs which were so easy to obtain in this planet of pleasure. Darlene began to feel that nothing bad could happen to her here. Evil—ugly, dirty, smelly—would never be permitted on Adonia.

  Darlene knew very well that she was deluding herself. But it was delightful to give in to the delusion. She’d lived in the isolation of safe, sterilized surroundings for too long. She had been afraid for too many years, afraid of the bureau, afraid of the Hung, afraid of co-workers, afraid of friends. No ... that was not true. She’d had no friends to fear. Her sole refuge was work, her altar the computer. As long a
s she knelt before it, nothing and no one could drag her out of sanctuary.

  At least that’s what she’d thought, until Xris crashed through the sealed and locked doors of her sterile world. Intending her death, he’d brought her back to life. And now she meant to enjoy it.

  Darlene Rowan quit searching every face on-board the magnet to see if it was the face of an assassin. She quit looking constantly at the Little One, to see if he had tuned in to any hostile thoughts aimed at her. She packed up all her worries and her fears and stowed them away.

  Unfortunately, she stowed them in her computer case, which was still carrying, though she didn’t know it, the tattle-tell transmitter.

  Raoul’s chateau was small, by Adonian standards. Gleaming white, with a red-tile roof, it nestled against the mountainside, overlooked the crashing waves of the sea beneath. But the chateau, though small, had all the necessities of life: swimming pool, whirlpool, sauna, ornamental fish pond, ornamental garden, fountain in the courtyard, atrium, aviary.

  Considering Raoul’s flamboyant taste in clothes, Darlene was pleasantly surprised to find his chateau decorated with taste and elegance. There are strict laws governing interior decorating on the books of every major city of Adonia, however, and this had something to do with it, as Raoul was free to admit.

  Left to his own devices, Raoul expressed a longing for an orange crushed-velvet sofa in combination with a hot pink coffee table with gilt edges. This being illegal, as described in the Decorator’s Code, Section Twenty-six, Paragraph H, he was forced to make do with mahogany and leather, silk curtains and hand-woven rugs. Sheets were of linen and cambric, edged with lace. Down comforters were warm and would make Darlene feel as if she were going to bed in whipped cream. The first thing Raoul did, on arriving at his home, was to send for the hairdresser.

  “I didn’t know beauticians made house calls,” Darlene said.

  “Only in emergencies,” was Raoul’s reply.

  And that was the last she saw or heard of him for the next three days. Raoul entered into the throes of planning his party. Less planning has gone into the taking over of small countries.

  “The main objective,” Raoul stated, laying out his battle plan for the edification of the Little One, “is to vanquish Raj Vu.”

  The fedora nodded agreement, the bright eyes beneath the fedora gleamed with fighting fervor.

  The enemy, Raj Vu, was an Adonian who lived four mansions and a palace up the road from Raoul and was considered by everyone in Kanapalia, including Raj Vu himself, to be the crowned czar of party-giving. His guest list was highly selective and you knew you were somebody on Adonia if you received an invitation to one of Raj Vu’s affairs.

  Despite the fact that they were almost neighbors, Raoul had not received an invitation. Raj Vu had once been overheard referring to Raoul as “that grubby little poisoner and his dog-in-a-raincoat toadie.” Raoul’s friends considered it their duty to tell him this and did so the moment they were sober enough to recall it. Not long ago, however, Raoul had been instrumental in saving the life of the queen; he and the Little One having helped thwart a kidnapping attempt on Her Majesty. Both had been invited to the palace, both had been on galaxy-wide news. Raoul could claim, and often did, that he and the queen were dear friends.

  Not long after, Raoul had received an invitation to one of Raj Vu’s parties. Though highly incensed by the “grubby little poisoner” remark and hating Raj Vu quite devotedly, Raoul felt it his duty to attend the party on “a reconnaissance mission,” as he stated. He expected to have a dreadful time but would suffer through it for the good of the cause. He suffered to such an extent that he was forced to take to his bed three days later, when the party ended, and it was a week before he could lift his head from his pillow or consume solid food. It was at that moment Raoul declared (in a whisper) that he would outparty Raj Vu or perish in the attempt.

  The day he arrived on Adonia, Raoul called a meeting of his chiefs of staff, these being the caterer, the hired bartenders, the plant renters, the pool cleaners, the tent makers, the groundskeepers, the carpenters, the wine steward, and the butler. There were the local police to be bribed, the fire department forewarned, the hospital put on alert.

  “I’m a nervous wreck,” he complained to the Little One the morning of the day before the event.

  They were breakfasting on the terrace. Raoul smoothed his hair, which was being ruffled by a mild breeze. He sipped his warm cocoa, tossed bits of his croissant to the swans in the ornamental pond, and repeated his complaint. “A nervous wreck. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.” He moved his chair to keep out of the bright sunlight, which would have a devastating effect on his complexion.

