Hal Spacejock

by Simon Haynes

  Something scraped his leg and he looked down to see the oxy torch floating along below him. He reached out and grabbed it, clamping it under his arm. It wouldn't do to have cylinders smashing into the station. Humans could be hurt.

  He turned his gaze back to the Orbiter and realised something was wrong. He'd been heading directly for the station, but now it appeared to be sliding away to one side. He checked his calculations and found them to be correct. So what was pulling him off course?

  His gaze locked onto the Forg Orbiter as it tracked across the face of the nearby planet. It was moving steadily, but he'd allowed for that. The local sun was a distant gleam, its effect insignificant at this distance. The planet ... Clunk cursed. How could he have missed something so obvious?

  He added Forg's mass to his formula and ran the calculations again. As the results came up, he gazed at the green and brown continents below and wondered if the people down there would notice as he blazed a burning trail across the daytime sky. Or would the planetary defences blast him out of the stratosphere first? Either way, the planet's gravity was dragging him away from the Orbiter.

  An image of the maintenance robot came to him, with its clouded eyes and heat-buckled face. He wiped it and conjured up a vision of himself sitting at the Black Gull's console, bringing the ship in for a landing at the Robot Emperor's private landing pad. His long years of loyal service had been recognised from afar, and he was to be decorated, perhaps awarded an honorary position with the Royal Guard.

  Eyes closed, Clunk fell towards the unsuspecting planet, his battered face creased with a contented smile.

  * * *

  The Volante had backed up to the Black Gull, and the two ships were now joined at the rear. Hal's ship was the smaller of the two, and the Volante's docking apron overlapped the rear doors by a fair margin. That, plus the fact that the Gull's docking clamps were slightly out of true, meant that the cargo transfer was taking place with a background hiss of escaping air.

  Because the Volante's deck was lower, a couple of planks had been propped up between the two ships, and they creaked alarmingly as Farrell's cargo hauler tramped back and forth with the crates. It was a grey robot with rough patches on its chest and upper arms, and its head was never still, spotting the smallest movement with rapid jerks and flashes of its blood-red eyes.

  "Ex-navy," said Farrell, when he noticed Hal watching the robot. He tapped his shoulder. "They cut off their insignia and badges before they sell them."

  "Just as well it's not armed." Hal shifted his weight and the robot's head jerked round, its eyes locking onto his own. For a split second he thought it was going to drop the crate and charge him.

  "They don't need weapons," said Farrell dryly.

  "How do you control it?"

  "You don't. You ask politely and hope it agrees."

  Hal thought of Clunk's warm, friendly face. "Are you sure you can organise a search party? For Clunk, I mean?"

  "Relax, I know everyone on the Orbiter. They'll have that robot back to Jerling before you know it."

  "Thanks."

  A door opened at the rear of the Volante's hold, and a man strode towards them. He was a nuggetty character with thick, tattooed arms and a blue cap jammed over his yellow hair. After letting the robot past, he strode up the planks into the Black Gull's hold. Under his overalls, Hal spotted the distinctive outline of a blaster.

  "Hal, this is Terry," said Farrell. "Terry, Hal just spaced Clunk. You know, Clunk the robot."

  Hal felt a cold twinge as Terry's pale eyes fixed on his. "Er, hi."

  Terry nodded, then looked around the hold. "Nearly done?"

  "Nearly." Farrell glanced at Hal. "Listen, have you eaten?"

  Hal shook his head.

  "Why don't you get something aboard the Orbiter? They've got meals up there, and you look like you could use a feed."

  "Maybe later."

  "They've got boots, too. You could get some new ones."

  "Not until Jerling pays me."

  "Oh, is that it." Farrell pulled out a handful of credit tiles. "We can soon fix that up."

  "I thought Jerling never gave advances?"

  "I won't tell him if you don't. Here, take it."

  Hal tipped the money into his pocket. The bulge and weight of credit tiles against his leg was a novel experience, and he decided to buy the cheapest boots and food he could find, in order to enjoy the feeling as long as possible. "I'll be back in half an hour."

