Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  "Does it work?" asked the salesman, looking at Hal with narrowed eyes.

  "Not much, no."

  One of Clunk's eyes fixed him with a baleful stare. Hal glared back.

  The salesman leant closer and sniffed delicately. "Phew. I'm guessing it worked as a toilet cleaner. Am I right?"

  "Could be."

  "Where did you get it?"

  "I just came from the casino."

  The salesman glanced at Hal's stained flight suit. "Of course you did, sir." He met Hal's eyes. "Is it yours to sell?"

  Hal had been dreading that question. Before entering the shop he'd tried to think of a suitable answer in case the subject came up. He'd dreamt up several variations of the 'I won it at the casino' story, but they all sounded implausible.

  "I said, is it yours to sell?" repeated the salesman.

  "Son, the day I sell a stolen robot is the day I stop winning at chess."

  There was a snort from the direction of the groundcar.

  "It made a noise!"

  "I didn't hear anything."

  The salesman bent down and stared into Clunk's lifeless eyes. "I thought I saw a light." He twisted something under the robot's arm and a section of chest popped open. "System reset?" murmured the salesman as he poked in the hole with a forefinger. He jumped, shaking his hand. "I got a shock! It's live!"

  Hal put his arm round the salesman's shoulder and steered him back onto the pavement. "I'd love to hang around all day but I have to get back to my ship. Let's talk prices."

  The salesman shrugged. "It's been a quiet day, but there's some petty cash I could use. What do you say to a thousand?"

  "One grand? You can't buy a robot like this for a thousand credits!"

  "Sir, I get paid to take robots like this to the tip."

  "All right, forget it. I'll try somewhere else."

  "Fifteen hundred, but that's it."

  "Two and a half."

  "Two."

  Hal shook his head. "We both know you'll have it in the window for five grand by the end of the week. Two and a half or I walk."

  "Two thousand one hundred?"

  "Done. Come and give me a hand."

  They tipped Clunk out of the groundcar and stood one each end. The salesman picked up the feet with ease and Hal bent down and grabbed Clunk under the arms, heaving and straining until he got the robot off the ground. As they shuffled towards the front door Clunk winked at him.

  Hal lowered his end. "I think we'll have more luck if we get it upright. I'm sure it can take some weight on its legs."

  "Are you certain? It looks like it's been deactivated."

  "If it doesn't, we can try a cattle prod," muttered Hal.

  The salesman dropped the legs and between them they stood Clunk up and marched him into the shop. Once inside, Hal was left alone with the robot while the salesman went into the office to fetch the money. "Stop moving," muttered Hal out of the side of his mouth. "You're supposed to be dead."

  Clunk stood absolutely still, but his eyes swivelled until they were glaring at him. "Cattle prod?"

  Hal was just about to answer when the office door swung open. The salesman walked up and passed him four red and gold credit tiles.

  "That's two grand," said Hal, slipping them into his flight suit. "Where's the rest?"

  "It's my rent money," said the salesman, reaching into his pocket. "I'll get it back later."

  Hal shook his head. "Two thousand will do."

  "Are you sure?"

  "It'll cost you a hundred to get it cleaned."

  "Thanks." The salesman put the tiles back in his pocket and took a closer look at Clunk. "The condition's not too bad, considering." he muttered. "If I can just …"

  Hal walked away softly as the salesman started poking around inside Clunk's chest.

  *

  The groundcar was parked under an orange streetlight a hundred metres up the road from the robot shop. Hal's gaze was fixed on the rear view mirror, watching the store robots as they acted out their tableau for a non-existent audience.

  Headlights shone across the windscreen and a car drove past, its powerful engine burbling under the long, white hood. Hal spotted the Peace Force badge on the cruiser's door and sank down in his seat. There were two uniformed officers inside, their stern faces thrown into relief by car's glowing instruments. Hal looked away, praying the men weren't feeling curious, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the car drove past without slowing.

  Hunched down in his seat, Hal angled the mirror to show the front of the robot shop. Clunk was standing in the middle of the pavement, caught in the bright glare of the streetlights.

