by Simon Haynes
"Of course not. Now please get Clunk out of my way."
Hal nodded to Clunk, who stepped aside, and then they both watched her leave. After she vanished into the fog, Hal turned to the robot. "All right, let's get the rest of Bright's junk out of my cargo hold."
* * *
Harriet made her way around the perimeter of the weapons factory, using trees and undergrowth for cover. At first she was ultra cautious, crawling from one hiding place to the next on hands and knees, but after a while she realised there weren't any patrols, and even if there were she'd look a lot less suspicious if she were just walking normally.
She was halfway round when she realised there might be a good reason for the lack of patrols: what if the fields outside the perimeter fence were strewn with land mines? She held her breath at the alarming thought, then let it out with a laugh. If there were landmines, she'd have stepped on one by now.
The undergrowth was thicker at the rear of the facility, and the trees and bushes were closer to the fence. It obviously hadn't been cleared for years, and as Harriet pushed her way through the bushes she kept an eye out for overhanging branches and fallen trees. She also kept an eye on the compound, inspecting the squat buildings through the chain link fence. Every now and then she saw scientists and workers moving from one building to another, the former in lab coats and the latter in orange overalls. Unfortunately, she wouldn't pass for either in Hal's old flightsuit, and in any case there'd be ID cards and scanners and any number of security checkpoints.
Harriet fought her way through a particularly dense patch of undergrowth, and then she saw something which brought a smile to her face. It was a fallen tree, a big one, and the roots had levered the bottom of the fence into the air. There was a narrow gap underneath, and Harriet eyed it thoughtfully.
The earth around the tree roots was fresh, and she guessed it had only fallen over in the past day or so. What if she came back later, only to discover they'd repaired the fence? Wouldn't it be better to seize the moment?
Harriet glanced towards the buildings, undecided. She'd told Hal she was just going to walk the fence, but he wasn't her commanding officer. What would Inspector Boson expect her to do? The answer was clear: Boson would expect her to complete the mission, whatever the risk.
Decision made, Harriet wriggled through the gap in the fence. On the other side, she brushed dirt and leaves from the flightsuit, crouching low as she watched a couple of scientists in the distance. Then, as soon as the coast was clear, she stood up and strode towards the nearest building.
The sign on the door read 'Stores', and Harriet paused with her fingers on the handle. Security would be light here, but on the other hand there might not be a computer terminal she could access. Then she heard voices nearby, and she opened the door and stepped inside before she was challenged.
The building was indeed a storeroom, filled with rows of shelving. Harriet darted along the rows, heading towards the rear, and she smiled to herself as she spotted a desk with a terminal sitting on top. She was just reaching in her pocket for the decrypter when she heard the door opening behind her. Someone was coming in!
* * *
It took Hal and Clunk half an hour to unload the artworks, and they'd barely finished tying them to the anti-grav sled when a smart, white-painted van drew up. The driver was wearing 'Backsight Industries' overalls, and alongside him was Meri Ryder. She was carrying a clipboard, and she looked prim and professional.
"Good morning Mr Spacejock."
"Hi. How's it going?"
"Not good, I'm afraid. In fact, I have some bad news."
Hal's heart sank at her serious expression. Had someone spotted Harriet … maybe caught her snooping around? "What's the problem?"
"It's the exhibition … I just heard they're going to cancel it."
"Oh, is that all?" said Hal, with a sigh of relief.
Meri frowned. "A lot of people are going to be disappointed, even if you don't care."
"I'm sorry, it's just …" Hal realised he could hardly tell her he was worried about Harriet. "So what happened? Why's the show off?"
"They were going to use this wonderful old barn for the exhibition, but it fell over this morning."
Hal stared at her. The derelict barn … the same barn he'd knocked down with Bright's Hairpiece? "Was … was anyone hurt?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"No, luckily it happened when nobody was around."
"Lucky indeed," said Clunk.
Hal frowned at him. "You heard her, Clunk. It just fell over. Nobody can take the blame for that."
