Renton and Meitchars had visited planets in every corner of the known universe. That had meant that their search had taken them into the territories of a string of different League offices. But they'd worked on their own. None of these offices had been invited to join the search party. Quite the reverse. They'd been told to stay away - because this was a mission of the utmost secrecy, designed to be conducted with extreme discretion lest their quarry should be alerted to their quest. This approach certainly had some operational logic to it, but it also meant that the whole project was now a very public one within the Tickler fraternity. They had to know, to know to stay away. So every knight in charge of an office and probably most other knights and most of their troopers now knew that there was a hunt on for Grader and his “army”. And all these knights and troopers would know that the hunt had been called off - if and when it ever was. Renton was beginning to believe it never would be. He suspected this face-saving might go on indefinitely. After all, they'd only visited twenty-two planets - which left about five gazillion to go at. And that could take nearly till Christmas.
He also suspected that all those people in the League knowing of their mission might have something to do with its total failure… but he was almost past caring. He was just so bored. He was on what seemed like an endless zigzag through space, a sort of grand tour without a purpose. And he was beginning to loathe it. The thrills of his first trip with Meitchars had been replaced by sheer tedium, the sort he imagined one experienced on surveillance duty. Only it was worse; there wasn't even anybody to surveill. This really wasn't what he'd joined the League to do…
However, it did provide him with the ideal opportunity to get to know his fellow inboard inmate. A month with Meitchars was just what he wanted for his very own secret mission into his partner's mind. And to begin with, it had all started quite promisingly.
Within hours of their leaving Pandiloop, Meitchars had begun to recount some of his experiences as a novice Tickler. He wasn't very forthcoming on his own rôle in these events; they were more an exposition on the skills of the Ticklers who'd taught him his trade. But what was significant to Renton was that he was talking at all. He was really quite chatty in a way he'd not been before - on their previous trip. Then, any conversation had been either an operational necessity or Tenting initiated - and sustained. Now, Meitchars was obviously much more at ease with his new companion, and Renton looked forward to exploiting this growing intimacy as their journey progressed - for Meitchars' own benefit.
He was to be disappointed. He very soon found that Meitchars controlled a relationship in the same way that he controlled every other aspect of his life: totally. He remained chatty and he even began to reveal more about his real character: what inspired him, what angered him and what saddened him. He had clearly begun to regard Renton as a close friend - not surprising in one way, given what they'd already experienced together. But despite this growing closeness, Meitchars simply wouldn't allow Renton into certain aspects of his life. Within their intimacy as friends there were very clearly a number of no-go areas - and these included anything to do with the causes of his melancholia.
If, for example, Renton ventured into attitudes to League management or anything vaguely connected with the concept of chivalry, the shutters would come down. Quietly and gently, but ever-so-firmly. Renton would find the conversation had veered off in another direction or that it had been brought to a premature conclusion. And, of course, Renton soon learnt not even to try to breach these defensive positions. It was pointless. He'd only ever see the inside of those parts of Meitchars' character when Meitchars invited him in. And that wasn't very likely to happen on this trip.
It left Renton feeling deeply frustrated. For although he could learn nothing directly, he could still deduce from other evidence. And his deductions told him that there was something more to Meitchers' despair than his problem in reconciling commercialism with chivalry. That was certainly at the root of it, but it was not quite enough on its own. It couldn't be. Renton had now seen enough to know that Meitchars could conduct himself as chivalrously as he wanted to - and did - and nothing in the operations of the League out here in space prevented him from doing so. And more significantly, Meitchars must have recognised this himself. Just as he must have recognised that, like all the other Knights of the League, he was a financial beneficiary of the League's commercialism - no matter how much he might despise it. And this recognition - of his access to an effective freedom and to an attractive fortune - would surely have allowed him to temper his despondency. It would have had to. So, no question. There had to be something else. But what? Renton had no idea. Meitchars gave nothing away, nothing to feed another process of deduction. And Renton was left feeling he knew almost less about his friend's problems now than he did when they'd started their voyage. It was exasperating. He could only guess at what else could be wrong. A health problem? A broken heart? Or maybe - maybe Grader? But no, that was… well, that was impossible. That was just too many days on this blasted spaceship. Surely…
And then he realised that this despondency stuff might be contagious. That the boredom and the frustration were turning into something worse. Just how much more of this purgatory could he take before he became a Meitchars himself?
19.
Grader paced up and down the room. He was a tall man, and even with his shoulders stooped forward, he seemed to tower over his surroundings. Or maybe his surroundings were shrinking away from him, cowering away from that look on his face, that look of latent fury and pent-up contempt.
'When will I get what I want?' he thought. 'All this time, and still it eludes me. All those deaths, and I'm not even close… And now they'll turn up the heat; they're bound to. And they won't turn it down…
'Maybe I've no choice. Maybe I'll have to risk it. And it will be a risk. Hell, he might do anything. He might even recognise me. And then he'd be bound to do something. Or, at least, try something. How could he not?