  “And do I receive any help?” Raoul continued, his tone becoming plaintive. “I knew I could expect nothing from Darlene. I counted on forty-eight hours at least to get her into shape and it looks as if I’m not going to be far wrong. The manicurist left in tears, did I tell you? I had to promise to pay the woman double to persuade her to come back. But I might have expected better from you, my friend. You’ve been no help to me at all. No help whatsoever.”

  The Little One growled, hunched down in the raincoat, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared moodily out at the pond.

  “If you won’t tell me what’s bothering you,” Raoul went on, “I can’t be expected to sympathize. Here, have a muffin. Perhaps you’re hypoglycemic.”

  The Little One took the muffin and lobbed it irritably at the swan, striking the bird squarely on the beak. The swan swam off in indignation.

  “Nice shot,” said Darlene, coming to join them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down. “What’s the matter with him?”

  Raoul shrugged. “He’s been in a bad mood ever since we arrived on Adonia. Actually, ever since we left Meg-apolis. He refuses to discuss the matter. He won’t tell me what’s wrong. He’s going to ruin my party,” Raoul concluded in tragic tones. “I just know it.”

  The Little One growled again, but appeared remorseful at having upset his friend. Squirming about in his chair, the telepath lifted his hands, fists clenched, in a gesture of frustration.

  Darlene regarded him in concern. “He does seem upset.”

  “I understand that something’s bothering you,” Raoul continued, dabbing at the corner of one eye with the sleeve of his silken bed jacket. He turned a pleading gaze to the Little One. “But couldn’t it bother you just as well after the party as before?”

  The Little One decided, on consideration, that it couldn’t.

  “It’s not me, is it?” Raoul asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “I haven’t done anything to upset you, have I?”

  The Little One was emphatic, shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” Raoul said complacently, “but it never hurts to ask.”

  “Not me?” Darlene wondered. “Any assassins lurking about?”

  The Little One again shook his head.

  “You say he was upset before we left,” Darlene said, thoughtful. “Is it Xris?”

  The Little One’s head jerked up. The bright eyes gleamed at her from beneath the fedora.

  “It is Xris!” Darlene was alarmed. “Something’s happened to Xris?”

  The Little One again shook his head.

  “Something’s going to happen to Xris?”

  “The Little One is a telepath, my dear, not a psychic,” Raoul said, eating a dish of strawberries in cream.

  The Little One did not immediately reply. He stared out from beneath the brim of the fedora, stared into the cloudless sky, stared out farther than that, perhaps, with the fixed, narrow-eyed intensity of someone endeavoring to penetrate the mists of a thick fog.

  He failed. His gaze dropped. He pummeled himself on the head, knocking the fedora askew. Then, glowering, he laid his arms on the table, rested his small chin disconsolately on his arms.

  “There! You see! He’s going to ruin my party. Absolutely ruin it!”

  “The hell with you
r party,” Darlene snapped. “I’m worried about Xris. I think— Oh, dear, no! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

  Her apologies were too late. Raoul had fainted dead away.

  A glass of champagne, applied swiftly, restored the Adonian, assisted him to recover from the staggering shock of hearing his party consigned to the nether regions.

  “I truly didn’t mean it,” Darlene repeated remorsefully, patting Raoul on the wrist.

  “I know you didn’t, my dear,” he said with a wan smile. “And I forgive you.”

  “But if the Little One does think that something might be going wrong for Xris, we should try to find out what it is,” Darlene pursued.

  “I’m certain that Xris Cyborg would not want to ruin my party. He would permit nothing to happen to him that would interfere.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Darlene agreed gravely. “If he could help it. But what if he can’t? Would you ask the Little One to try to describe what he’s feeling? Maybe we’ll get a clue.”

  Raoul sighed despairingly, but since it was at least half an hour until the caterer was due to arrive, he supposed he could indulge the odd whims of his guest.

  The question being put to the Little One, the telepath concentrated to such an extent that the hat gradually slid down over his eyes, obliterating them completely. At length he shrugged, scratched his head through the fedora, and looked up at Raoul, who appeared slightly perplexed.

  “As nearly as I can make out, he says he feels as if he’d been shopping and found this charming blouse, absolutely perfect, lace trim on the cuffs and tiny pearl buttons and it fits like a dream and it’s on sale! Well, he gets it home, puts it on and”—Raoul raised his eyes to heaven—”the sleeve falls off!”

  “He said that?” Darlene was skeptical.

  “Not precisely in those words,” Raoul admitted. “He left it to me to translate. But I believe that this accurately describes what he is feeling. Are you going to contact Xris Cyborg?”

  “There’s no way I can contact him,” Darlene said, eyeing the Little One worriedly. “He and Jamil are already on the Army base. We’re not supposed to contact them—”