by Rob Guy
“Good evening, monsieur,” he said all the same, in a pretentious French accent, as Harry deftly alighted from the carousel. He stumbled to a halt just inches from the maître d’. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No. But...’
“I see. Well then do you at least have a tie?”
“Yes. But...”
“Then I must request you put it on, monsieur. I cannot admit you without it.”
Harry muttered something, and held up the tie. The maître d’ merely raised an eyebrow and waited. Harry muttered something else, or maybe it was the same curse, and proceeded to place the wretched thing round his neck.
“There,” he announced. “Now I...”
“So it is a table for one, monsieur?” the maître d’ asked, persisting with his ridiculous accent. “Or are you expecting company, oui?” The man’s brow jumped, he cracked a smile, and stroked his pencil moustache. He finished this absurd routine with a knowing wink.
“I’m not here to eat,” Harry snapped. “I’m looking for a man.”
“Well, each to his own, monsieur. The Zero G Spot is back that way.” The maître d’ pointed over Harry’s shoulder.
“What? Oh, no, no, no. I’m pursing a felon. He came through here just a moment ago. You must have seen him.”
“Ah, indeed I did. He went that way.” The maître d’ pointed to the other side of the restaurant. “Happy hunting.”
“Thanks.” Harry set off, but was stopped by a hand to the chest.
“That will be fifty credits, monsieur.”
“Eh? Excuse me?”
“Our cover charge, monsieur.”
“But I’m not eating. I’m just passing through.”
“Nevertheless, our policy is quite clear. Fifty credits, or if you prefer you can take up the matter with our service team.”
“Service team? Who the hell are they?”
The maître d’ smiled and pointed once more, this time back towards Venera 3. “If you like I can call them over and you can discuss it with them.”
Harry took a deep breath, and dug deep once more. “No need,” he said, handing over the money. “Boy, some racket you boys got going on down here.”
“I like to thing we are at the center of things round here, monsieur.” The maître d’ bowed his head, and turned his hand over in a welcoming gesture. “Welcome to Maison De Manger, monsieur.”
Harry did his best not to laugh, and he almost succeeded. Time to leave, but there was always time for a bit of fun.
Okay, I’ve had enough of this pretentious prick.
*“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” he said. “Je souhaite à tous vos clients la diarrhée et un mauvais cas de syphilis pour votre bien-être. Au revoir.”
(*“Thank you very much, sir. I wish all your patrons diarrhoea and a bad case of syphilis for your good self. Goodbye.”)
The maître d’s expression glazed over. “Err….”
Harry winked and stepped away.
The pretentious prick had pointed towards Venera 5. To get to it, Harry had to weave his way through the many tables separating him from another trawl through the tubes.
“This is nuts,” he grumbled to himself once more, as he dodged an assistant waiter with an armful of dirty plates. He chucked them into an auto-dishwasher as it trundled by. Another waiter whizzed past, balancing a stack of main courses hidden beneath plastic covers. They looked like a giant Scooby snack.
As Harry neared the exit, he spotted another waiter who was distributing digestifs around a table before him. Harry eyed a glass that appeared to be filled with brandy in front of a rather corpulent individual. In a split second the decision was made. Harry had to have that drink, at all costs. He was out over a hundred credits, and all he had to show for it was some disrespect and a crummy tie. To hell with that!
The man ignored the waiter completely, as he appeared more concerned with chatting to the young nymph to his left. She was a sight to behold, and no mistake; tousles of auburn hair over each shoulder, breasts the size of mangoes, long, elegant, tanned legs, crossed, naturally, and ending in immaculately manicured feet inside open toe black stilettos. Those toes were painted bright scarlet to match her dress; tight, with just enough of it to ignite the imagination. She batted dull lids at the man’s insipid monologue. As Harry drew near, their eyes met. He smiled at her; she was stunning to look at, after all, and Harry couldn’t help himself. In one deft movement, he swept up the glass, winked at the dusky beauty, and was out of her life in that one brief instant. Behind him, the young woman had a hand to her mouth, hiding her smile.
