by Simon Haynes
"I guess."
"And the pints?"
"When I see you."
"Thanks, Farrell. Look, I'll tell me missus to send the stuff anyway. Read it through. It could be worth more if you study it."
"Sure, Snake. Thanks for calling." Farrell flicked the microphone off and returned to his exercise book. "Time-wasting snake," he wrote, before typing it into the computer. Maybe Gordon knew the guy too.
"Unknown or incorrect passphrase," said the terminal.
Farrell crossed it out. He was just planning the next entry when his terminal beeped.
"You have a call," said the computer politely. "Would you like to speak to them?"
"Is it that Snake guy?"
"Negative."
"Are they selling anything?"
"Negative."
"All right, put them on."
There was a brief pause. "Am I speaking to Mr Farrell Hinchfig?" said a soft voice.
"Yes."
"My name is Vurdi, Vurdi Makalukar. I run a debt collection business here on Forg, and I'd like to make an appointment to discuss your finances."
"We have nothing to talk about," said Farrell, reaching for the disconnect.
"Running from your problems will only make them worse," said Vurdi. "Say three o'clock?"
"Three, four or five o'clock, I don't have any money."
"Your brother does."
"Maybe so, but he won't give it to me. Business is tough right now."
"It's only a hundred and twenty thousand. Can't you help yourself?"
Farrell glanced at the exercise book. "I'm exploring one or two options."
"Tell me, should the unthinkable happen to your brother, who would inherit?"
"Me, I guess." Farrell's face darkened. "Now you listen to me, you filthy little git. If you're suggesting ..."
"Far from it. Your brother is in perfect health and we must work together to keep him that way. I shall see you at three, please don't keep me waiting." There was a click as Vurdi rang off.
For several minutes, Farrell stared into space. What couldn't he do as managing director? Drag the company into the present, plan for the future, open new factories, explore new business opportunities ... Within twelve months he'd have that little viper Jerling at his mercy, open to a rock-bottom takeover. He'd have the fame, the fortune ...
Farrell sighed. Whatever Gordon's flaws, they were still brothers. Setting him up for this Vurdi character was unthinkable.
His terminal beeped. "You have a new message," said the computer politely. "Shall I read it to you?"
"No, bin it."
"According to the subject line, this message contains vital information."
"Those are the worst."
"The sender is Mrs Snake, from Jerling Enterprises."
Farrell's eyebrows rose. "Display it."
The accounting department login screen was replaced with a line of text: "Dear Farrell, this vital info is from Snake at the pub. He says your paying him twenty creds and I want half."
"Where's the rest?" demanded Farrell.
"There's an attachment, but I suppressed it."
"Why?"
"Attachments are dangerous. They contain viruses and trojans."
"Not this one. Serve it up."
"My security settings won't allow it."
"So change the settings."
"Are you authorising the removal of all safeguards?"
"Yeah, just show the thing."
"Very well. On your authority." The screen cleared and several paragraphs of text appeared.
Farrell skimmed through them. It was pretty much as Snake had said: Jerling was paying a freelancer to collect a cargo of parts from Seraph IV and bring them back to Forg. Even so, stealing the parts was pure fantasy. People went to jail for that sort of thing. He reached for the delete button, then hesitated. Fantasy or not, if he could pull it off his money problems would be over. But how did you steal cargo? Doodling on the exercise book, he broke the problem into parts. First, let Jerling's pilot collect the cargo. Well, that was easy enough. Second, get the cargo off the pilot. Tougher. Third, sell the cargo and pay Vurdi. Not too hard.
His terminal beeped, interrupting his train of thought. "Farrell, are you there?"
It was his brother. "Yes, Gordon."
"Mike just finished a news release. Have you got time for a quick look?"
"I guess."
"I'll send it over." Gordon rang off.
