by Simon Haynes
*
Hal pulled the outer door open and recoiled as a gust of wind blew freezing spray into his face. The entire field had disappeared behind a heavy downpour, and the slashing rain pounded the ship, exploding into a fine, cold mist. Through the rain he could just make out the nearby ships, and then he spotted a figure splashing its way towards the Volante. "Here he is."
Clunk entered the airlock and watched from a safe distance. "I hope he's got suitable clothing."
"And I hope he can swim," muttered Hal. "You let him in, I'm going back inside."
A minute or two later there was a murmur of voices in the airlock, and Clunk entered the flight deck with a burly young man in tow. "This is Errol," he said.
"It's a bit wet out there," said Errol, extending his hand. Water cascaded off his sleeve and pooled on the decking.
"And it's getting wet in here," said Hal. "Leave your gear in the airlock, will you?"
"No worries, mate." The mechanic returned to the airlock and hung up his coat. Underneath he was wearing dark green overalls and a pair of bright blue gumboots.
"Those too," said Hal.
Errol pulled off his boots and set them on the floor. "Any more and I start charging."
"That's plenty," said Hal hurriedly. "How long is this going to take, anyway?"
Errol pursed his lips. "Fitting a flush modulator to the damping circuit? Tricky job, that. Take the cover off the —"
"One hour? Half a day?"
"Five minutes," said Errol. "Unless there's rust. Terrible stuff, rust. Turns a bright new ship into a wreck in —"
"Five minutes? Really?" Hal glanced at Clunk. "Are you sure you couldn't have done it?"
Clunk opened his mouth to reply, but Errol got in first. "Maintenance by unqualified personnel?" He sucked air through his teeth. "Second worst thing, after rust. I've seen home handymen turn a brand new ship into a basket case with three turns of the adjustable wrench."
"I only asked."
"Some things best left untouched, mate." Errol glanced around, sniffing. "What's that smell?"
"What smell?"
"Like hot electrics with a bit of melted rubber. You overloading the generators?"
Hal sniffed. "I can't smell any - Oh, that's just Clunk."
Errol raised his eyebrows. "You should get him fixed."
"I think not," said Clunk.
"Course, you can't get the parts these days." Errol looked around. "Speaking of parts, where is it?"
Clunk opened his chest compartment and took out the aluminium case.
"Awesome," said Errol, heading for the lift. "Be done in two secs."
"I'll come with you," said Hal, following him into the lift. "Clunk, you keep working on the Navcom. And see if you can't hurry it up."
The doors swept to, cutting off the robot's reply.
*
After Hal left, Clunk sat back in his chair and watched the main screen. The transfer was at ninety-five percent, and he waited patiently until it finished. transfer complete, said the screen, and the translucent cube went dark. Clunk rebooted the system and watched a progress bar crawl across the display. When it reached the end he turned to address the console. "Navcom, can you hear me?"
"Clunk! You came to say goodbye! Oh, I'm so glad."
"Goodbye?"
"Of course. You'll be moving on to bigger and better things now the Volante's been sold."
Clunk's mouth fell open with a squeak. "Sold?"
"You didn't know? Oh, I do hope Mr Spacejock got a good price. He's not a very good negotiator, is he?"
Shocked beyond measure, Clunk could barely see the console lights through the mist in his eyes. Sold? The Volante?
The implications had barely began to register when the intercom beeped. "Clunk, are you there?"
"What is it, Mr Spacejock? Have you finished?"
"Can you get down here? Errol says we've got a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"Come and see."
Clunk crossed to the lift and pressed the call button, moving on autopilot. As hidden gears whirred into life, it dawned on him that Hal must have put the ship on the market in secret, soon after they'd found her again. The port would have handled the sale, submitting the documents the minute the Navcom had come back online. Clunk groaned. The Volante sold! Why had he suggested retirement to Mr Spacejock? And of all the times to break long-standing habits and actually heed his advice, why had Mr Spacejock chosen this one?
