But it wasn't.
'Aaaah!' he exclaimed. 'What the bloody hell…?'
A great spurt of pain had shot up his leg - the right one. He had knelt on something and that something was painful. He lurched forward and the other knee came down. And there it was again, this time in his left leg: a shot of paralysing pain just like the first.
'Shit!' he howled. And as he howled, he rolled sideways; his knees couldn't take any more. And then he felt them - all along the side of his body: sharp ridges, one about every six inches. They were corrugations. And these corrugations were all around the inside surface of the duct. No wonder the duct looked so smooth and so sleek from the outside; all its real-life reinforcement was here on the inside, ridge after ridge of it. And Renton was going to have to negotiate it, hundreds and hundreds of yards of it. This didn't look good. In fact, to Renton, it looked like the start of a nightmare.
And it was. By the time he'd got ten yards along the duct-way, he felt as though he'd bruised every part of his body, and some bits he'd bruised more than once. And still he'd barely started.
But he forced himself on. More and more ridges. More and more bruises. And more and more pain. Until eventually he was approaching the first grille. He'd now travelled nearly eighty yards. And he was exhausted. He wasn't, however, terrified yet. Although in a matter of seconds he would be.
He saw its web first. Then he saw it: a foot-wide spider, something he'd only ever seen in films before, and something he'd never expected to encounter for real. And definitely not here, not here in the air-conditioning system of a vessel in outer space.
Well, having evacuated his bowels just a few hours before, all he could muster now was a whimpering fart. Then he froze. And only after a little while was he able to evaluate his situation. And when he did, he concluded that he was genuinely terrified with no idea of what to do. This state of affairs lasted for about five minutes during which time Renton wondered whether he could possibly go on, and if he chose to, how he could ever get past that giant creature that barred his way. It wasn't as though spiders upset him - quite the reverse normally. But normally they weren't twice as big as his hand and just inches away from his head.
He thought about throwing something at it: one of the cameras, maybe - or even singing at it. And then it occurred to him: the torch! Of course! The light would give it a fright. It was bound to. And then it would scuttle away. And that would be that. He would be free to proceed with his task. And it worked. As soon as he switched on the torch, the spider leaped up, straight out of its web - and onto Renton's head.
Renton screamed. He was so overcome with alarm that he hardly registered the spider's continued progress down his back, then across his bum, then along his left leg and finally away. And when he stopped screaming, he had himself a little shiver.
Only then did he begin to wonder whether someone might have heard him, whether there might be anybody down in the mall who's heart was palpitating as much as his own - on account of his having heard an ethereal shriek from somewhere near the ceiling. He pulled himself towards the web, parted it unenthusiastically and looked through the grille. There was nobody there. And this was not at all surprising. It was now nearly three in the morning, and all good folk were tucked up in bed. Or if they were very lucky, they might even be tied up in bed. But they certainly wouldn't be wasting their time in some stupid shopping mall - not at this time of night.
It was fixed. The first camera was in place, loaded and ready to go. That left only another five - and a lot more pain.
Two, three and four were uneventful. Two was positioned above another shopping mall, three above the grand esplanade, and four at the top of an escalator. And as with number one, all these sites were on the Lollipop's principal middle deck.
So he now wondered whether that would be enough. And given the difficulty of the terrain, whether it was now time to retire, time to retrace his steps and call it a day. But within yards of where he lay there was an opening in the duct - in its floor. It was the entrance to a vertical section - which presumably led down to the deck just below - where there were more open places… And he did have two cameras left. And he was a detective of the A M & T partnership. And he did know what Madeleine and Boz would have done…
Moving himself into the vertical shaft, and using the structural flanges now as ladder steps and hand-holds, was difficult in the extreme. Falling down the shaft a further forty or fifty feet was not nearly so hard. Renton could have done it with his eyes closed. Indeed he wished he had. That way he could have avoided the sight of all those flanges passing by quite so quickly and then of his imminent rendezvous with the floor down below, the floor of a horizontal duct, two or three decks below the top of the shaft.
He couldn't remember which part of his body he'd landed on. And as he couldn't remember, he thought it must have been his head. He may even have been unconscious for a while. It did hurt. But there again, so did every other square inch of his body. So the headache wasn't conclusive evidence in itself. Nevertheless, it could have been worse. None of his body was actually broken, and the only real injury he'd sustained was what felt like a large scrape on his back. It didn't seem to be bleeding much. But it was bloody painful, and certainly painful enough to be standing out from the rest of his hurts. Oh, and his kit had sustained some injuries as well; his torch and one of his cameras had been crushed in the fall. That left only one camera still in working order. And the way Renton felt now, that was going to be left in the nearest grille he could find. Forget another public place. He'd settle for any old grille - whatever it was over. It didn't matter. He really had had enough.