  Hal rose in his seat and waved. "Clunk!"

  The robot ran towards him, and Hal thumbed the starter. "Come on, come on," he muttered, as the cold engine whirred into life. With a hiss, the car rose into the air until it was hovering above the road. Clunk was approaching fast, but he was only halfway to the car when the salesman shot out of the doorway. He spotted Clunk and gave chase, his tie flapping around his ears and his shoes thudding on the pavement. "Stop! Stop right now!"

  At first, Hal thought Clunk hadn't heard his pursuer. The robot loped along with its head back like a middle-distance runner nearing the end of a race, while the salesman was burning up his shoe leather, his eyes fixed on Clunk's retreating back. His face was livid, and he looked like he wanted to rip the robot's arms off and batter it into scrap with them.

  Clunk must have heard salesman, because he turned his head a hundred and eighty degrees, studied his pursuer carefully, then doubled his speed. His legs vanished in a bronze blur as he bore down on the car, reaching it with metres to spare. Placing a hand on the side, he vaulted into the passenger seat with a thump that shook the vehicle.

  Hal shoved the stick and the car leapt away from the pavement, tearing up the road to the corner. Just before he reached it, Hal glanced in the mirror and saw the salesman far behind, shaking his fist and yelling in fury. Behind him, the robots from the window display slipped out of the shop and hurried away, keeping to the shadows.

  Chapter 24

  Hal dropped Clunk outside a shopping arcade and went to park the car. Clunk entered a menswear shop where he stood patiently while a serving droid bustled around, fitting him with a starched white shirt, a pair of dark grey pleated trousers and a luxurious pair of socks. If the droid was surprised by the presence of a battered old robot in the exclusive shop, it did an excellent job of hiding it.

  "Will there be anything else, sir?"

  Clunk looked down at himself. The gleaming white shirt was tucked into the waistband of his pleated trousers, and his feet looked smaller than usual in the dark socks. He held up a leg and examined his foot critically. "I need shoes."

  The serving droid signalled to a squat trolley, which rolled across and measured Clunk's feet with a set of callipers. After it had gone, the serving droid picked a glossy leather belt off a rack and held it out. "Would sir like a belt to set off those exquisite trousers?"

  Clunk nodded.

  "Are we attending an important function, sir?" asked the droid, as it threaded the belt and fastened the buckle.

  "Very." Clunk squared his shoulders and admired his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was still smiling when the trolley came back with half a dozen cardboard boxes.

  "Shoes maketh the man," said the serving droid. "Or the robot," it added, with a wink. It selected a box, whipped the lid off and held the contents out for Clunk's inspection. Inside, a pair of brown shoes were cradled in fluffy white satin, gleaming from the buffing they had received before being placed lovingly in the box.

  "I'll have two," said Clunk.

  "We only sell them in pairs, sir." The serving droid looked Clunk up and down. "Shall I have your purchases wrapped, or would you prefer them delivered to your hotel?"

  Clunk shook his head. "I'm going to wear them."

  "And payment was by …" began the droid delicately.

  Clunk opened his hand and re
vealed a reddish-coloured tile. "Here."

  The sales droid looked down its long nose at the money, then did a double take. "Are you shitting me?"

  *

  "How could you spend a thousand credits on a shirt and a lousy pair of trousers!" seethed Hal. They were sitting in the groundcar outside the shopping arcade, and Hal was wearing a pair of flared trousers he'd picked from a Rethread shop and a brown shirt with a collar so wide it'd be dangerous in a stiff breeze.

  "They're not lousy," said the robot. "Actually, they're quite good."

  "For that kind of money they'd want to be top bloody notch. You were supposed to be buying casual clothes, not togging up for the Emperor's tea party!"

  "I tried to take them back, but they refused," said Clunk dejectedly.

  "I'm not surprised," growled Hal. "You stink of cow dung."

  "I thought the robot salesman did quite a good job of cleaning me up."

  Hal grinned suddenly. "All that rubbing and no joy at the end. Boy, he must have been frustrated."

  "I'm really sorry, Mr Spacejock. I know I got carried away, but I've never had spending money before."

