Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Indeed, it could be argued that “Ranamavana Interplanetary” was not just a very fine spaceport, but also something more akin to a temple, a veritable cathedral built and dedicated to the gods of space transport. An absolutely enormous facility, it was kitted out with some of the best technology money could buy - to make sure things worked – “First time. Every Time”. And it looked good too. Its main concourse, in particular, was a stunner. It was silver everywhere. And there was green as well. And blue. The green of ferns. The blue of orchids, sheets of the most gorgeous orchids imaginable. And then gold, the gold of hundreds of signs - for arrivals, departures, the sites of the loos - and the size of their queues - and all that a traveller would need. It was exquisite, a restrained but brilliant use of colour and light, a masterpiece of its kind that has yet to be matched. And destined to be seen by all those visitors to Ranamavana who didn't arrive via the freighter bay…

  Yes, Renton, on this occasion, was to be denied this considerable pleasure. And instead he had to make do with the freighter reception concourse, a rather poorer relative of its much bigger brother, designed to be functional but not impressive.

  It was, just like the main concourse, principally silver throughout. But there were none of the living greens and the luscious blues. And the signs came in a sort of pewter and not the more luxurious gold. And there was an even more obvious difference: the floor was not a vast expanse of open space - as it was in the main concourse - but instead a landscape of numerous turrets. For the floor was the roof of the freighter bay, and these (silver) turrets were the little chambers that secured the access to all those umbilicals hanging below. And as they were silver - and shiny - they reflected in their hundreds of curved surfaces, the distorted images of people and other turrets. The result was an edifice that looked more like a hall of mirrors than a spaceport facility. And all in all, it was a pretty alarming environment.

  It was also a confusing environment. And little wonder, therefore, that Renton soon found himself detached from his fellow passengers. He was now dependant on those pewter signs. And he was following those for Immigration and Customs Reception (long ago having abandoned the idea of travelling with anything other than hand baggage). And as he followed these he noticed something. It concerned the occupants of the concourse. And it was that they could be divided into two categories.

  The first category, in which Renton himself featured, contained the humanoids, reptilians, insectals and amphibiads, who were clearly foreign crew members (or the unfortunate customers of Diabalo Spaceways). They were recognisable principally through their constant interest in the ceiling and the information displayed there, and their custody of some sort of luggage. They also wore, despite its enormous variation, what Renton considered “acceptable” clothing - whether a uniform or otherwise. Even the insectals' clothing, which of necessity was rather brief, showed a degree of consideration for sartorial aesthetics.

  The second category contained what could only be the inhabitants of Ranamavana. They were all humanoid, and most were probably engaged in some sort of spaceport-type business. And they all wore clothes that were quite simply hideous beyond belief. Because every item of their clothing was crafted from one or more examples of some of the most awful floral-patterned fabrics that Renton had ever seen.

  He spotted one man who, with peaked cap, personal receiver, stun pistol and white chevrons on his sleeves, must have been a sergeant of police or airport security. But what did he look like? The plain peak of his cap was an island of calm in an otherwise stormy sea of pink and peach - the floral pink and peach of his ridiculous uniform. It was terrible. And it was a combination of colours that did absolutely nothing for his hopelessly sallow complexion.

  Renton had a very good idea of what this was all about - and it concerned “specialness”. That's to say the seeking out of extremes by whole planets or their component countries, in a rather pathetic attempt to be “special”. In this way an insignificant part of the cosmos might consider itself in some way less insignificant. It might still be a small part of the cosmos, but it would be a “special part” - something different.

  Renton had always regarded this activity as somewhat futile but fairly harmless. But if, since his last visit to this planet, the people of Ranamavana had adopted these vulgar floral designs as their own special badge, their unique and distinguishing essence, then perhaps he should also regard it as potentially comical as well. Because, by gum, it was. And so much so, that he decided it was worth a grin, despite the burden of all that blurting stuff. Or perhaps because of it. But in any event, he did grin - a great big, wide grin that turned his eyes into slits. And he only stopped grinning when he saw them…

  It was three of the pink and peach types moving towards him - with their stun pistols drawn.

  He froze and he felt his stomach tightening. The three officers, all broader than Renton, looked intimidating despite their outrageous decor. Renton saw only their intense expressions and the sombre peaks of their floral caps. And no doubt they were going to arrest him. The woman must have put in a complaint!

  Then they were joined by two others, two similarly clad bruisers who'd appeared from behind a turret to Renton's left. They strode towards him… and then past him.

  As Renton turned to see them breaking into a trot, he also saw and heard the object of their attention. It wasn't him.

  On top of one of the access turrets were two women. From the camellia design on their matching aquamarine and beige outfits, Renton deduced that they were both airport staff. Holding them were four humanoids who, in contrast to their charges, were wearing very restrained garb: dark uniforms of dull silver with dark red piping. They were obviously crew.

  They were obviously enjoying themselves as well. And so too were the assorted foreigners who'd gathered at the foot of the turret. They were all cheering and laughing like fools.