"They're saying it might have been a meteorite," said Meri. "Either way, the venue has been flattened and it's too late to organise another."
"What's next, then?"
"Load the artworks again, and I'll give you the final destination. You'd better hurry, because we'll be leaving right away."
Hal remembered Harriet Walsh. Lift off now, and she'd be stranded! "Er … we, um, probably shouldn't leave too soon."
"Why not?"
"We, er —" Unable to think of an excuse, Hal turned to Clunk. "You'd better tell her."
Clunk looked startled, but he recovered quickly. He eyed the cargo, looked up at the ship, then made a throat-clearing sound. "Might I be permitted to make a suggestion?"
For one horrible moment, Hal thought he was going to suggest paying for the damage to the barn, and he was just working out whether he could reach Clunk's power switch in time when the robot spoke again.
"If you're only displaying Bright's pieces, I believe the Volante would make an excellent venue."
Meri's eyebrows shot up. "You want to hold a prestigious art exhibition inside a … a cargo vessel?"
"Why not? The hold is spacious and well-lit. Hang some drapes and banners, lay some carpet, and you have to admit it would make for a unique show."
Meri looked thoughtful. "That's not as crazy as it sounds. In fact, it might just work." She hesitated, then gave Clunk a grateful smile. "All right. I'll take it to Olivia now."
"Tell her it won't cost much," said Hal quickly. "Three or four grand will cover it."
"How about a cut of the takings instead? Ten percent, say?"
"Done."
Meri left to present the idea to Olivia Backsight, and Hal rubbed his hands together as the van drove off. "That was smart thinking, Clunk. Well done."
"You're welcome, Mr Spacejock. Although personally, I'd have negotiated a fixed payment. Getting artistic types to pay out on a percentage is like getting rocket fuel out of an orange."
* * *
Harriet stood with her back to a rack of shelves, her breathing shallow and her heart thumping in her chest. Several people had entered the building, and she could hear them sharing office gossip as they picked items from the stores. For a while she thought they'd leave without spotting her, but then she heard one of them getting closer and closer. With her heart in her mouth, Harriet grabbed a box from the shelf and strode purposefully towards the exit.
As she left, she came face to face with a young woman in a lab coat. The young woman glanced at her, and Walsh gave her a confident smile as she walked by.
Once outside, Harriet tucked the box under her arm and walked towards the next building, trying to look as though she belonged. She passed a couple of people on the way, but they didn't give her a second glance.
The sign on the building read 'assembly', and inside were rows of conveyor belts tended by dozens of workers in overalls and hair nets. The slow-moving belts carried a variety of half-built equipment past the workers, who fitted components from trays in front of them. There were also half a dozen robots handling quality control, grabbing parts from the belt and inspecting them closely before replacing them. Occasionally they'd reject a component, dropping the offending part into a disposal chute.
There was a row of offices across the far end of the room, separated from the assembly area by glass partitions. Inside, Harriet could see people sitting at their desks, working on
terminals. One of them was looking at her, frowning, and when he stood up Harriet realised it was time to leave. She looked down at the box in her hands, pretending to study the label, then shook her head theatrically as though she'd fetched the wrong item. As she closed the door behind her, she saw the nosey office worker returning to his terminal.
Outside, Harriet decided to try the stores building again. If anyone was inside, she could use the box of parts as an excuse. If the place was empty … well, that terminal was just waiting to be used.
She entered the building and carried the carton of spares straight up to the terminal, setting it on the desk as though she knew exactly what she was doing. Then she reached into her pocket for the decrypter … only to discover it wasn't there.
Frowning, she checked the other pocket, and then she cursed under her breath as she realised it was missing. Had the damn thing slipped out when she crawled under the fence? Or worse, had she forgotten to transfer the device from her uniform?
Disgusted at her lack of professionalism, Harriet realised there was nothing else for it. She'd have to check around the fence first, and if the decrypter wasn't there she'd have to go all the way back to the Volante.
