“I think I can undertake to provide that,” said Jester. “Worse comes to worst, if our partners don’t have the sporting blood, you and I can put a few splazookies on the round. But we can worry about that when it’s time to pony up. For now, let’s get you some local knowledge. Hit a couple more balls out, and get a look at what kind of lies you’ve got. Then you can find out how the green’s playing … and then you won’t be able to excuse getting beat by saying you didn’t know the course!”
“Hah!” said Blitzkrieg gleefully. “We’ll see who it is who needs excuses, Captain. I’ll have you know I regularly shoot in the low eighties, you young pup. Get us a couple of partners who can put the ball down the fairway, and I’ll show you a few things about the game.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Jester, twirling a club. “I’ll get us a couple of partners, and tomorrow we’ll see how this little course stands up to some real golf. I just hope you won’t find it disappointing after some of the places you must have played …”
“Well, every course is a different challenge,” said Blitzkrieg. In point of fact, even the easiest courses were likely to be a challenge well beyond his golfing skills. He’d gerrymandered his average score into the eighties by a policy of taking as many tee shots as he needed to get a decent lie for his approach, bullying his opponents into conceding improbably long putts, and never counting any strokes after either his partner or their opponents sank a putt to win a given hole. When you had enough stars on the shoulders of your uniform, your opponents weren’t going to challenge you on the fine points of golf etiquette. And from the way Jester was talking, there was going to be no trouble at all playing his regular game here.
He teed up for his second drive and squinted down the fairway. This time he’d aim a little to the left and try to fade the ball right up to the opening of the green …
He gave the ball a mighty whack, and like a missile it took off down the fairway. And even before it reached the peak of its rise, it began its inevitable curve to the right. Blitzkrieg sighed and pulled another ball out of his pocket. He’d get a decent lie to play if it took him all morning …
* * *
“Rot’n’art,” said Do-Wop, looking up at the departures readout in the Tejas spaceport lounge. “At least this time it’s someplace I’ve heard of before.”
“Wow,” said Sushi. “I mean, I’m surprised you’ve heard of someplace outside your own home world.”
“You kiddin’? I’ve heard of lots of places—been to a few of ’em, too. Lorelei, Zenobia, here …”
“OK, I get the point,” said Sushi. “I guess we need to get ourselves booked to Rot’n’art …”
“I guess so,” said Do-Wop. “Wonder why ol’ Beeks is going there? It sure ain’t the place I’d pick for a vacation.”
“Yeah, you’d go straight back to Lorelei and blow everything in the slots,” said Sushi. “But you’re right—Rot’n’art isn’t exactly the scenic high point of the galaxy. Some interesting old buildings there, if I remember my history.”
“If they haven’t all fell down,” said Do-Wop. “Our schoolbooks had pictures of Old Earth, and you wouldn’t believe it. Some of the places—I’m talking ’bout joints where kings and vice presidents and other hot shits lived—were all busted up. You’d think they’d keep ’em in better shape.”
“Yeah, we had those same pictures in our books,” said Sushi. “They had a few too many wars and other kinds of trouble. But I’ve never heard of any wars on Rot’n’art, so maybe it’s in better shape than Old Earth. I guess we’re going to find out.”
“Hope they got good beer there, anyhow,” said Do-Wop. “Hey, that reminds me—we can’t get on the ship for another hour and a half. Let’s go get somethin’ to drink first.”
“Good a plan as any,” said Sushi tiredly. The two legionnaires picked up their duffel bags and headed down the spaceport corridor toward the shops next to the waiting area.
They’d gone just a few steps when Sushi grabbed Do-Wop by the arm and pulled him through a side door into a candy shop. “Quick,” he whispered. “Do you see who I see?”
“Where?” said Do-Wop, sticking his head out the door and looking in both directions. “I don’t see no …”
“Shhh!” said Sushi urgently. “Down by the vending machines—no, the other way, stupid!”
“Who you callin’ stupid, stupid?” said Do-Wop. He looked in the direction his partner had indicated. “Geez—it’s Beeker! Yo, Bee … Mpfhhr!” he sputtered as Sushi put a hand over his mouth.