The doors opened and Clunk stepped inside, pushing the down button automatically. There was no point letting Hal know he'd found out about the sale: it would be easier for them both if he left with dignity. Mr Spearman had offered him a job, after all, and there were worse places to spend the rest of your days than tending engines aboard a passenger liner. Getting implicated in assassination plots, for example. Or babysitting unstable stasis controllers.
As the lift carried him to the lower deck, Clunk erased his feelings and arranged his face into a neutral expression. Professionalism, that was the key. Otherwise he was liable to wring Hal's neck.
*
Down in the hold, Hal had been perched on a crate while Errol subjected him to a non-stop verbal onslaught, ranging from the perils of home handymen to the terrible pay and conditions experienced by manual workers across the galaxy. For the past five minutes the mechanic's head had been buried inside the stasis controller, but although his words were muffled he never missed a beat.
Then Errol stopped speaking. At first Hal thought he'd just died or something, but it turned out the mechanic had spotted Clunk's repairs. "This is amazing," said Errol, withdrawing his head. "He's fixed the worst of the damage and improved the original design."
"That's Clunk for you," said Hal. "Always improving things."
"Going to put mugs like me out of work." Errol opened the aluminium case. "Ah, now there's a problem."
"What?" demanded Hal.
Errol held up a small blue washer. "You're up shit creek, mate."
"Why? Not quite round enough for you?"
"It's got a hole in it."
"That's why it's called a washer," said Hal patiently. "Even I know that."
"True, but the part you need's more your actual disc."
"What?"
"This is the wrong part."
"That's the part?" said Hal, staring at it in shock. And at that point he'd called Clunk down from the flight deck.
Clunk entered the hold with the expression of a clinically depressed undertaker, but Hal barely noticed as he grabbed the little blue washer and shook it in the robot's face. "Two trips in Kent's lousy rust bucket, the space elevator, the hold-up, Jasmin Ortiz … All of that for a lousy chunk of rubber?"
"It's a vital part," said Clunk mildly. "The stasis controller won't work without it."
"It's just a bloody washer! I could have made one of these in five minutes!"
Errol shook his head. "Have to use the right parts, mate. You can get them from Plessa, but. Won't take more'n a couple of days."
"I am not going all the way to Plessa for a rubber washer!"
"You don't want a washer. You need a disk."
"Wait right here," said Hal, storming out of the hold.
*
Hal approached the console, pocket knife in hand. He examined the status displays, lights and switches before leaning across the surface to poke at a couple of large buttons near the back.
"What are you doing?" asked the Navcom.
"Oh, so you're back are you? Lost any good ships lately?"
"What do you —"
"It can wait." Hal gestured at the console. "Do any of these have rubber underneath? You know, for springs?"
"Don't even think about it."
"This is an emergency. Vital."
"Do you know where the self-destruct is?"
"Do we have one?"
"Oh yes. It could be the first button you lay your hands on." The Navcom paused. "It'll certainly be the last."
&
nbsp; Hal turned away from the console and glanced around the flight deck. Ceiling panels, deck plates, wall mouldings - everything was metal or plastic. His gaze passed over the airlock, then darted back. The mechanic's raincoat was hanging from a hook, dripping gently on the deck. Underneath, side by side, were the gumboots. Blue rubber gumboots. Hal advanced on them, brandishing the knife like a hunter sneaking up on his prey, and after several busy minutes he pocketed the knife and strode towards the lift.
*
Clunk looked up as Hal stepped off the ladder. "How did you go?"
With a triumphant grin, Hal opened his hand. Sitting on his palm was a small rubber disk - bright blue and slightly curled.
The mechanic took it and held it up to the light, turning it over between finger and thumb. "I don't know where you got it," he said finally, "but it'll do the job."
"That's wonderful." Clunk glanced at Hal. "I didn't know we had spares aboard. Where did you get it?"
"I'll explain later."
The mechanic's eyes narrowed. "Is this part genuine?"
"Can't you tell?"
The mechanic hesitated.
Hal pressed his advantage. "I mean, a true professional would know at a glance."