* * *
Hal glanced at his watch. "Do you think Harriet's getting on okay?"
"I've not heard any gunfire," said Clunk.
"That's not very comforting."
"On the contrary, I find it very reassuring."
"What if they caught her? What if she's being interrogated?"
"What if they didn't? What if she's not?"
Hal pursed his lips. Arguing was pointless when Clunk was in this kind of mood, so he decided to drop it. Harriet was resourceful and smart, and he was sure she'd be fine. "Listen, I need you to put some signs together."
"What sort of signs?"
"Advertising, mostly. Can you do that?"
"Certainly. There's that cardboard we used to pack the artworks, and by a stroke of luck there's a tin of silver paint in the hold."
Hal frowned. "Not my special magnetic paint?"
"I assure you, the only thing special about that paint was the exorbitant price."
"Oh, all right. Make the signs big and bright, though. I want them to stand out."
"I can have them ready in thirty minutes."
"Good." Hal passed him a folded sheet of paper. "Here's the wording. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Clunk's eyes narrowed. "You're not going after Ms Walsh, are you?"
"No, I'm going shopping," said Hal, without elaborating.
* * *
Hal's cab was waiting at the foot of the passenger ramp. The driver was a middle-aged man with a moustache, and he spared Hal the briefest of glances as the door closed. "Where to, sir?"
"I need a printer."
"There's a computer shop in town."
"No, the other kind. T-shirts, that sort of thing."
"I know just the place," said the driver.
"Are they cheap?" asked Hal.
"Sure, he's the cheapest I know." The driver planted his foot, and the car hurtled onto the main road. "The stuff's junk, of course, but people don't expect quality these days."
Hal watched the scenery fly past, lost in thought. He had a nagging feeling he should have gone with Harriet, but she'd told him not to and he could hardly have tailed her. Anyway, he had an exhibition to prepare for.
After twenty minutes the cab drew up outside a row of factory units. The air rang with the crash and thump of machinery, and traces of hot oil, ink and paint all mingled to create a heady smell. Hal glanced up at the signs above each unit: Hump Tees, Lowe's Chapeaux and Fred's Screen Printing Emporium. The doors to the latter stood open, and an elderly man was relaxing on the steps. He was dressed in tatty overalls and a bright blue cap, and his ink-stained fingers held a spluttering pipe.
"Are you Fred?" asked Hal.
"S'me. Help you?"
"I need some merchandise in a hurry. Caps and T-shirts, with a bit of printing on."
Fred knocked his pipe out and stood up, grinding the foul-smelling embers under the heel of his battered work boot. "You'd better come inside."
* * *
After Hal left, Clunk got busy with the signs. The sheet of paper contained several lines of text, but the handwriting was atrocious and it was hard to make out the lettering. Clunk wasn't sure whether Mr Spacejock wanted a precise copy of the wording, spelling mistakes included, or a proofed version with the mistakes edited out. In the end he decided it was safer to copy the wording verbatim, errors and all. If Mr Spacejock complained, Clunk would just claim he was following orders to the letter.
Clunk worked on the signs with ten percent of his brain assigned to lettering, five percent ensuring he coloured within the lines, and eighty-five percent worrying about Max Bright's Hairpiece. The valuable artwork would be on show later that same day, and there was still a slim chance someone would discover the rock was a substitute. On the plus side, they'd already passed the replacement off once, on Pegzwil, and it wasn't as though Max Bright himself was going to be there to inspect his own artwork.
Clunk had just finished a particularly impressive rendering of the word 'Cheep' when he heard footsteps coming up the ramp. He glanced round and saw Harriet Walsh, her face flushed and angry. "Hello, Ms Walsh. Is everything okay?"
"Don't ask," snapped Harriet, as she swept past.
"Very well," said Clunk mildly, returning to his painting.
Harriet slammed the inner door on the way through, and Clunk tutted under his breath. He could never understand why humans took out their anger on inanimate objects. Then again, he supposed it was better than humans taking out their anger on animated objects … such as robots.