  "Take your time. I can always page you. And stop worrying about Clunk. I'll make sure he's taken care of."

  * * *

  Clunk was pulled from his daydream by a buzz of voices. It was the Orbiter's traffic control frequency, which was alive with chatter. He tried to interrupt, to call for help, but the more powerful commsets aboard passing ships drowned his feeble transmitter.

  He stared at the flattened disc and spotted the Black Gull docked against a pylon, almost hidden behind a large white ship. He smiled at the sight, realising that the cargo transfer was in progress and that Hal would soon be paid. It was a pity the human had forgotten him, but he did have a lot on his mind.

  As the Orbiter slid past, Clunk released the cylinder and folded his arms. He was passing less than two hundred metres from the nearest window, and there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't going to make it.

  He drew back a foot to kick the cylinder away, then stopped as he remembered the way he'd cleaned the hold, blasting the jelly through the rear doors with compressed air. The cylinder had struggled in his grip, almost escaping once or twice as it tried to jet off in the opposite direction.

  Jetting away!

  Frantically, hoping he hadn't left it too late, Clunk grabbed the cylinder and opened the valve. A stream of white vapour spurted from the end, and Clunk closed the valve before the smooth cylinder could tear itself free from his grip.

  Then, aiming the nozzle away from the Orbiter, he opened the valve up and held on tight.

  Chapter 18

  Hal walked up the Orbiter's docking tunnel with a grim look on his face. Although Farrell had assured him the hunt for Clunk was on, word of the fiasco was bound to get back to Jerling. The robot might be a walking junkyard, but Jerling would never use Hal's services again. And there was something else bothering him, too: Farrell's offsider Terry. He looked more like a hit man than a freighter pilot.

  Hal opened the doors at the end of the ramp and stepped into a poorly lit tunnel. Following the signs, he found the main entrance to the Orbiter, a round door with a control panel on the wall alongside. Hal pressed the open button, but nothing happened. When he pressed it again, a metallic voice crackled through the overhead speaker.

  "Manual override inoperative. Please use voice commands."

  "Open the door," said Hal, his voice echoing down the tunnel. It opened sluggishly, and he walked through it into a dimly lit airlock. He pressed the button on the opposite wall but nothing happened. "Open the door," he said again.

  The speaker crackled. "Close the other door first."

  "Close it yourself."

  "I'm just an airlock. You have to give the commands."

  Hal shrugged. "Close the door."

  "Which door do you want me to close, the inner door or the outer door?"

  "How can you close the inner door? It's not open!"

  "I'm sorry, you'll have to rephrase that."

  "Shut the outer door and open the inner door!"

  "Unable to interpret multiple instructions."

  "Okay, interpret this," said Hal, pulling out his blaster. "I'm going to shoot holes in the walls until I hit something that makes the door open. I will start in three seconds."

  "I cannot open the inner door without the correct instructions," said the airlock.

  "These are all the instructions you're going to get." Hal pointed the blaster at a speaker high on the wall. "One."

  "I'll have to report this to the authorities," warned the airlock.

  "When I pull thi
s trigger you won't be reporting anything to anyone. Two."

  A pleading note crept into the airlock's voice. "All you have to say is 'Close outer, open inner.'"

  "I prefer it this way," said Hal, raising the blaster. "Three."

  The outer door slammed shut, and after a second's delay the inner door opened. Hal's ears popped as they adjusted to the pressure difference. "That wasn't so difficult," he said, clipping the blaster to his belt.

  There was no answer.

  He stepped out of the airlock and entered a small lift. There was only one button on the panel, so he pressed it. The door closed and the lift shot upwards, opening onto a brightly lit area filled with the cloying smell of yeast. There were several people sitting at cheap plastic tables, drinking from large mugs and spooning food into their mouths. A robot standing behind a hatch was dispensing mugs and bowls and there was a window to the right, beneath a sign which read 'General Store'. Behind the window, shelves bulged with odd-shaped parcels.

