Hal Spacejock

by Simon Haynes

  "Nearly done," said Clunk, running his hand over a strip of tape to smooth it down.

  "They're not giving points for style, you know."

  "Just as well," said the robot. He stood back, head tilted to one side. "Done, I think."

  Hal looked down at himself. With the loose suit bound in tight tape, he looked like a big yellow sponge trussed up for the oven. "Should be all right. I won't be in there long."

  "You know, as far as radiation suits go that one's about as useful as a ballet dress."

  "I'm only going to have a quick look around."

  "Well don't look around too quickly, it won't take the strain."

  "This suit's as tough as nails," said Hal. "I got it off an asteroid miner."

  "Was he lacking in cranial hair?"

  "She was as bald as a radar dome. How did you guess?"

  "It was just a hunch."

  Hal waddled over to the door and reached for the control panel, which contained a yellow T-shaped handle and a large red button. He whacked the button with his gloved fist, driving it into the control panel with a loud crack. Slowly, the heavy door rumbled open, and a trickle of fluorescent green liquid ran into the passageway.

  Hal stepped back hurriedly.

  "It won't hurt you," called Clunk, who had retreated up the passageway and was now leaning on the flight deck ladder with the air of one expecting to be entertained. "Assuming that's really a radiation suit, of course."

  Hal looked into the hold. The cargo had been jumbled, shaken, tumbled and stirred during his aborted take-off from Seraph, leaving a mass of twisted packing crates. Now, not only were they jumbled up, they were also coated with thick, green jelly.

  "Yuk," said Hal, staring at the luminous glow. "What am I going to clean that lot with?"

  "How about your head?" called Clunk.

  Hal glared at him. "Very funny."

  "No, I mean you're not wearing anything on your head."

  "Good point. Headgear's in the locker."

  Clunk rummaged in the cupboard, where he found a dirty yellow bag and a coil of old rope. "Nothing here."

  "What's that then?" said Hal, pointed at the bag.

  Clunk shrugged. "It's a bit of old cloth."

  "No, that's the headgear. Sling it across."

  Clunk threw the bag, which dropped short and fell to the floor. Hal bent down to pick it up and there was a rrriippp! as the suit tore across the back. He twisted to look at the damage and there was another rrrippp! as the suit split all the way up both sides.

  While Clunk patched the damage, Hal turned the headgear over, shook it, and pulled it over his head. His eyes gleamed through the ragged slots. "See?" he said, his voice muffled by the fabric.

  Clunk's lips moved.

  "What?" shouted Hal.

  "No mouth hole," said Clunk, his voice amplified to maximum.

  "You'll have to speak up, I can't hear!" yelled Hal, pointing to the bulges on either side of his head.

  "It's not important."

  Hal rolled his eyes. "Hot in here."

  Clunk grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

  "Right team, we're going in," muttered Hal. He strode into the cargo hold, splashing through the slippery coolant. Halfway across the hold, his pace slowed. His feet were getting heavier, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to lift and move them. He stopped and lifted one leg slowly, and there was a sucking sound as his boot came away from the deck. He tried to look down but the hood moved too, obscuring his view.

  One step at a time, keeping his body stiff in case he ripped the suit, Hal turned until he was facing the inner door. Then he bent carefully at the waist and peered down at the decking, where he saw a trail of white footprints leading all the way back to the entrance.

  At that moment, the last layer of rubber melted away from the soles of his boots. Hal felt the cold liquid seeping through his socks, and instinctively leapt for the cargo door. His foot slipped on the slushy, melted rubber and he fell flat on his back in the slimy green jelly. He struggled to roll over and get to his feet, but it was too slippery.

  There was a thud, and Hal stared in surprise at the knotted end of rope lying in the sludge next to his face. Looking along the rope, he saw Clunk framed in the doorway, holding the other end and gesturing at him.

  Hal grabbed the rope, and it stretched taut as Clunk leaned back and reeled him in, pulling him across the floor. Halfway there the rope went slack, and Clunk fell backwards with a surprised look on his face and a short piece of rope gripped in both hands.