“Quiet! If he sees us, he’ll know he’s being followed, and then who knows what he’ll do?” whispered Sushi. “We might lose him for good!”
“Escutse me, gentlebeinks, ah you lookink f’som cann’y?” came a squeaky voice from behind the counter. The two legionnaires turned as one to see a small, grey-furred creature peering at them with enormous sad eyes.
“Uh, yeah, that’s what we’re lookin’ for, candy,” said Do-Wop. “Y’got any Green Woofers?”
“Ahh, Greem Wooferts, Aldebaran Cann’y Com’any, ver’ gootd, yes,” said the little creature. It went over to one of the display cases and reached in the back. “You wan’ larch or chumbo sidze bocts?”
While the shopcreature waited on Do-Wop, Sushi stepped over to the doorway and cautiously peered down the corridor again. “I think he’s gone,” he said.
“Hang on, Soosh, I’m gettin’ some Green Woofers,” said Do-Wop. He turned back to the shopcreature and said, “Better make it the jumbo box. I dunno if they’ll have ’em on the ship.”
“Chumbo, yes, ver’ gootd,” said the creature, digging out the candy from the display case. “Anatink elts?”
Sushi stuck his head out the doorway again, then abruptly pulled it back and scurried over to Do-Wop. “Damn, I spoke too soon! Here comes Nightingale!”
“Well, she probably isn’t coming in here,” said Do-Wop, not showing much concern. “Maybe she’s not the candy type, y’know? These skinny broads can be weird …”
“Even if she doesn’t come inside, she might spot us, and then we’re totally zickled,” said Sushi, suddenly aware that his Legion-issue black jumpsuit stood out like a sore thumb in this spaceport. He turned to the little grey creature. “Is there any place we can hide for a few minutes? Someone’s coming that we want to surprise …”
“Oh, you gon’ buy cann’y f’it?” The shopcreature did something with its face that looked like a wink, then pointed to the counter along the back of the store. “You hite ovah derh!”
The two legionnaires scooted behind the counter and crouched down, hoping they’d been quick enough to avoid Nightingale’s attention. They suddenly became aware of the sound of footsteps entering the shop—a small human’s, to judge from the tempo and apparent weight. Sushi held his breath, hoping that, just this once, Do-Wop would be able to keep his mouth shut.
“Hey’o, missy, you need some cann’y?” said the shopcreature.
“Yes, have you any white chocolate?” The customer’s voice was muffled, although it was plainly a human female speaking. Sushi scrunched down lower.
“Ridte disweh,” said the little grey sophont, heading directly for the counter where the legionnaires hid. The woman’s footsteps followed the shopcreature.
“I want only the finest quality,” said the woman. “Nothing commercially processed.” Sushi still wasn’t sure whether this was Nightingale or not; he had only heard the Omega Mob’s medic speak a few times really close. He wished now that he’d made it a point to listen to her …
“Dadt wudbe da Viceroy spetyal ectspo’t,” said the shopcreature, coming behind the counter where Sushi and Do-Wop cowered. It pulled open a drawer. Sushi held his breath as he heard the shopcreature say, “Disiz ahr verabes’.”
The woman gasped. “Who is that behind the counter?” she cried. That was the last straw for Sushi and Do-Wop; they bolted from the store, nearly knocking down the shopcreature and his new customer, a petite blonde in an electric
blue chiton.
The last thing either of them heard was the shopcreature calling, “Zir! Zir! Yuhaf vergo’in da Wooferts!”
Journal #804:
Rot’n’art is the indisputable “galactic center”—just ask its natives (if you can find any). This despite the planet’s location well out on the fringe of the Alliance, which in itself is located a considerable distance from the rather dangerous central regions of our galaxy. As to what Rot’n’art is the center of, the best indication might be found in its nearly universal—and richly deserved—reputation for decadence, corruption, and utter paralysis of every agency.