  Hal walked over to it, and as he got closer the beaming face of a serving droid popped up behind the counter.

  "Well, hello there!" said the robot brightly. It waved its arm to encompass the laden shelves. "You will notice that we have a huge range of items for the discerning gent around town." The robot sized Hal up. "We also have several items for those whose credit limit is rather thin."

  "Have you got any boots?"

  "Have I got boots?" said the robot. "I have so many boots I was planning a sale."

  "What sort do you have?"

  "Are you looking for comfortable, top quality, long-lasting boots or something cheap?"

  "Let me know what you have, and I'll let you know what I want."

  "No problem," said the droid brightly. It turned and rummaged through the shelves, then disappeared further into the store. Hal heard the sound of boxes being shuffled and paper being scrunched before it came back with a pair of floppy brown boots. "Now, this is what I meant by quality," said the droid, putting them on the counter. "Feel those."

  Hal ran his hands over the silky smooth material. "Leather?"

  "But not just any leather," said the droid, caressing one of the boots with its metal fingers. "No, this hide comes from the legendary mookou of Froid III."

  "Froid III, eh?"

  "You've heard of it?"

  "No."

  "I see. Well, mookou leather contracts when heated, so when you place a pair of these boots on your feet they mould themselves perfectly to every contour. They're completely and totally unique."

  "I've never heard of boots like that."

  "All the guys swear by them." The droid hesitated. "Today only, they're just two hundred and forty-eight credits."

  Hal coughed. "Have you got anything cheaper?"

  "I could pretend to look for something else, but these are all I have in stock."

  "You mean that's it? What about the items for thinner credits?"

  "What can I say? I used to stock many different kinds of boots, but my customers wanted mookou."

  "It's a lot of money."

  "Look at it this way: If they last ten years, you're only paying about a third of a credit a day for these boots." The droid leaned across the counter. "What can you buy nowadays for a third of a credit?"

  "When you put it like that, it makes sense."

  "Tell you what. I can see you are a man who likes fine things." The sales droid paused.

  "Yes?"

  "Well, I can let you have these boots at a special reduced price." The robot lowered its voice. "On one condition."

  "What's that?"

  "You're not to tell anyone what you paid for them."

  Hal put his hand in his pocket and rattled Farrell's credit tiles. He picked up one of the boots and turned it over, running his hand over the soft leather.

  The sales droid stood completely still.

  Hal looked down at his toes, which were protruding from the end of his melted boots. "All right, how much?"

  "You're not going to believe this, but for you I can lower the price to just ninety-eight credits."

  Hal pursed his lips.

  "You're not to tell anyone, mind." The robot leant even closer. "This is a special rate for preferred customers only."

  "All right, I'll take them."

  A slot opened in the counter. "Perhaps you could make the payment while I fetch your merchandise."

  "But you haven't asked my size!"

  The droid smiled. "Sir, these are mookou boots. There are no sizes."

  It vanished behind the shelving, and Hal took several tiles from his pocket and fed them into the slot. They were all accepted except the last, which popped out again. Hal pushed it back in and kept his thumb on it, and the reader made a clacking noise as it tried to eject the tile again. Hal shoved harder, something went clang inside the machine and the tile disappeared.

  The robot returned with a box. "Would you like the parcel wrapped?"

  "No, I need them now."

  The robot placed a blue credit chip on top of the box and slid them over the counter. "Your change, sir."

  Hal pocketed the tile, took the lid off the box and stared at the loose folds of brown leather. He reached into the box and pulled out one of the boots. It sagged in his hand. "Ninety-eight credits for these?"

  "Mookou boots are always loose when new," said the robot. "Try them on!"

  Hal kicked the melted boot off his right foot and put the new one on. "It's still loose."

  "Wait - it'll adjust."

  Hal put the other boot on and took a couple of steps. He felt the boots contract, fitting his feet snugly. "Hey, that's neat!"

  "I told you," said the droid.

  Hal frowned. "They're getting tighter."

  "You must have very warm feet, sir."