Farrell stared at his notes. Convincing the pilot was the hardest bit. Faking a call from one of Jerling's employees was no good, because any half-competent freighter pilot would verify their ID. A call from Jerling himself would do it, but how could he possibly organise something like that? Farrell tapped his pen on the desk. Assuming he got the pilot to co-operate, where would the cargo transfer take place? That was easy - the Forg Orbiter. Large freighters used the space station as a depot, transferring their cargo to smaller ships which then brought the goods down to Forg. He could borrow a company ship and meet Jerling's pilot at the Orbiter. But what was he supposed to do with a cargo of robot parts? Sell them to his brother, of course! Tell Gordon about the shipment, get the money up front, pay Vurdi off and clear eighty grand for himself.
Great. Now he just had to work out how to impersonate Jerling ...
Farrell jumped as the Hinchfig jingle burst from his terminal. He turned the sound down and tried to pick up his train of thought, but the sight of the huge crowd cheering, clapping and waving 'We root for Hinchfig!' banners was enough to drive it from his mind. When the clip finished, the terminal beeped again.
"What do you think?" demanded Gordon.
"Amazing. Incredible."
"Did you recognise the place?"
Farrell hadn't looked. "A takeaway shop?"
"It was the old car wash on the corner of Eighth and Stuart. One lick of paint and the place looks like new again. It's such a shame Father can't see it."
"How did you cram all those people in? It's no bigger than a shed."
"The magic of technology, Farrell. They were simuloids. Mike programs them on his computer."
"Clever little Mike," muttered Farrell, as Gordon disconnected. "Fake people, eh? What'll it be next?" He shook his head slowly, then froze.
Fake Jerling!
Farrell grabbed a remote and flicked through the video channels on his terminal. Jerling was always on, hawking his gear or giving bombastic speeches. Surely he'd be ... There! Without taking his eyes from the screen, Farrell rummaged in his drawer. His fingers closed on a data chip and he felt for the slot, pressed the chip home and hit the record button. With a triumphant grin, he sat back and linked his hands behind his head.
* * *
Portmaster Linten's angry face filled the main viewscreen. "I don't want excuses!" he shouted, his face red and his grey eyes bulging. "Nobody gave you permission to leave!"
"You told me to move my ship," said Hal, raising his voice over the roar of the engines.
"Not into orbit!"
"I didn't mean to take off. My hand slipped on the throttle."
"Now you listen to me, Spacejock. I've got a burnt-out robot and a raging fire down here, and it's all down to you." Linten waved a sheet of paper at the screen. "There's a report on your activities going out to every planet in the Union. I'm blacklisting you, son. You're finished. You hear me? Finished!"
"As soon as I deliver this cargo I'll come back and pay for everything. Word of honour."
"Don't offer what you haven't got," snarled Linten, slamming his fist on the disconnect.
Hal gazed at the darkened screen with a thoughtful look on his face. "Navcom, what did Clunk want with the fire extinguisher?"
"He went out to fight the fire."
"Where is he now, skulking in the cargo hold?"
"Negative."
"Where did he go when he came back?"
"Who said he came back?"
Hal's mouth fell open. "Are you telling me Clunk isn't on board?"<
br />
"Correct."
"Why the hell didn't you say so, you stupid lump of silicon?" shouted Hal. "Quick - the job details. Which planet are we going to? It was Seraph, right?"
"Correct."
"Set course for Seraph, then. We'll do this without the robot."
"Which Seraph would you like to visit?"
"What?"
"There are eighteen planets called Seraph."
"Eighteen! How come?"
"They were named after a successful explorer."
"Dammit!" shouted Hal, thumping his fist on the console. The winch motor stopped whirring and began to make a clunking noise. "What's that racket?"
"The cargo hook won't retract."
"Why not?"
"Unknown."
"Put it on the screen." Hal's eyes widened as Clunk appeared, dangling from the hook like a big bronze worm. "What the hell is he doing out there? We must be five kilometres up!"
"Four thousand one hundred metres, to be precise."
"Tell him to come in. Understood?"
"Transmitting."
On screen, the robot's lips moved.
"What's he saying?" demanded Hal.
"I don't know. He cannot transmit."
"You tell him to get his tin-plated arse back in here or I'll ..."