And so it was done. Camera number five was left pointing through a grille into a dark void. It was entirely unlit, and without his working torch, Renton had no idea what was in there. It could have been a blacked-out bar or an unlit ladies' loo - or anything. He just couldn't tell - although he did observe one thing: the air movement through the grille appeared to be out of the room and into the duct, something he hadn't noticed with any of the other grilles. It was as though there was a positive pressure in the room below - like the ones they have in operating theatres - to keep all those microbes from floating in…
But he was a little past caring. He had a difficult climb and a long crawl ahead of him, and he was now very tired.
He made it up the shaft - just. He found the end of his long thread there, and he followed the thread back. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he slipped out of his inspection panel, refastened it, and slid down his penis. He was happy to see it was still there and that no night security person had found it loitering with intent.
When he'd pulled it back into place and had regained the sanctuary of his hidey hole beneath the balls - where he intended to wait for the shop to reopen - he invested that little time before he dozed off in the contemplation of air-conditioning systems as they featured in all those films. Because now he knew. Now he knew that it really was a con. That nobody in their right mind would really ever get in one. Even if they could. Even if there was a fifteen foot THROBBA willy to help them on their way.
And that nobody included him. Yes, he would never set foot in an airway ever again. Of that he was certain. Or, as he mumbled to himself, just as he was finally dropping off: '…hell no. I'll be duct if I will…'
10.
Arnal had always been a traditionalist. He took great pride in what he liked to think of as the ancient ways, the simple ways, the ways of his forefathers. He just didn't think that modern techniques of interrogation and intimidation were worth the time of day. They were just too clinical and too… well, too unrewarding. And they were by no means guaranteed to get you the results you required. As often as not they just rendered the subject unsuitable for further questioning - on account of the subject being rendered dead. And that was a complete waste of time.
OK, he had to concede that his methods often produced the same results. But at least he enjoyed his interrogations while they la
sted. And he enjoyed them because the whole process was in his control - and because it allowed him to give vent to his deep-seated sadistic nature. He just loved having others in his power, and then abusing that power by abusing his victims. And this abuse took the form of the most basic physical violence one could possibly imagine.
The wooden truncheon was his favourite. It had everything: a fantastic pain potential, a wonderful intimidation factor, an unsurpassable feel of contact with the victim - which allowed the user to fine tune its application - and, of course, it was ancient; it was incredibly ancient. Yes, it always gave Arnal a thrill. And never more so than when it was being used in technologically sophisticated surroundings - like here on board the Lollipop. It amused him to think that within this scientific masterpiece, this huge assemblage of technical wizardry, this pinnacle of sentient endeavour, he could be going about his work with a simple chunk of wood. It was the giving the “V” sign to all that was new, and he loved it.
So here he was again, with Lagooner No.2 and wooden truncheon No.1 - and unrestrained anticipation oozing from every pore.
He'd collected this second idiot in the same way he'd collected the first - a simple story about a crying noise - and now he had him in the same junk room. It had taken only minutes. It was the day after his first kill, but it was early. If he failed again with this one - and he rather thought he would - he wanted to be able to fit in a whole load more of them before tomorrow. These cretins might not miss a couple, but they couldn't fail to notice half a dozen. And he did want to stir things. Ultimately that might be the only way of getting what his clients wanted - and making himself a fortune in the process.
He started.
'OK, you piece of shit. I want some information fast and I want it… I mean, I want it out of you… I mean, I want it out of you fast… the information…'
Oh God, he'd fluffed his lines. In front of this scarecrow. He'd mixed up his words. What a start to the day. What an embarrassment. He would have to make amends quickly - with his truncheon - and without waiting to see whether Lagooner No.2 was going to be a little more responsive than Lagooner No.1. So he raised it, ready to strike…
But then he froze. Something had him. Something had him in its grip. And he knew what it was. It was one of those damn pipil things, one of those modern, ever-so-clever devices he really despised. And this one robbed you of the control of your body - completely. And he had a pretty good idea of who might be using it: some Lagooner No.3.
And then he saw him. He was rising from the freezer display unit where Lagooner No.1 should have been - and where he should have checked before he'd started…
He was an especially scrawny example of his kind. And yes, there it was: a pipil in his hand, a prime example of the sort of technological manipulation that Arnal went out of his way to avoid. Unfortunately for Arnal, on this occasion it could not be avoided. He was trapped. And as, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted another Lagooner emerging from the junk, he knew he was completely trapped - and completely helpless.
And, oh God, that meant there were three of them that had heard him fluff his lines. As if being captured by these wimpish weirdos wasn't bad enough on its own…
11.
Renton's journey to the clinic took him down the whole length of the Lollipop's main deck. The scenery on the way was bizarre.
There were sex shops everywhere. And each, it appeared, with some special feature, some special sexual focus to mark it from its neighbours. Some were predictable - like “The Leather Shop”, “The Bondage Warehouse”, and “The Do-it-to-yourself Store”. And, of course, there were any number of lingerie and risqué-attire shops, ranging from the inevitable “Briefs Encounter”, through the insensitively named “Hang 'em High” emporium of exotic bras, to the more subtly entitled “Lessons in Lace”.