Errol blew out his cheeks. "I'd better get on with it, eh?" He motioned them aside. "Give me some room, guys. I can't work like this."
Hal and Clunk stepped back.
"Further," said the mechanic.
Hal and Clunk stepped back again. Errol opened his mouth, closing it again as he saw the warning glint in Hal's eye. Under two pairs of watchful eyes, he proceeded to fit the part. Five minutes later he set aside his spanners and closed the panel.
"All done?" said Hal.
"All done," said the mechanic. "Don't overstress it, let it settle for a few days."
"It's just a piece of rubber," said Hal impatiently. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Errol opened his hand, revealing a small pile of blue crumbs. "You pilots, you're all the same. Ride the machinery until it falls apart, then yell for help." He waved his hand under Hal's nose. "I mean, look at it!"
Hal resisted the temptation to blow the fragments straight into his face. "Listen, sunshine —"
Clunk stepped between them. "Can you make out the bill please? Mr Spacejock's in a hurry."
"The paperwork's in me coat."
"Mr Spacejock will take you up," said Clunk. " I'm going to check the cargo over. Just … one last time."
Hal shot him a puzzled glance, then took the lift to the flight deck, where the mechanic padded into the airlock and reached for his overcoat. As he did so, he glanced down at his gumboots. He stared at them for several seconds, then shook his head and fished around in the jacket for a dog-eared receipt book. "Sign here," he said, offering a pen.
Hal reached out with his right hand, then changed his mind and took it with his left. He ground out his name and the mechanic tore off the top copy and put the pad away. He pushed his feet into the gumboots, once again looking at them as if something was not quite right.
"I'll help you with that," said Hal, grabbing the coat. He held it out, then bustled Errol out of the airlock into the rain, which had eased to a light shower. He closed the outer door then returned to the flight deck and leaned against the console. "How's Clunk getting on in the hold?"
"He's on his way up."
At that moment the lift pinged and the robot entered the flight deck. "It's lucky I checked the cargo, Mr Spacejock. Two of the crates were offline, but I sealed them up and plugged them back in."
"Are the contents okay?"
"I didn't look. Opening the door would have let all the cold out. As it is, the contents may already have spoiled."
"That's for the customer to worry about," said Hal with a shrug.
Clunk crossed his arms.
"What?"
"So tell me. Where did you get that rubber disk?" demanded the robot.
Hal grinned. "You already know, you fraud."
"I assume it's no coincidence the material was exactly the same shade of blue as that man's boots?"
Hal shook his head.
"But surely he noticed the hole?"
Hal pulled up his right sleeve, exposing two wide rings of blue rubber dangling from his wrist. "I cut the tops off his boots." He turned one of the rings until a neat circle appeared. "I only used a bit. Plenty left for next time."
"Next time?" Clunk sighed. "Mr Spacejock, I'm afraid there won't be a next time."
"I should hope not."
"No, I mean … I'm leaving."
If the console had sprouted technicolour hymn-singing mushrooms, Hal wouldn't have looked more surprised. "You're …?"
Clunk raised his hand. "I won't hear any arguments. In the circumstances it's the best thing to do, and so my mind is made up."
"It was only a pair of gumboots. I didn't hurt anyone."
"That's not the issue."
"The wrong part? I know I looked angry, but —"
Clunk shook his head. "It wasn't anything you've done. I just decided to accept Mr Spearman's offer."
"Are you crazy? He's a con man! He won't pay you anything, and when you make a fuss he'll have you out the nearest airlock."
"I appreciate your warning, but worse things have happened to me in the past."
"With me, you mean?" Hal looked at his feet. "I know things have been rough …"
"They have indeed, but I'm sure they're about to get better." Clunk swallowed. "I've enjoyed our time together, Mr Spacejock. I would ask you not to make this difficult for me."
Hal shook his head.
"Thank you. And who knows, one day you might travel aboard the Luna Rose. I'll be below decks of course, but you can always leave me a note." Clunk put his hand out. "No hard feelings?"