Clunk faced the camera and shook his head emphatically.
"It's like that, is it?" Hal crossed his arms. "Right, unseal the airlock and extend the landing platform."
"Cannot comply. Extra-vehicular activity is forbidden during lift-off."
"Oh yeah?" Hal pointed at Clunk, who was swinging gently on the hook. "What about that?"
"He did not request permission."
"All right, Navcom. Hover!"
The engine note changed and the deck tilted.
"Hold it steady." Hal saw Clunk's eyes open. They opened a lot more when the robot looked down and saw the ground far below. "Now unseal the door and extend the platform or I'll start shooting holes in you."
"Unable to comply. Extra --"
Hal pulled the blaster off his belt. "I mean it!"
There was a pop and a hiss as the doors slid open, and Hal staggered into the airlock, covering his ears as the engine noise reverberated around the confined space. He took the safety line out of the locker, clipped one end to his belt and turned to fix the other end to the EVA mounting point, only to find bare metal where the hook should have been. After looking around for something else to clip it to, he gave up and went out on the platform.
Gritting his teeth against the roar of the engines, he shuffled to the edge and looked over. The robot was turning slowly on the end of a wire rope, about five metres away and with his head about two metres below the platform. "Clunk," shouted Hal. "Hey, Clunk!"
The robot looked up. "Go inside. It's dangerous."
"No chance. Here, grab this!" Hal swung the safety line and threw the end, getting it across the robot's shoulder. Clunk took it and tied it around his waist.
Once the cord was secure Hal began to pull, bringing the robot in hand over hand, leaning back further and further as the weight threatened to drag him off balance. As Clunk got closer to the edge he reached out for the platform, his bronze fingers grasping frantically.
There was a distant roar and Hal looked down to see a silver spot rising towards them, glinting in the sunlight. "Oh, hell!" he muttered. "Quick, Clunk! There's a ship coming!"
Barely had the words left his mouth when the spaceship flashed past with a whistling, screaming roar. The wash buffeted the Black Gull and Hal swore as the platform lurched under his feet. He felt the cord slipping through his fingers and then the slack began to pay out, vanishing faster and faster as the heavy robot swung further and further away.
The loose cord had just about gone when Hal remembered the end was attached to his belt. He grabbed for the clip and struggled to undo it, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal.
Too late.
The line tightened, yanking him off the platform. He had a close-up of Clunk's surprised face as he dived past, before a terrific jerk on his belt stopped his fall, leaving him dangling from the safety cord.
Hal opened his eyes and looked up at the soles of Clunk's feet. Faintly, he heard the robot's voice over the roar of the engines.
"Cannot hold weight. Battery ... going."
Chapter 8
Gordon Hinchfig studied the report on his terminal, his washed-out eyes reflecting the glowing red figures. His smooth-skinned face was a picture of concern as he examined columns of data, and it was downright gloomy as he took in the final summary.
The door slid open, and Gordon looked up as Farrell entered his office. "Hello, Farrell. What can I do for you?"
"You can lend me some money."
Gordon's welcoming smile vanished. "We've been over this already. You know I can't."
"Relax, it's not what you think." Farrell laid his briefcase on Gordon's desk, squashing a delicate wire sculpture. He flicked the catches, which snapped like gunshots. "I know where we can pick up a cargo of robot parts. Quality stuff, everything we need to start the production lines up."
"W-where?"
"Tell you in a minute." Farrell handed over several sheets of paper. "Here's the list of stuff."
Gordon glanced at the top sheet, then flipped through page after page in growing excitement, until finally he looked up, his eyes shining. "There's enough here to build three hundred robots! This is gold, pure gold!"
Farrell grinned. "Not bad, eh?"
"Tell me, where is this cargo?"
"It's in transit. You're going to have to trust me on a couple of things."
"I see." Gordon retrieved the flattened sculpture and began to work it into shape. "How much are we talking about?"