  Hal felt a pang of guilt. He should have known the robot would have no real understanding of the value of money. "Here," he said, pulling a credit tile from his pocket.

  "Mr Spacejock, I couldn't!"

  "Take it, I insist."

  Clunk did so. "Five credits?" he said, looking down at it. "What will that buy?"

  "Ten minutes in a car wash," muttered Hal.

  "Mr Spacejock. I've never met a more generous human."

  "Clunk, ease up on the Spacejock, huh? Call me Hal."

  "Sure thing, Mr Spacejock."

  "Now take off that ridiculous hat and let's get the hell out of here."

  *

  Hal stood on the sumptuous red carpet in the casino foyer, feeling slightly lost in the confusing whirl of lights and sound. There was an archway in the opposite wall, three storeys high and seemingly carved from solid rock. The air between the columns shimmered like a curtain of water, mirroring the lights and red carpet of the foyer. A gleaming robot stood to attention behind a polished wooden counter.

  "Stage door that way," said a gruff voice.

  Hal saw the doorman pointing to the side. "Stage door?"

  The doorman reddened. "Sorry, sir. I thought you was part of the cabaret."

  Hal looked down at his flared trousers. "What's wrong with —"

  "Move along there," said a rough voice. A balding, middle-aged man pushed Hal aside and barged past with his stout, bejewelled wife in tow. They strode up to the archway and vanished through the shimmering air.

  "After you," called Hal. He turned back to the doorman. "What's wrong with my clothes, then?"

  "Nothing, sir. If you 'ang onto them long enough they're bound ter come back into fashion." The doorman spotted Clunk and nodded his approval. "Now that's a tasty suit you got there, sir."

  "Tasty?" said Hal. "For that kind of money it's a bloody banquet." Still grumbling to himself, he led Clunk through the force field. Hal shivered at the cool, tingling sensation, then stopped at the sight that greeted his eyes.

  The gaming room was so large that the far wall was lost in the haze, and thousands of people swarmed around row upon row of baize-covered tables. The noise was deafening - a rumble of voices and laughter, shouts of joy and pain, the clatter of balls, dice, money wheels and poker machines, the whirr of speeding drinkbots and above all the heady sound of money changing hands. Hal gazed in awe at the massed crowd. "You know something? If I took fifty credits off everyone here, I'd be a millionaire."

  "No, you'd be arrested." Clunk scanned the crowd. "How are we going to find two men amongst so many?"

  "We'll split up." Hal glanced at his watch. "Meet me back here in thirty minutes."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Look around a bit. Ask a few questions, but don't draw attention to yourself."

  Clunk looked down at his hands, which stuck out of his sleeves like a pair of bronze crabs. "Right."

  "And don't get into trouble," called Hal, as Clunk pushed his way into the crowd. Once the robot had disappeared, Hal set off towards a stand of fake palm trees surrounded by coloured lanterns. A few minutes later he was leaning on the bar with a frosted glass at his elbow. So far, the only questions he'd asked were "How much for a beer?" and "Are you kidding?" but was it his fault the barman was so busy? Draining his drink, he set the glass on the polished counter and waved.

  "Another, sir?" asked the barman, materialising in front of him.

  "Listen, do you know a guy called Farrell? Tall, dark hair, wears a fancy gold ring."

  "Very witty," said the barman. He plucked the glass off the counter and refilled it from a tap. "Twenty credits, sir."

  *

  Clunk walked along the strip of carpet between two rows of gambling machines, watching people sliding their credit tiles into the gaping slots. He stopped behind an elderly lady who was feeding tiles into her machine with a look of grim determination on her face, pressing the button with a grunt every time the machine beeped at her. As Clunk was about to move on, he heard the machine play a tune.

  There was a rattle of falling tiles, and the woman grabbed a handful from the wide metal tray and fed them back into the slot, her triumphant expression gradually turning to despair as the tiles ran out.

  Clunk walked on. He came to a middle-aged couple sitting at a pair of machines and recognised them as the people who had pushed Hal aside at the casino entrance. The woman turned to speak to her partner and saw Clunk out of the corner of her eye. "What d'you want?"