But in addition to the predictable, there were the downright peculiar. In any event, that's the way they appeared to Renton. There was one shop, for example, which stocked only shoes, but not pairs of shoes, just single shoes - mostly women's. And what in heaven's name did people find to do in their sex lives with plastic buckets and spades and small green watering cans? There was a fair sized shop simply full of the stuff - and it was packed. It was hardly credible.
Then there were the street entertainers, every one of them without exception, a slave to the licentious and the lewd. Whether they were juggling things or jiggling things, they were all at it, all displaying another aspect of what passed for daily life on the Sex Ship Lollipop: the over-indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh, the unrestrained gratification of the senses, the veritable feasting on sexual diversions - and diversions which went on for miles. But who could blame them? After all, wasn't that what the punters wanted? Wasn't that what they expected? Wasn't that precisely what they were here for?
Well yes, but not Renton. He was here for a different purpose. And if the truth were known, the diet was just a little too rich, a little too creamy for his taste. Especially when there was so much of it - and no way of avoiding it. And right here, right here in the middle of the shopping arcade, it was getting really bad. It was beginning to make him feel physically sick. Indeed, it was only the sight of the laughing policeman that dispelled this sudden attack of nausea…
The policeman was drifting through the shoppers - towards the end of the long arcade. And he was handing out helium-filled balloons. Each one, a scaled-down copy of his own form. And Renton found this extremely refreshing. Because even though it was all fairly tacky, it was nothing to do with sex. And it reminded Renton that life had a lot more to offer than just sex. And that all being well, he'd be there again soon - back to a normal sort of life - still enjoying its carnal pleasures, of course, but not at the expense of everything else. Hell, he hardly wanted to forego sex entirely, but he just didn't want it in excess, and certainly not in the great dollops of the stuff they were handing out here.
And he definitely didn't want any of it in the clinic. He just wanted some attention, some medical attention, someone to administer some soothing ointments to those wounds he'd sustained in the duct.
It looked promising. The receptionist had all her clothes on and there were no illustrations of female or male genitalia on any of the walls, just a few discreet warnings about the dangers of venereal diseases. And clearly that was the usual business in this clinic: “itches and sores in mine and now yours” - those wonderful ailments you could share with your loved one. And no doubt there was never a shortage of such business. Very few of the Lollipop's paying passengers would stop at just a single loved one; most were looking for multiple couplings. And any undercarriage unpleasantness brought on board this ship would spread like wildfire if it wasn't checked.
A little surprising then that the clinic's reception wasn't bursting at the seams with a crowd of anxious looking punters. But there was no one, only Renton and the receptionist. And it was the receptionist who spoke first.
'How can I help you, sir?' she enquired. 'Have you an appointment?'
'Errh no,' responded Renton crisply, 'errh, I haven't actually. Errh, I didn't realise I needed one.'
'Oh, you don't, sir,' she went on. 'It's just that there's an appointments system - for repeat visits and the like. You know the sort of thing…'
Renton nodded. He could well imagine the sort of thing.
'…but if you need some attention straightaway, we're here for that as well. And all you need do is tell me your problem - so I'll know which of our clinicians to talk to. I mean, the one I should get to see you.'
She smiled. It was a disarming smile. She'd no doubt made this same request a thousand times before. And on each occasion, Renton was sure, she'd extracted a response - immediately - no matter how embarrassed the respondent. Some people just had that ability. It was a gift.
'My back. It's my back,' responded Renton. 'I'd like someone to look at my back.'
'Ah,' said the receptionist knowingly, 'the dreaded back! You know we classify that as a repetiti
ve strain injury in here. And it's surprising just what sort of strain it has to take. Some of the things people get up to… well, it makes you wonder how they don't break their backs, let alone strain them…'
Oh hell. He'd thought he was a little insulated in here. That if he were a non-venereal customer he would have enjoyed a welcome respite. But it was seeping in again - that damn tide of sex that lapped at the door…
'…you know there's a position where…'
'No, no, no,' interrupted Renton. 'I haven't strained it. I've scraped it. I've scraped some skin off.'
'Oh, I do beg your pardon!' she exclaimed, still smiling. 'That's me again, jumping to conclusions. I am sorry. No offence meant, I can assure you. Just my misunderstanding. I really am sorry.'
Renton nodded an acknowledgement of her contrition, and then she went on.
'And just for the record, sir, may I ask whether these, errh these scrapes, were inflicted masochistically, or was it a sado-encounter? Or was it a bit of both? It often is, you know. One thing leads to another and the lines become a little blurred. But…'
'It was neither. It was an accident!' exploded Renton. 'Can't you have an accident in this place? Isn't that allowed…?'
'Oh sir, I am sorry,' she interrupted. 'I really am. I can only apologize again. And I do. I'm very, very sorry…'
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