Harry rolled the cognac in the glass, took a sniff, and downed it in one. “Excellent,” he declared. As it warmed his throat, and slipped down to ease his still shaky stomach, he felt damned proud of himself, and a lot calmer about things, too. He looked about him, at all these people happily stuffing their faces, totally unaware of his predicament. His calmness lasted all of ten seconds. Like a mallet to the temple came the realization of where he was and what he was doing.
“This is nuts,” he said again, his phrase for the day, it seemed.
Suddenly resolute, he slammed the empty glass down on the nearest table, and swung open one of the glass panes, to step out onto the moving belt. The exit approached. Harry jumped forward, timing his leap to perfection. Without heed he stepped through, once more the dashing, if not a little desperate, bailsman/bounty hunter.
There was no sign of Rogers in the tube, but after all the delays Harry expected nothing less. His aching limbs did their best to push him back towards the pseudo-gravity of the outer wheel, but they had more knots in them than a belt of ancient oaks. Through bulkhead after bulkhead he tugged along until at last he felt himself getting heavier once more. His arms could now take a rest and he started to lope along, gradually increasing speed as his feet found solid ground. He passed no people, in either direction. Venera 5 was strictly an access tube, purpose built to cater for the restaurant and the few shops at the hub.
Eventually, Harry emerged back into the main thoroughfare. This particular section appeared to be a commercial and business area. The place was deserted, which included Rogers. Evidently all had left for the day. Harry looked around. The area was broken up by many office buildings, some projecting overhead while others were single storey affairs, seemingly scattered indiscriminately. The place looked like some huge disassembled Rubik’s cube. The whole effect was one of chunky clumsiness. Doubtless it was the demon brainchild of some feckless architect. But in the midst of the architectural anarchy was a small park, with several benches and tables fashioned in pseudo wood placed amongst the plastic trees and grass. A huge vid-screen displayed woodland animals frolicking in a meadow, with a stream running through the middle of it.
On the periphery of the park, a dust-bot was slowly doing the rounds, picking up used food wrappers and the like with deft precision, whilst at the same time vacuuming the grass. It employed a trunk-like hose with a wide flat nozzle for the latter, while the former was deposited into a funnel atop its cuboid body using two wiry tentacles equipped with grasping claws. Harry watched it for a moment, a queer smile on his face.
He started to take a proper look about him. The rear of the park, upon which projected the woodland scene, was also a pressure bulkhead. Harry could make out the door seal from where he stood, and the red light above the access panel. Unless Rogers was a super tech wizard, he couldn’t have gone that way. He’d have to know the code in order not to trigger the alarm. If he’d gone anywhere, Rogers had to have gone west, back towards Main Street. He probably was a super tech wizard, but something told Harry not today, not on this occasion.
From where he stood, pondering, Harry could make out the curve of the Station, and as a consequence only about a hundred meters of the wheel was visible. He should be racing back along the wheel, back towards Main Street. What was holding him back? Surely that was the only direction Rogers could have taken, wasn’t it? Unless that’s what he wanted him
to think. Call it a sixth sense, but something was telling Harry to hold fast, to look around some more.
Interspersed between the office blocks were the ubiquitous narrow alleyways. Down these, Harry continued to search. The place was ill lit, but his keen eyes were able to peer into each one without difficulty. Nothing. No surprises there. He tried some of the nearer office doors, but all were locked. He turned his head; left, right, up, down. Somehow, he knew Rogers was not far away, but this thought didn’t prevent his stomach asking his heart for directions, as his head was not currently taking any calls.
Behind him, the dust-bot rumbled over to the left hand wall of the park. Harry could see it out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t paying it any attention. That was, until it attempted to lift its body in order to deposit the days rubbish into the garbage chute. It made it about half way before it’s hydraulics groaned and gave up. As it sank back down, the body made a noise exactly like the rasping breath of an asthmatic. The pistons retracted, it tried again, but with the same result. Something went gurrmph inside it. One more try. Nothing doing. Harry stopped his searching and looked at it. An amber light was now flashing on its head, a steady pulse for help. The thing wasn’t moving. The repair techs would by now have been notified of a malfunction and would be heading this way soon.