  "Hey, that hurts!" said Hal, as the boots applied a hefty grip to his feet. "Argh! Get them off!"

  Several people turned to watch.

  "Sir, I must warn you not to get over-excited," said the droid anxiously. "Your extremities will heat up and the footwear will react accordingly."

  Hal sat and tugged at the boots, turning red with the effort. "How the hell do I get them off?"

  "Press the depression on the back of the heel."

  Hal did so, and the boots immediately relaxed. "Why didn't you tell me that before I put them on?"

  "Sir, I am distressed."

  "You could have crippled me." Hal rubbed his feet. "You know, I'm not sure about these boots."

  "Sorry, no refunds," said the robot. It turned away and busied itself behind the desk.

  Cautiously, Hal slipped the mookou boots on. They promptly adjusted to his feet, but this time they didn't get any tighter. Hal flexed his toes, then stood and kicked his old boots against the wall.

  The robot looked up. "You weren't going to leave those, were you sir?"

  "Of course not," said Hal. "Have you got a box?"

  The droid found an empty white carton and slid it across the counter.

  Hal dropped his melted old boots into the box and slid it back. "Here," he said. "Have some fresh stock on me."

  * * *

  Terry slipped into the Black Gull's engine room and gently closed the door. Ducking his head to avoid a nest of tangled cables, he eased his muscled body behind the cylindrical bulk of the ship's main drives. Near the back of the room, a generator whined, powering the vessel's electrical circuits. Beyond the generator, Terry saw what he was looking for: a large greasy cylinder nestled on thick rubber pads, connected to the main drives with thick, twisting pipes. The Black Gull's hyperspace drive.

  Twice now Terry had suggested the sensible course of action, and Farrell had overridden him. Farrell came from a wealthy family, and he wouldn't spend five minutes in jail if this pilot fingered them both to the Peace Force. Terry shook his head. He knew Spacejock's type: always bouncing up after you knocked 'em down. Well, he knew how to knock the guy right out of the park.

  Terry reached into his jacket and with
drew a slender, polished tube. Holding it steady, he reached around the hyperdrive and attached it to the far side of the greasy metal cylinder. After checking it was secure, he twisted the end caps in opposite directions, triggering a sequence of red lights. One by one the lights turned green, and after the last one lit up Terry turned to leave.

  He was halfway to the door when there was a thump on the hull, directly overhead. Terry looked up at the oil-stained ceiling panels, his weapon half-drawn. For several seconds there was no sound at all. Then something squeaked.

  "Rat-infested hulk," muttered Terry, shoving the gun back in his jacket. He paused at the doorway and looked back into the engine room, but could see no evidence of his visit. Satisfied, he closed the door and left.

  * * *

  The serving robot looked up at Hal's approach. "Can I help you, sir?"

  "I want something to eat. What have you got?"

  The robot shrugged. "Food and drink."

  "I gathered that. What kind of food and drink?"

  "I just sell food or drink," said the robot patiently. "Which would you like?"

  "What's the food?" asked Hal.

  "It's a blend of the five basic food groups, not too heavy on the protein."

  "What does it look like?"

  The robot paused. "It looks like shit."

  "But it tastes all right, doesn't it?"

  The robot lowered its voice. "Judging from the reactions of my customers, I would venture to say that it not only looks like shit, it also tastes like shit. On the positive side, I can assure you that it is most nutritious."

  Hal grimaced. "I think I'll just have a coffee."

  "What's coffee?"

  "It's a drink."

  "Oh, I sell drink," said the droid.

  "What's it like?" asked Hal suspiciously.

  "I take some of the food and dilute it with water."

  * * *

  Farrell placed a card on the Black Gull's console and tried to get comfortable, but the battered pilot's chair had a distinct lean to it. He wasn't really concentrating on the game, he was actually listening to the distant thuds as the cargo lifters transferred their crates into the Volante. A little longer and the shipment would be his.

  There was a clatter of boots, and Terry clambered up the ladder to the flight deck.