"Hear me out before you make your decision." Farrell leaned across the desk. "There's this pilot who's been let down badly, a friend of a friend. He paid for the shipment, went to deliver it and discovered the original customer had folded. Now he's trying to get his money back." Farrell tapped the sheaf of papers. "Thing is, he doesn't care who he sells to as long as he breaks even."
Gordon picked up a handset. "What's his number? I'll set things up right away."
"It's not that simple." Farrell paused. "See, the pilot has debts, and if his creditors hear about this transaction they'll chase him down and take the payment off him. It has to be subtle."
"If he has debts, he should service them," said Gordon stiffly.
"He will, with regular payments."
"So you want me to give a large sum of money to a friend of a friend, who will then give me stolen robot parts in return?"
"Don't twist things around!" snapped Farrell. "You always do it, always --"
"What happens if this pilot takes the money and doesn't deliver the parts? What if the parts are seconds, rejects? What if the debt collector takes the parts before this pilot can deliver them to us?" Gordon sighed. "It doesn't take much twisting, does it?"
"You don't think I'd hand over the cash without checking the cargo first?"
"I'll tell you what I think. I think you're going to take the money, fob me off for a few days, then come to me with a string of excuses." Gordon replaced the wire statue. "How much trouble are you in?"
"Nothing I can't handle." Farrell stared at him. "You're wrong about this, you know that? I couldn't have made that list up. I don't know the first thing about building robots."
Gordon straightened the printout. "It's a lot of money, Farrell. What if they force you to hand it over?"
"You know Terry?"
"Your driver?"
"I'll take him with me. They won't try anything with him around."
"Are you sure that's wise? I haven't forgotten that incident at the staff party."
"Terry's a good man. He's dependable."
"Keep him in check, will you? I can do without that kind of publicity."
"Sure thing, Gordon." Farrell paused. "So, it's all go?"
&
nbsp; "There are one or two details I'd like to sort out, but I think so."
Farrell suppressed a triumphant grin. Gordon was going to say yes!
"For example, how are you going to hand over the money?"
"This guy's out near Seraph, waiting to hear from me. I'll need a company ship." Farrell handed Gordon another sheet of paper. "That's a list of expenses plus my account number. If you put the cash in there, I'll release it to the pilot when the cargo has cleared."
Gordon looked at him shrewdly. "What's your cut?"
"Me? Nothing."
"Oh, come on."
Farrell dropped his head. "I thought if I saved the robot business, you might help me with my debts this one last time."
Gordon nodded slowly. "If you save the robot business, I will do exactly that."
* * *
The Black Gull's jets pounded Hal's ears as he dangled from the end of the safety line. He barely noticed the screaming roar of the engines - he was staring past his feet to the landing field, four thousand metres below.
The line jerked, and Hal tore his gaze from the distant, toy-like buildings. Overhead, Clunk was clinging to the cargo hook with the tips of his fingers, looking down at him in concern.
"Navcom says ... engines overheating," shouted the robot.
"Tell it to take us down," shouted Hal, jabbing his thumb towards the ground.
Clunk shook his head. "Receive only."
Hal felt the safety line slip. Drawing on his experience of hanging around in mid-air using a safety line tied around a robot's waist - none - he considered his next course of action. He could wait for Clunk's battery to run out and plunge four thousand metres to his death, or he could wait for the engines to blow up and plunge four thousand metres to his death tied to a burning ship.
There had to be a better way.
Hal tried to gauge the distance between Clunk and the platform. The edge was only five metres away, but it was well out of reach. But what if he could get the robot swinging?
Hal caught Clunk's eye. "Hold on tight," he shouted, gripping the safety line with both hands. He swung his legs back and forth, getting a rhythm going, and soon they were swinging like a double pendulum. A massive swing pulled Clunk away from the platform, and as he swooped back towards it Hal jabbed his finger. "Jump!"
Clunk let go of the hook, and for a split second they were in free-fall. Then the line jerked, pulling Hal's belt upwards. He sucked in through pursed lips, blinking away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. When he'd recovered, he looked up to see Clunk hanging on to the edge of the platform, peering down at him over his shoulder.