Unique among the planets of the Alliance, Rot’n’art has been entirely enclosed and roofed over. Seen from space, the planet is an irregular spheroid of metal and synthetics, which extend as much as a mile above the actual surface. It is not at all clear why someone—several generations of someones, to be precise—thought this particular form of development to be worth the effort. I suspect it was the Interplanetary Shippers Guild, who are greatly enriched by Rot’n’art’s need to import the vast majority of its foodstuffs, which despite its diminished population the planet can no longer grow for itself.
Rot’n’art’s claim on the title of “galactic center” unquestionably holds true if the subject is service robots. Not that robots are at all rare on other worlds—far from it. But on many worlds, they are found only in positions unsuited to human workers: undersea mining, for example, or nuclear reactor maintenance. Because of the positions they are in, the visitor (whose interest in undersea mines or the innards of nuclear reactors is usually nil) rarely sees them.
Not so on Rot’n’art. There, even more than on Cut ’N’ Shoot, robots fill the majority of public contact positions. Stop in a restaurant for lunch? A robot takes one’s order, brings the food, and collects the payment. For all I know, another is back in the kitchen preparing one’s sandwich. Travel to some tourist destination? One robot vends the tickets, another collects them, a third operates the vehicle, and still another directs one to the best places to view the attractions. Robots so dominate the landscape that a first-time visitor is likely to wonder where the people of Rot’n’art have fled.
* * *
Phule stepped off the liner to discover an empty, ill-lit corridor, which might have been swept sometime in the last month, but not very carefully. There was a row of vending machines on the wall facing him. About half of them appeared to have been vandalized. The door hissed shut behind him, and he was alone. He stopped and looked around, confused; this didn’t look anything at all like the entrance to one of the major hubs of the galaxy …
“Welcome to Rot’n’art, stranger,” said a harsh voice behind him.
Phule whirled quickly, ready for action. But the figure facing him was as unthreatening as he could imagine: a stringy-haired man in a ragged overcoat leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. Hardly the kind of reception he’d expected, but he might as well make the best of it. “Hello. Can you tell me the way to the spaceport office?” asked Phule.
“Spaceport office?” echoed the stranger. “You don’t want to go there.”
“Of course I do,” said Phule. “Why would I ask if I didn’t?”
With a visible effort, the man stood more upright and took a step forward. “Sheer ignorance, most likely,” he said, peering quizzically at Phule. “That’s the most common reason, with off-worlders. On the other hand, you might be perverse or just plain stupid. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Say, could you spare a few credits so a guy could get himself some drugs?” He stuck out his hand, palm up.
Phule bristled. “What, first you insult me, then you ask me for money for drugs? You really must think I am stupid.”
The man shrugged and stuck his hand into his trousers pocket. “Well, some people are, you know. You can’t really tell until you ask. It never hurts, I figure—I just might end up getting some money. And some people might even consider it a commendable sign of an inquiring mind. But tell me, what makes you think you want to go to the spaceport office?”
Phule paused a moment—why should he tell this stranger his business? The fellow had done nothing to inspire confidence. But then again, he had nothing to lose. The sooner he found out how the land lay, the quicker he could decide how to find Beeker. This fellow’s information might be as good as anyone’s. He looked the man in the eyes and said, “I’m trying to find somebody who recently came to Rot’n’art, and I thought the spaceport office might have a record of his arrival.”
“Not much chance,” said the stranger. “There wasn’t anybody here making a record of your arrival, was there?”
“Not unless it’s you,” said Phule, looking at the man again.
The stranger opened his mouth, then shut it again and looked at Phule with raised eyebrows. Finally he said, “Say, you aren’t so slow after all, are you? Or have you been on Rot’n’art before?”
“First time on-world,” said Phule. “Now, friend, it’s been instructive talking to you, but I really need to be on my way. I do have to find somebody, and I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said the stranger, putting his hand on Phule’s elbow. “Rot’n’art’s the galactic center of missing persons. In fact, I do a bit of work in that line myself—maybe I could lend a hand.”