'And then… well, I couldn't let him, could I? I'd have to stop him. I'd have to…'
He shook his head.
'No, this is stupid. Just do it. Just get on and do it. Before he goes and screws things up - and alerts the whole bloody League. And he could do that. And then you'd really be in the shit…'
So the decision had been made. It was time to stop that pacing and time to pay someone a visit - and to convince that someone that Grader was worth helping. Even if he might have to be a little reticent in his approach - and not entirely forthright about his identity as a bloodthirsty fiend, responsible for… what was it? Six more deaths in the last two days…
No, he'd have to be a bit more circumspect. In fact, he'd have to be downright inventive. Otherwise he was stuffed. And he'd never ever get what he wanted.
Regardless of how hard he tried - or of how many died…
20.
Madeleine was pissed off. It had been four weeks since the disappearance of the dust workers from Targa-B, and there'd been no real progress in discovering who was behind it. But worse for Madeleine was that she'd been prevented from doing any detective work herself - as had all her Dustforce colleagues.
It appeared that the League in Korpulund had approached the top guys in the Dustforce, just after the Targa-B incident, to share some intelligence with them - about the attempted removal of construction kit from the resource planet, A-402-C. They'd suggested that maybe there was a connection between this and the Targa-B incursion - and that both of these had a connection with the earlier removal of construction workers from A-402-C. And that what connected all three of them was some renegade army led by the ever-elusive Grader. But as well as this suggestion was the proposal that the League should take up the search for the single perpetrator of these crimes, (the assumption that it was the same culprit in each case had very soon become a fact) and that the Dustforce should effectively withdraw from the campaign. Madeleine never found out why, but the Dustforce leadership agreed. And she and the rest of the Dustforce ga
rrison on Kerra-Dust were taken off the case. She was not a happy bunny.
Initially, she'd been affronted. Why the hell should the Dustforce give way to those show-offs from the League? And why did anyone think that they could do the job any better anyway? Sounded like a case of mass male menopause in the upper echelons of the Force to her; they could probably all do with a quick course of HRT. But then she became angry - because the League didn't appear to be doing anything. Nobody from the League had interviewed her - even though she'd been one of the first at the scene of the crime. And, as far as she could gather, it was the same with all her colleagues. OK, a few knights had turned up on Kerra-Dust, but their visit had been a fleeting one, and they seemed to have spoken to no-one - and done nothing much of anything. It had been just a token gesture, something to give the appearance of activity. But then they'd disappeared. And after that there'd been a sort of blackout. No follow up, no further reference to the Dustforce, and no report on progress - until a week ago. It was a bulletin-board announcement in the mess room, to the effect that two knights were on a search-and-find mission for the Grader hordes. Two knights! A whole pair of knights! Fantastic! The arrogance of those bastards!
Madeleine's anger fermented. She became furious and deeply resentful. And then she decided to take matters into her own hands. To start with she'd find out who these two superheroes were. Just possibly she could deal with them directly, force herself into the action - if there was any. And bugger the consequences. If her Dustforce superiors didn't like it, they knew what they could do with it. Some of the people who had disappeared from Targa-B were her friends; she knew their relatives… And then she found out who the two knights were - and she was flabbergasted. It wasn't even two knights. It was just one knight - and Renton!
In a way it was like the early stages of her Dumpiter adventure all over again. Flabbergastation was replaced by confusion, horror and disbelief - but then by resignation and then by excitement. Because her intimate connection with one of this pair gave her a real opportunity… Just let Renton Tenting try and stop her!
She sent him a message. She sent it as a short hand-written note sealed in a plasper envelope via the League head office in Korpulund. It might take a little longer to reach him that way, but it was the only way to ensure that nobody else eavesdropped on its contents. And that included nobody from the League, nobody from the Dustforce - and, most important of all, nobody from Grader's brigade.
Then she waited.
21.
Renton was delighted to receive Madeleine's missive. It not only revitalised his feelings for her, but it also held out the promise of an early reunion with her - and a relief from his wandering exile. Of course, Meitchars would have to agree. Madeleine's suggestion was for a meeting with both of them. And in their present situation, he could hardly attend such a meeting without Meitchars anyway. But for Meitchars to agree, he'd have to ignore their present orders. And he was the senior knight on this mission, the one who would take the blame… But no worry! Meitchars couldn't have been more enthusiastic. 'Forget the stupid Grader-chase. Forget Korpulund Central Intelligence, and let's just go for it! Let's go and see your young lady, and let's go straightaway!' Meitchars was as sick of their marathon space trip as Renton was. And even at the risk of a spot of trouble with their controllers on Korpulund, he clearly welcomed this opportunity for a little covert truancy - and possibly even more than Renton did…
Madeleine's message had told them where she would be and when she would be there. They had no way of letting her know that they'd accepted her invitation. But they'd not disappoint her. The day after tomorrow, at midday, they would arrive at the meeting place she had designated, the meeting place she had chosen with the greatest of care.