Now, Harry was not the brightest star in the sky, but he was no brown dwarf, either. The bot must do this everyday, presumably without a hiccup. Now today, of all days, when he’s chasing someone, it can’t get it up?
Harry approached, slowly, on tip-toes, in the same manner he had employed so many times in the past to vacate a lady’s bedroom. All the symptoms that precluded an arrest were now helping to pump adrenalin into his bloodstream. There was the twinge in the belly, the sudden rush of blood, the quickening of the pulse, you get the idea. But there was something else. He was grinning. He was having fun with this. He felt exultant. He’d out-smarted a summa-cum, whatever, graduate. Rogers was hiding in the dust-bot!
Ha! Got ya, fella! Smart move, but not smart enough to out-smart Harry Watt!
He was within three metres when the side of the bot fell open, and sure enough out popped a man; dusty, grimy, and with paper and plastic wrappers stuck to him, but a man nevertheless. He was wearing a burger carton for a hat. As he tumbled to fall at Harry’s feet, Harry set himself, legs apart, fists at the ready.
“Okay, Rogers, the game’s up. Nice try, bud, but you’re dealing with Harry Wa.... Who the hell are you?!”
The man had turned his dusty and grimy face upwards. It wasn’t Timothy Rogers. He made to speak, but then put a hand to his chest and coughed. The cough turned into a wheezing fit. Harry looked on, incredulous. After a few seconds of this, with eyes watering, the man coughed one last time, and spat out a piece of cellophane. “Blaaah!” He flicked his tongue back and forth before wiping it with the back of his hand. Only then did he look up at Harry. “Don’t hurt me, please. I’ll come quietly. I’ll... Who the hell are you?!”
“I... I asked first!” Harry yelped back, trying to regain some sense of authority. “What the hell are you doing hiding in a garbage robot?”
The man took a moment to answer. “A guy asked me to do it. Paid me a hundred creds, too, straight up. You see, I’ve been hanging around here, picking up scraps since those bastards laid me off.” He pointed at one of the more larger office buildings. “I thought you were Security. They usually give me a bit of a kicking and send me on my way. Erm, you’re not Security, are you?” The man started to bring his arms up.
“No, I’m not. Who’s this guy?”
Like a seasoned CI, the man’s eyes shone just a little brighter at the thought of more easy money. “Another hundred and I’ll tell you.”
“What?”
“You want this guy. I can tell you where he is.”
Despite the urgency of the matter at hand, Harry was having none of it. He’d bribed enough people and sucked up enough bullshit for one day, than you very much. “Another hundred, huh? How about I haul your dusty ass in, and book you for vagrancy, huh? How about that?”
“You don’t fool me. You’re not police, or security. The guy told me you’d try and pull something.”
“What guy?” Harry said, baring his teeth. He moved to step over the man, who threw his arms over his head.
“Not telling!”
“You.... You..... Goddamn it! Here.” For a third time, Harry dug deep. Two, fifty credit notes fluttered down.
The man’s hand whipped them up before they hit the ground. “Him.” He pointed behind Harry.
“Huh?” Harry spun round to see Rogers legging it for all he was worth. “How.... Where..... Hey! Wait! I just wanna talk. I....” But Rogers just kept on running.
“Boy, he’s quick,” said the dust-bot man with admiration. “Better get after him if I were you.”
“Oh, for the love of....” Harry sighed and set off.
As he ran, Harry called for Rogers to stop, almost pleading with him to do so. But his younger quarry was almost at the next bulkhead. Over the Flexi-lock was a sign, advising you that the lock was one-way until 7am Station time the next morning. The night revellers of Main Street were through there. If Rogers made it through, it may be impossible to find him.
Rogers was within ten metres of the bulkhead when Harry had his epiphany. Call it what you will, but epiphany will do just fine. He fumbled in his pocket and took out the packet of cigars. He made sure he had one of the white ones this time before lighting it. He tossed it into the air as far as he could in front of him and stopped. A second later it went off, a careering boom! echoing round the tight, vacant piazza. Instantly, Rogers stopped, and instinctively help up his hands. Harry sighed with relief, gulping and drawing in quick breaths so he wouldn’t keel over.