  Hal was still laughing when it dawned on him that the robot's rescue attempt had failed, leaving him stranded.

  Chapter 16

  Hal shuddered as the coolant seeped through the suit, chilling his skin with the touch of a dead, clammy hand. What a way to go - frozen to death in his own cargo hold. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and rolling onto his side he spotted Clunk in the doorway, gesturing at him. When he realised Hal had seen him, the robot made a tumbling motion with his arm.

  "You want me to roll across the floor to you?"

  Clunk grinned and put his thumbs up.

  "I was just going to do that when you started the mime act," shouted Hal, his voice muffled by the headgear. He thrashed about until he was side on to the doorway and started to roll, keeping his face clear of the sludge. When he was close enough Clunk grabbed his hand and lifted him through the door.

  "I'm so glad you're safe, Mr Spacejock."

  "No thanks to you," muttered Hal, pulling off the headgear. "So much for cleaning the hold. Now what?"

  "I have an idea."

  "Go on."

  "If we open the outer doors I could sweep the slush out the back of the ship."

  "You said you couldn't walk on the stuff."

  "No, but I could fashion a pair of slippers with the remains of the radiation suit."

  "Couldn't you think of that before sending me in there?" demanded Hal, jerking his thumb at the hold.

  "No. The suit wasn't wrecked then."

  Hal stood with his arms out while Clunk peeled off the tattered radiation suit. Once free, he went to put his boots on. "Damn!"

  "What?"

  Hal showed Clunk the soles. "Melted right through. This is my only pair, too."

  "You should be able to buy replacements at the space station."

  "Buy? With what?"

  There was a twang from the overhead speaker. "Incoming call," said the Navcom.

  "Patch it through."

  There was a hiss of static and Jerling's voice burst through the speaker. "Where the hell are you? My people are still waiting to unload that cargo. I'm in a hurry, man!"

  "Sorry, Mr Jerling. We had a small problem with the drive. It's almost fixed."

  "What do you mean 'we'?"

  "Me and Clunk," said Hal.

  The speaker hissed gently for a second or two. "Right, well hurry it up. If you're not docked in twenty minutes I'll keep half your fee."

  The speaker clicked as Jerling rang off.

  Hal nudged Clunk. "I thought you'd get a roasting for running away."

  "That comes later."

  "Strange he didn't say anything about you."

  "He will," said Clunk gloomily.

  "Don't worry, I'll put in a word."

  Clunk looked at him hopefully. "Really?"

  "Sure. By the time I've finished he'll be so impressed you'll get a medal."

  "That's very kind of you, Mr Spacejock."

  "Don't mention it." Hal pressed the remains of his radiation suit into the robot's arms. "Now, about cleaning the cargo hold ..."

  * * *

  Clunk picked his way across the treacherous floor, clambering over jumbled crates and skidding on the thick sludge which covered the deck like a wet, slimy carpet. It was slow going, but at last he reached the rear doors. He was just about to open them when Hal's voice came through the overhead speakers.

  "Have you finished yet?"

  "I haven't even s
tarted."

  "Well get your finger out. Time is money, and people are waiting. And another thing, I'll be getting --"

  Clunk pressed the door button, and the rest of Hal's words were lost as the hold depressurised. The doors swung open and flattened themselves against the outside of the hull, revealing an inky darkness splashed with diamond-hard stars.

  Clunk's gaze flicked from star to star, and he wondered whether planet Aklam really was out there. He'd heard stories for years, but whenever he tracked a source it turned out to be nothing but a fable. He resolved to find the planet one day, perhaps by saving up enough money to hire the Black Gull. Mr Spacejock seemed a reasonable sort, and ... Then he remembered the fate awaiting him on Seraph. There would be no expeditions, no hiring, and no robot planet.

  Depressed, he dug the broom into the thick sludge and shoved a wedge of it out of the hold, watching it tumble away from the ship. After it vanished, Clunk looked around the cavernous hold and did a quick calculation. It was going to take hours. There had to be a better way.