She had known they would need somewhere with direct access for small spacecraft. And somewhere “improbable”, somewhere unlikely to be discovered by Grader - even by chance. But somewhere she knew the geography of - just in case. It had come to her in a flash. It was a place she'd visited for two days when she was a Dustforce cadet - to learn about the dark days before D-lastic. It was a visit designed to impress on all the Dustforce cadets just how awful those times had been - when the textile industry had lacked the vital support it needed - and to help them appreciate how important a rôle they would be playing in preventing a return to that dreadful period of history. It was the Museum of Ancient Underwear, the biggest collection of pre-D-lastic knickers in the universe - built by the Dust industry to remind everybody of just what life had been like - before the renaissance their product had spawned.
It was a bit of an odd place.
It was on a world called Four-Uranus - presumably somebody's idea of a sick joke - and it looked more like a pleasure dome than a museum. An over-enthusiastic use of silvery-grey cladding had failed to achieve the D-lastic look-alike exterior its designer had intended, but instead had given the loaf-shaped building a vaguely mother of pearl finish. It looked really weird - or so Renton thought as their scudder drifted down towards the vast landscaped parking area that surrounded it. But there again, he hadn't seen the inside yet. When he did he would no doubt revise his thoughts on what constituted “weird”!
First there was the entrance vestibule, a gargantuan enclosed space, built to match the huge proportions of the building's exterior. It was cathedral like in its size - and in its use of sandstone cladding and decorative sandstone carvings. It only needed some pews and an altar and its ecclesiastical antecedents would be confirmed. But it didn't have these features. As Renton noticed immediately, it had outsized drawers instead. Not outsized as worn by outsized people, but outsized as on an architectural scale. Some of them must have been twenty metres from waistband to gusset. You could have slipped them over a small space freighter. They hung as banners from the roof of this church-vestibule - or on massive poles from its walls. Super-sized knickers and Y-fronts - posing as super-sized pennants and flags.
They swayed gently in the museum's own upper atmosphere, a surreal washing day in a surreal setting, a bizarre explanation - and preparation - for what was to be found in the galleries beyond, a clear statement to any patron of this place as to what this was a museum of.
And if anybody was still in any doubt, the entrance tickets were knicker-shaped as well. Renton purchased two and led Meitchars into the first gallery.
This one traced the history of glue-trews. Well, that was its declared purpose. And indeed the “historical” information was there for any who wanted it. For any who wanted to delve into the chemistry of the glues, or to learn about the glue application techniques or the results of misapplications… It was all there on computer touch screens and in an array of archive cabinets. But what most people saw in this gallery, the vast majority of visitors to this museum, was just a lot of drawers on a lot of half-mannequins. The room was full of them. Row upon row of sexless pairs of legs supporting sexless “below-the-waist” bits. And glued to the below-the-waist bits were glue trews of every shape and size imaginable - and in every colour imaginable. And in no apparent order. It put Renton in mind of a nightmare he'd once had.
Humanoid underwear stood hip to hip with insectal and reptilian. Female examples frolicked with their male counterparts. Racy little numbers mocked their straitlaced neighbours. It was a mêlée, a strange frenetic mêlée - beyond the surreal of that entrance chamber - and a mêlée despite the museum's best efforts. Its staff had placed on the top of each mannequin half - at about full mannequin liver-level - a little card on a pin, which gave details of the undies beneath. The effect was more disturbing than informative. And, in all honesty, it failed to bring much at all in the way of order - to this jumble of jonny's and jill's.
And it got progressively worse. In the lighter-than-air gallery, the pants were tethered. They'd dispensed with the half-mannequins and chosen instead a barrage balloon display. Thousands of shimmies, sealed and filled with helium, and anchored by thin wires, were floating at waist-level above the gallery floor. And float
ing above them and anchored to them by more wires, were helium-filled information cards - a really very nice touch. It turned what could have been simply ridiculous into absolutely laughable. Renton laughed straightaway. Meitchars joined him just a split-second later.
They were still laughing when they came to the next gallery: the museum's chamber of horrors. For in here they had the velcro-surgery stuff and the plug and chain devices - some of it in restricted-access side rooms. But the less said about this the better. Because even what was on general view put a stop to our heroes' laughing. It just wasn't the sort of stuff you laughed at. That was in the next gallery. It was even funnier than the LTAs - because here were the “mobiles”.
It was the thinking knicker collection. The ultimate in underwear microtechnology that only failed through an assault by intruder technology. But there were no knicker-hackers here. In this monument to the unwearable, the knicker technology was in a refuge, a reserve where it could operate as intended - and for many of the examples on display this meant they were in constant motion. Yes, it was the glue-trews show all over again - only more so. Because some of these thinking trews were on the move. They were in slow slither mode. First up the legs of those disconcerting half-mannequins, and then, after just a brief shimmy/stretch - to get the sat-on bit in-situ, so to speak - back down they'd come. And then they'd start the ascent bit all over again, and so on indefinitely.
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