“Really?” Phule raised his own eyebrow in return. “For a small fee, I suppose? I have to say, you don’t look like the kind of fellow who could be much help.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t judge people on first sight,” said the man. “You spend much time on Rot’n’art, you find out that taking folks at face value can get you in a lot of trouble.”
“True enough,” said Phule. “But you can get in just as much trouble if you don’t pay attention to what’s in front of your face. You already tried to beg from me and told me you’d spend it on drugs. Why should I trust you to help me?”
The man shrugged. “I know Rot’n’art like a native, and you don’t,” he said. “And I’m for hire. As for the trust, that’s part of the standard contract.”
Phule smiled. “Ah, contracts—now, that’s something I understand. What are your terms?”
The man turned and snapped his fingers. A clanking sound came from down the corridor, and after a moment a stenobot appeared with a printout already emerging from its slot. “Got my boilerplate ready,” the man said with a predatory grin.
“I’m sure you do,” said Phule with a grimace of his own. “Of course, I’ll have to see whether I can agree to all your terms. For one thing, I never sign a ‘hold harmless’ clause …”
The negotiations took a little while, but after suitable modifications, Captain Jester and Perry Sodden—that was the name the man signed to the contract—had agreed to terms. “All right, let’s go find your missing man,” said Sodden.
Chapter Nine
Journal #811
Being a tourist is at once a pleasure and a burden. One is liberated from the routines of work and daily business, to be sure. One can arise late, dawdle over breakfast, add a bottle of wine to luncheon, and spend all one’s time being unproductive without anyone thinking ill of it. On the other hand, one feels a certain obligation to “do” the area one is vacationing in. Is there an ancient ruin, a famous battlefield, or a dramatic sunset to be seen? All one’s friends will assuredly inquire about it upon one’s return, and one will learn that the missed attraction was the high point of everyone else’s visit to the world in question. So instead of enjoying a few weeks’ leisure, one dutifully exhausts oneself visiting all the various museums, ruins, battlefields, scenic vistas, theaters, stadiums, beaches, cemeteries, jails, and other noted attractions. In the end, one might as well have stayed home and gone to work every day.
* * *
The two men stepped off the star liner into the long, empty corridors of Rot’n’art and looked around. “Wow, some place,” said Sushi, looking around at the dilapidated terminal.
�
�Yeah, the joint gives me the creeps,” said Do-Wop. “Just like home …”
“I believe you,” said Sushi. He looked at the corridor stretching off in both directions. “I don’t see any sign of activity. Which way do you think we ought to go?”
Do-Wop looked both ways, then shrugged. “You pick. When we got a whole planet to look for him on, I figure it don’t make much difference which way we start out. Just like lookin’ for trouble—you wanna find it, it’s gonna be there.”
“That almost makes sense,” admitted Sushi. “OK, it looks a little brighter that way—” He pointed to the left. “Let’s go there and see what we find.”
They shouldered their duffel bags and made their way along the trash-lined corridor. They dodged around a puddle of dirty water left by a leaking pipe in the ceiling and rounded a corner to find themselves in front of an old-fashioned self-service newsstand. “Hold on,” said Sushi. “I want to check out the news.”
“What?” Do-Wop slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “These machines are so old, they prob’ly don’t even work.”
“You’re the one who said we had a whole planet to look for him on,” said Sushi, stepping up to one of the coin-operated monitors. “And these machines ought to work—I doubt anybody’d leave them here if they weren’t bringing in enough to pay the rent on the space. Besides, do you want to spend a couple of weeks hunting all over the planet when a couple minutes’ research could’ve told us he’s sitting in jail somewhere?”
“Nah—no farkin’ way Cap’n Jester’s in jail,” sneered Do-Wop. “He’d buy his way out before they got the door half-closed behind him.”
“Maybe,” said Sushi. “But he might still be in the news. So I’m still going to see if he’s gotten himself noticed. You can check out the ball scores or the numbers while you’re waiting.”
Do-Wop scoffed. “What, and pay a couple bucks to log on? I’ll just look on your monitor when you’re finished playing.”
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