  Clunk held his hands up soothingly. "Please excuse me."

  Her husband looked up, his hand halfway to the slot. "Quit snooping on us, you hear?"

  "I mean no harm, sir."

  The woman sniffed. "Shouldn't be allowed near decent people," she said, turning her back on him.

  Strolling further along the carpet, Clunk slipped his hands into his pockets. His fingers closed on the credit tile Hal had given him, and he pulled it out to look at it. His gaze flickered to a nearby machine, which was going through a colourful attract mode. Would Hal mind if he spent it?

  Clunk heard a cackle and turned to see the middle-aged man waving a handful of money under his wife's nose. Then he saw Clunk watching and gestured at him, waving him away.

  Unmoved, Clunk crossed to the nearest machine. The flashing lights reflected off his lined face as he read the instructions, which were kept simple in case they put anyone off: "Insert tile. Press button." He looked down at the credit tile in his hand, then reached up and dropped it into the slot. He pushed the button and watched several rows of icons bounce around the screen before joining up in a colourful pattern. The machine played a tune and a pair of tiles rattled into the tray.

  Clunk heard voices nearby and saw the fat man and his wife watching closely.

  He turned back to the machine and fed one of the tiles into the slot, pressed the button and watched the swirling colours as the machine ran through a semi-random sequence. When it stopped, Clunk bent down and looked in the tray. Nothing came out.

  The couple nudged each other and sniggered.

  Clunk dropped his last tile into the machine, and the patterns swirled as it ran through its semi-random algorithms. There was a merry tune and a chequered pattern appeared, overlaid with the word "Winner!" A single white tile dropped into the tray, rattling on the hard metal.

  As Clunk reached for it a pudgy hand gripped his wrist. "Hold it, you. I was gonna use that machine."

  "Please let go of my arm," said Clunk politely.

  "Let go of my money!" The fat man tried to pull Clunk's hand away from the tray, his eyes disappearing under folds of flesh as his beefy face turned red. "You hand it over before I call security!"

  "Give him the money and get lost!" hissed the woman, who was standing behind her husband. "You're not allowed to gamble!"

  Several people peered ove
r the top of nearby machines, attracted by the raised voices. Clunk looked down at the man's flushed, angry face and analysed the gleam in his piggy little eyes: hatred, jealousy and greed. "I'm sorry sir, but you're mistaken. I inserted the money into the machine, and I won this credit tile. You were using a different machine."

  "You calling me a liar?" spluttered the man. "How dare you!"

  There were mutterings from the gathering crowd.

  "We're humans and you're not," said the woman. "Do what he says! Give him that tile!"

  Clunk fought an internal battle. What was the last thing Mr Spacejock had said? Don't draw attention to yourself. On the other hand, he'd won the money fair and square.

  How would Hal deal with this situation? Give up meekly, or fight for his rights? Clunk tried to picture the human in his place, and before he knew what he was saying the words tumbled from his lips. "Madam, if you don't shut up I'll shove this credit tile so far up your husband's arse they'll need a space probe to get it back."

  The woman stepped back, her mouth wide open and her face white.

  "And as for you," growled Clunk, prodding the fat man in the middle of his broad chest. "Next time you pick on a defenceless robot, remember it has enough power in its little finger to rip your guts out, knot them into a rope and hang you from the nearest lamp post."

  Clunk pushed the man aside and reached into the machine for the tile. He was just about to put it in his pocket when something thudded into the back of his head, pitching him forward into the gathering crowd.

  *

  Hal stared at the empty glass and tried to remember whether it was his third or fourth. Just as well he was immune to the stuff or he'd be sitting on the floor.

  "Another sir?" said the barman.

  Hal shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Phew. Rocket fuel, eh?"

  "Beer, sir. Actually, it's light beer."

  "Empty stomach, see?" Hal turned to look at the gaming floor, where a babble of voices was rising over the background thrum of the casino. "Someone's having a night out."

  "You're right there." The barman took Hal's glass and left.

  "Looks like trouble," said Hal, as a number of security guards pushed into the crowd. "You get much trouble here?"