  He thought for a second, then grinned. A minute or so later he returned with the oxy torch under one arm, minus the rubber hoses. He aimed the nozzle at the sludge around his feet and opened the valve, blasting gobs of muck out the back door and leaving pristine patches of decking. Despite the artificial gravity the force almost lifted him into the air, so he closed the valve a little to moderate the pressure.

  Before long he'd cleared the sludge and straightened most of the crates, and he was just looking round in satisfaction at a job well done when he noticed a trembling underfoot. The ship's engines!

  Cursing Hal's impatience, Clunk hurried towards the control panel next to the rear door. He was halfway there when the ship jolted forward, throwing him to the deck. With a shock he realised he was sliding down the cargo hold, straight towards the gaping, star-filled void.

  He turned and crawled towards the front of the hold, the gas cylinders still clutched under his arm. He reached a crate and grabbed hold of it, feeling its solid bulk beneath his fingers. The broom slid past and disappeared out the back of the ship, and Clunk smiled as he imagined how silly he would have looked going the same way.

  Then the crate began to slide.

  * * *

  Hal watched a blob of light growing larger on the small screen in front of him. "How long until we get there?"

  "Under five minutes," said the Navcom.

  The deck began to shake as the forward thrusters cut in, and the stars on the tiny screen shimmered and flickered in the haze. When the thrusters cut out the Forg Orbiter was dead ahead: a huge, flattened sphere with a floodlit antenna sticking out the top and a long, square pylon hanging off the bottom. The pylon had several ships attached to it, modern-looking freighters in the livery of famous freight and passenger companies. Smart logos gleamed under the Orbiter's bright spotlights, and the navigation lights on their winglets blinked, bathing the smooth, polished hulls in alternating red and green.

  Hal stared at the ships enviously. Never mind the sleek hulls and professional paint jobs, where the Gull was concerned he'd have been satisfied with working navigation lights. Just as Hal was wondering what to do next, a red light began to pulse on the console. "Incoming call," said the Navcom.

  "Put 'em on."

  "This is the Forg Orbiter," said the Space Controller, her dulcet tones filling the flight deck. "Please state your ship's ID number after the tone." After a brief pause, the console beeped.

  "BG35467-CS," said Hal.

  There was a longer pause. "We're having trouble identifying you. Repeat your serial number please."

  Hal leaned closer to the microphone. "BG35467-CS," he said loudly. "The Black Gull."

  "Just the serial number will do," said the operator. "Wait please."

  Hal waited. Then he waited some more. Finally, the voice came back. "Sorry about the delay, the transport museum's historical archives were offline. You are now cleared to dock at bay 4B."

  "Thanks," said Hal. After the operator had disconnected, he realised he had no idea where bay 4B was. "Er, Navcom?"

  "I can dock automatically."

  "Stop talking and get on with it, then." Hal stretched. "I can't wait to see Jerling's people. It's about time one of these jobs went right."

  * * *

  "Something must have gone wrong," said Farrell, staring at the console clock. "He should have been here ages ago."

  "Maybe the real Jerling called him."

  "If he did, we're sunk." Farrell laid a card. "Ten credits to me, I think."

  "It's five a game."

  "I know, but you've lost twice."

  Terry dug in his pocket and handed over a pair of credit tiles. "Maybe he's suspicious. You know, creeping up to the station to get a shot at us. Maybe this Clunk guy has put him wise."

  "I'm going to use the simuloid again. I have to know what's happening."

  "If you keep using it he'll suss you out."

  Farrell shuffled the deck, interleaving the cards with deft movements. Then he slammed them on the console. "Why couldn't Jerling get a decent pilot? Why did he have to hire this idiot?"

  There was a buzz.

  "What is it?"

  "According to the Orbiter, the Black Gull has docked," said the computer.

  "Where?" demanded Terry.

  There was no answer.

  "It's not programmed for your voice," explained Farrell. He turned to the console. "Where did the Black Gull dock?"

  "Bay 4B."

  Farrell stuffed the cards in his pocket and leapt up. "I'll meet Spacejock. You bring the ship round."

  "How am I supposed to do that if the thing won't listen to me?"

  "Terry is authorised to fly this vessel," Farrell said to the console.

  "Confirmed," said the computer.