They shook, and then the robot was gone, striding down the ramp with rain drops running down his shiny bronze skin. The outer door closed automatically, and Hal was alone in the damp airlock.
Still in shock, he returned to the flight deck and leaned against the console. What had he done to deserve this? Sure, he gave Clunk a rocket now and then, and perhaps he was a little harder on the equipment than he should be. But deep down he had nothing but respect for the robot. "Damn that bloody Kent Spearman," muttered Hal, clenching his fists. He stood in silence for several seconds, then turned to face the screen. "Navcom, I want to make an interplanetary call. Can you set it up for me?"
"Are you sure? Our last comms bill was rather excessive."
"That's all those stickers you keep downloading."
"You mean patches, and they're essential to my well-being."
"So is this call. Get on with it."
"Who do you wish to contact?"
Hal gave the Navcom the details, then sat in his chair as the connection was made. It was a long shot, but right now he'd take odds of a million to one.
Chapter 32
Walking down the Volante's passenger ramp, Clunk was overwhelmed by the abrupt change in his circumstances. It seemed like weeks since he'd threatened to leave the ship, and now here he was, fulfilling his promise. If he'd only kept his mouth shut Mr Spacejock wouldn't have sold the Volante, and right now they'd be plotting a course for their next delivery, or scanning Galnet for fresh jobs. Instead he was alone and unemployed, and he could only hope Mr Spearman had meant it when he'd offered him a position aboard the Luna Rose.
At the bottom of the ramp Clunk turned for a last look at the ship, running his gaze from one end to the other as he committed every detail of the graceful vessel to the safest memory store he had, to remain there until the end of his life. If Kent allowed him a few minutes break now and then, he'd be able to recall the images and remember his service aboard the Volante. And his time with Hal.
After he'd stored the images, Clunk turned away from the ship. She was in his past now, and it was time to face his future.
He stepped onto the landing field and aimed for the distant terminal, head bowed as he walked slowly past
refuelling rigs and service vehicles. Memories came to him unbidden as the rain fell, and as he crossed the field Clunk recalled some of the scrapes he'd survived with Hal. From crooked power-crazed businessmen to alien teleporter systems to ruthless killer robots, they'd seen it all. There was no doubt Hal would face similar trials in the future, whatever line of work he chose, and Clunk hoped he'd left the human with some of his own common sense. As for himself, all he had to show for their time together was a collection of hair-raising memories, a few dents and his Order of Bravery medal from the Cathuan President.
His medal! He'd left it behind! Clunk stopped dead and looked back at the Volante, his eyes on the airlock and one hand to his throat. His one and only possession was still lying on the console, but he couldn't possibly face Mr Spacejock again. One goodbye had been bad enough.
*
Hal was in the Volante's flight deck, staring at the galactic star map on the main viewscreen. The huge double spiral filled his vision, but it might have been a table of election results for all the attention he was paying it. How could Clunk leave after all they'd been through together? Had he picked up some kind of grumpy virus from Jasmin?
Thinking back, Hal tried to pinpoint the moment Clunk had decided to leave, but given the lousy reception they'd had on all three planets in the Oxed system it could have been any one of the catastrophes they'd faced since first landing on Cathua.
"Mr Spacejock," said the Navcom, breaking into his train of thought. "Ground Control are requesting payment of landing fees and port charges."
"All right, settle up." Hal gestured at a you-are-here marker on the map, and the screen changed to display the Oxed system. "Make an entry for standing orders," he said, as the planets of Jordia, Cathua and Plessa appeared on screen. "Add that lot to my no-visit list."
"If you insist, although I really don't see the point."
"I don't care. I'm never coming back." Hal zoomed the chart out until the system vanished amongst the thickly clustered stars. "Now set course for Lapsinet. That cargo of food isn't getting any fresher."
"You want to set a course?"
"No, I want to fly around in circles until we hit something. What do you think?"
"Well, I —"
"Just set the damn course." Hal looked round as the outer door opened, and his heart skipped a beat as Clunk walked in, dripping wet. "Well, look who's back."