“Don’t shoot me!” Rogers shouted.
“Just, just don’t move for a minute, okay?” was all Harry could summon up to say. He was gasping like a winded seal. “I need you to listen to me. Turn around.” He began walking towards him, and placed a pointed finger inside his pocket to continue the illusion he was carrying a firearm. Rogers had by now turned fully round to face him.
“That’s good,” said Harry. “Now, I’m not going to hurt you. In fact I’m here to help you, maybe even save your life.”
“Just don’t shoot me! I made a mistake, I know. I promise I won’t say anything. It’s Petersen you want, not me.”
“Petersen I will get to in good time. For now I’m interested in you and Hammerstein.”
“Hammerstein? Who the hell is Hammerstein?”
“Look, I…..”
There was another loud report, right above Harry’s head, it seemed. He crouched down, and covered his ears as a second deafening concussion clamored through the air followed quickly by a third.
“What the hell!”
Harry looked up just in time to see Rogers drop to his knees, the look of death on his face. He stared blankly at him before looking down at his chest. Blood was seeping through his white vest in two distinct spots. A bizarre grin settled over his face, which turned into an expression of wonder, and finally terror. A second later he fell quite dead onto the concourse.
Harry remained in his crouched position, taking a moment to figure out what had just happened.
“I wouldn’t stay there if I were you, Harry,” came a voice that sounded like a scalded cat. “Not safe round here.”
Harry dropped his arms and knelt up, just like a sprinter waiting for the gun. Maybe that wasn’t such a comforting analogy. He looked around and saw another exit, a back door leading somewhere.
“I see it too, Harry. Think you can outrun a bullet?”
Screw you!
He set himself, and bolted for all he was worth. Behind him, above him, in front of him, everywhere in fact, the voice echoed, taunting him. He knew all too well who it belonged to.
“Run, Harry, run, Harry, run run run.”
In what seemed an age he made it to the doo
r with no more shots fired, and to his eternal relief it flew open and clanged against the wall, trapping two of his fingers in the handle. He howled like a wounded banshee, and felt them dislocate as he wrenched them free and fled inside. He had made it, escaped. But poor Rogers was lying back there, never to get back up. As he ran through the building, Harry played it over in his mind what had happened.
First things first. That was Hackman’s voice, no question. Second, he had had the perfect opportunity to kill him too, but chose not to. Why? Third, third. What was third? The shots! Of course. Not compressed air pellets, but discharge cartridges. There was no way Harry was going back, but if he did, he knew he would find two .45 slugs somewhere in Rogers’ chest, and the third would be conveniently lodged in the wall somewhere for easy forensics pick up. The autopsy could take a while, but the bullet in the wall could be retrieved in a matter of hours, hell, minutes!
The only conclusion to be drawn for the last few seconds was that Harry was now a wanted man. He was being framed. What the hell was going on? Two hours ago he was in a state of nirvana, between Angel and Dolores. Now he was in the shit deep. He needed Larry now more than anytime before. He shouted his name as he ran through the shop front, pushing aside shopping carts and startled shoppers. He emerged into the central plaza, in the very center of Main Street. If it were possible, the crowd had doubled during his absence.
“There he is!” someone shouted.
Harry spun in the direction of the voice. They can’t have discovered the body and traced the bullets to his gun that quickly. Then he saw the sign, Jonny’s. In his blind panic he must have run the entire length of the block and was back where he started. He saw Clyde and two others marching towards him, the former looking very angry. Somehow, Harry knew Clyde was in no mood to begin another philosophical discussion. He ducked to the left and made off at a sprint in the opposite direction. Thank God he hadn’t given his name. As he ran, he noticed Angel on the periphery of the crowd, looking lost. She was biting her lip; one foot bent inwards, one hand on her tiny waist, the other just hanging, and her gorgeous thick red hair tousled over her shoulders. God, she looked great.