  Farrell reached under the console and unclipped a blaster, which he slipped into his overalls.

  "I thought you were just going to talk to him?" said Terry.

  "Conversation piece," said Farrell, patting the bulge.

  Chapter 17

  Hal entered the Black Gull's airlock and looked through the thick porthole into the Orbiter's docking tube, which was a steep incline ending in a pair of thick metal doors. There were darkened portholes recessed into the metal, just above the broad white letters '4B'.

  The doors swept open and a tall, dark-haired man in blue overalls strode through. Hal operated the airlock controls, and by the time the heavy door grated open the man was waiting just outside. He looked irritated, but when he saw Hal he forced a smile and stuck out his hand. "I'm Farrell. You must be Spacejock."

  "That's me," said Hal, as they shook.

  "Terry's bringing my ship round. We'll connect at the back and get the cargo moved across. I'm a bit pushed for time, so the sooner we get started --"

  "Follow me." Hal led the way through the airlock and into the flight deck. He climbed down the ladder and was just about to call out a warning about the loose rung when he heard Farrell's voice echo down the tube. "Bit old-fashioned, eh? No lifts on this old thing."

  Hal's lips thinned. "No, no lifts here." He left the ladder and walked along the tunnel to the inner door. Behind him, there was an oath as Farrell's foot slipped on the rung.

  "Mind your step," called Hal, suppressing a grin. He pressed the door button, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, and still nothing happened.

  Farrell came up behind him. "I don't want to rush you, but Jerling's in a hurry."

  Hal thumped his fist on the button and waited for the door to open.

  It didn't.

  "Something wrong?" asked Farrell.

  "The button got stuck earlier. Looks like it's not working." Hal reached for the emergency access handle and gave it a hard pull. The yellow lever came away in his hand. "Navcom, can you open this door?"

  "Negative."

  "What do you mean, negative? Open the door!"

  "Cannot comply. The hold is not pressurised."

&
nbsp; The yellow handle fell from Hal's hand and clattered on the deck.

  "No air?" gasped Farrell. "You nearly spaced us, you moron! If that handle hadn't broken off ..."

  Hal frowned. "Clunk should have closed the doors by now. What's he playing at?"

  "Clunk's in there?" Farrell stared at the door. "I hope he's got a spacesuit."

  "What for? He's a robot."

  "Of course he is. How could I forget?"

  "Navcom, close the outer doors please."

  "Complying." There was a whine followed by a double thump and a hiss of air. "Outer doors closed."

  Hal pressed the button and the inner door promptly slid open. As soon as the gap was wide enough he pushed through into the hold. "Clunk? Are you there?"

  There was no reply.

  Hal walked around several neat stacks of crates, then stopped as he felt the cold through the ruined soles of his boots.

  "What happened to your boots?" asked Farrell as Hal stepped gingerly over a puddle.

  "An accident."

  "Why don't you change them?"

  Hal shrugged. "I would if I had another pair."

  "There's a store aboard the Orbiter."

  "It can wait until Jerling pays me," said Hal, moving off.

  Farrell followed, examining the crates. "I thought there'd be more than this."

  "Some of it's still on Seraph," said Hal, neglecting to mention that some was strewn across Regan's yard, some was melted into slag and the rest was scattered over a forest.

  They reached the back of the hold where the remaining cargo was stacked in neat rows. The robot had done a good job, thought Hal, as he bent to examine a pair of parallel scratches that started halfway into the hold and lead all the way to the rear doors. The deck was clean, and the gloopy mess which had coated the crates of parts was gone. Unfortunately, so was Clunk.

  Farrell laughed. "Looks like you spaced the robot, Hal."

  * * *

  Clunk could just make out the Orbiter as a silhouette against the blue and white backdrop of planet Forg. He saw a flare of light, and wondered whether it was the Black Gull's docking thrusters.

  The Orbiter grew larger. The ship had been accelerating when Clunk fell out the back, and his residual motion was enough to carry him rapidly towards the space station. He ran a quick calculation and estimated it would take him thirty minutes to reach it at his current speed. All he had to do was stick out an arm as he flew past.