It only took him a minute to finish the sign, and Clunk stowed the brushes before making his way to the flight deck. "Navcom, how long until the exhibition?"
"Two hours. Incidentally, I hear Max Bright himself is going to open the show."
"What? No!" Clunk stared at the console in shock. "Now what am I going to do?"
"Would you like me to display all possible options?"
Clunk felt a rush of relief. Trust the Navcom to come up with a range of answers! "That would be a real help. Can you put the list on main?"
"Complying."
The screen flickered, and several lines of text appeared:
You're about to be blamed for a major disaster. Do you …
A. Blame Mr Spacejock
B. Blame Mr Spacejock
C. Blame Mr Spacejock
As Clunk studied the options, he realised Mr Spacejock was not going to come out of this well. Fortunately, the human had a knack for losing cargo, and adding this new mishap to the long list of past failures could hardly make his reputation any worse. "I believe I'll go with option A."
"I think that's a wise choice," said the Navcom calmly.
* * *
Back in her cabin, Harriet felt in her uniform pocket for the decrypter, and she sighed with relief as her fingers closed on the shiny black device. For the past twenty minutes she'd been imagining tense conversations with Inspector Boson, and none of them had ended well. Now, at least, she had a chance of salvaging the mission.
As she entered the hold she glanced around for Clunk, hoping to apologise for her earlier bad temper. The robot was nowhere to be seen, though, and as Harriet left the ship she resolved to make things up to him the moment she got back.
But first, she had a mission to complete.
Chapter 28
Hal smiled with satisfaction as the cab drew up near the Volante. His little shopping trip had been a great success, and his freshly-minted merchandise was sure to turn a pretty little profit. He patted the carton on his lap, grinned at the half dozen boxes crammed into the back seat, and smiled as he thought of the rest jammed into the trunk and tied on the roof. The driver had made a bit of a fuss, especially when Hal sticky-taped several large boxes to the hood, but a few extra credits had soon brought him round
.
It took ten minutes to unload the car, and Hal was still dealing with the sticky tape when he saw Clunk peering out of the Volante's hold. "Hey, Clunk. Is Harriet back yet?"
"Yes, Mr Spacejock."
Hal felt a rush of relief. He'd been worryied about her for a couple of hours now, and he was pleased she was safe. "That's great news."
"She wasn't very happy, though. I don't think her mission was a success."
Hal shrugged. Who cared about missions as long as Harriet was okay? Then he turned his attention to the boxes. "Give us a hand, will you?"
"Yes, I meant to ask you about those." Clunk approached the large stack of cartons, eyeing them apprehensively. "When you said shopping, I thought you meant a few snacks or a new pair of boots."
"You couldn't be more wrong." With a flourish, Hal opened the nearest carton. "Here, feast your peepers on this," he said proudly.
Clunk craned his neck, and an incredulous expression crossed his face as he looked inside. "Oh dear, Mr Spacejock. Is that wise?"
* * *
Far from being safely aboard the Volante, Harriet Walsh was lying face-down in a patch of muddy ground, watching the weapons factory through the hole in the fence. She'd been poised to crawl through several times, only to abandon each attempt as yet another worker appeared at just the wrong moment. It was busier than earlier, and it dawned on her that she could be waiting a very long time.
Now and then she glanced at the sky, trying to estimate how long before night fell. Darkness was probably her best chance, although given the number of floodlights dotted around there was always the possibility it would be brighter at night. Still, perhaps she could find a fuse box, or throw rocks at the lights, or … hell, there had to be some way in!
* * *
Half an hour before the grand opening, a small crowd gathered at the entrance to the landing field. Hal peered through the curtains Clunk had erected across the Volante's cargo hold, rubbing his hands together as he did a quick head count. With that many guests he was set to make more money in a single night than he usually scraped together in a whole year. Hauling cargo was a mug's game, he told himself. This was the real deal.