  Renton approached the show.

  He soon realised that the four crewmen and their audience were deriving their pleasure from a mock auction. The crewmen were auctioning the two airport staff as a pair of desirable aquamarine and beige curtains. Whilst one silver suit played the auctioneer, his three assistants moved the women - arms outstretched - as if opening and closing… well, a pair of curtains. And one had to admit it; they did look like a pair of curtains….

  '450 dollars,' shouted the auctioneer. 'Who'll give me 500? Come on, this pair's fully lined… round the eyes at least.'

  The audience responded with a loud, emetic sort of 'uuuuhh'.

  'Do I hear 500? Come on, gentlemen. How often do you get a chance to pull a pair like this? Not very often, I can tell you.'

  Some stifled tittering rippled through the crowd, and there was a solitary hoot of laughter.

  And all the time this was going on, the security men were getting closer, and soon they were mounting the turret to tackle their quarry.

  'Now gentlemen,' remonstrated the auctioneer, 'I don't believe I acknowledged your bid. And you must observe the protocol of the auction. You really must.'

  The security men ignored his continuation of the charade and one of them gripped his arms.

  'This could be curtains for your reputation in auctions, sir. I think you should pull yourself together.'

  This dreadful humour then dissolved into pure good humour, the male players in the show waving to their audience as the forces of law overwhelmed them. Not that any real force was required; the crewmen submitted willingly and apparently happily. Even their female “props” managed a little smile to each other as some smart-arse in the dispersing crowd rounded off events with a 'what about a final curtain call?' It was all very nice really and entirely good-natured.

  Or so Renton thought as he stood and tried to conjure up another play on words involving curtains - without success. But then he began to consider the implications of what he'd just seen. Four crew members, probably the entire crew of the same freighter, had for the sake of some brief horseplay, almost certainly lost their fli
ght permits and their liberty. It was just not comprehensible.

  Renton had always found it difficult to understand illogical acts, and generally ascribed them to some sort of character defect or cranial circuitry problem. But grown men, rational enough to be let loose with an expensive spacecraft, didn't tend to have these sorts of deficiencies. And for four of them to reveal such deficiencies simultaneously was just incredible.

  'Most odd,' he thought. 'Most odd indeed.' And then having failed to resolve the mystery or even put together a sustainable hypothesis on the matter, he returned to his own concerns. It was time to confront them again. He turned and picked up his course through the turreted concourse to Immigration and Customs Reception, and a few minutes later arrived at his destination. Immigration, he found, was a low-key affair. It consisted of two slots in a metal panel. Renton's universal passport was swallowed by the slot entitled “feed” and less than ten seconds later disgorged through the other slot entitled “collect”. Nothing else happened.

  He then walked into Customs Reception and past the declaration area into the preposterously named “Random Confirmation Suite”. The four confirmation officers standing by their stalls watched him enter and then they watched him leave.

  Renton was outside Ranamavana spaceport territory. And the spaceport's BIG computer had, of course, registered this fact - as it did with every Discrete Unit that passed through its patch – “First time. Every time”. But more of that later. For now it was time for the cabs…

  4.

  As has already been noted, the magnificence of Ranamavana's spaceport was in sharp contrast to the ordinariness of Ranamavana itself. But what should also be noted is that this civic ordinariness was not ubiquitous. Because Ranamavana had a public transport system that was not in the least bit ordinary, but instead, embarrassingly decrepit. And nowhere was this more obvious than in its municipal autocab service. For this relied not only on the outstanding longevity of autocab technology, but also on the daily prayers of the Ranamavana transport authorities that their fleet of ancient, worn-out museum pieces would manage just one further day on the streets and that they wouldn't just curl up and die.

  No matter. Renton was an autocab devotee, a devoted autocab devotee. And whenever he travelled within a city he used these vehicles, no matter how decrepit they might be. This was because they had a pair of attributes that appealed to him greatly. To start with, one needed only an acceptable credit disc and the address of one's destination to use them. And that was it. There was none of that tiresome contact with other people that one inevitably experienced in manned taxis and the like. And then, even better, one was protected from the elements. In particular, one's hair was protected from the elements. That's to say, one's delicate, fashionably long, problem hair, which might just retain its composure when confronted with the sort of weather that was both dry and windless, but which was a complete disaster when challenged by the sort of weather that was not - and was instead, windy and rainy.

  Yes, autocabs were OK, even Ranamavana's ugly, brick-shaped, obsolete-a-generation-ago autocabs were OK.

  So Renton now approached the line of cabs outside the spaceport, and as he came within a few feet of the cab at the head of the rank, its single pink door opened to reveal a pink interior fitted with pink plastic seats. Renton threw his bag inside, crouched his 6'3" frame through the opening and fell back into the seat facing the instruction monitor. He fed in his credit disc and then tapped in his destination via a pink keyboard below the monitor's screen. An “accept charge” signal appeared and the disc was returned. As he took it and sat back in his seat, the autocab lifted 11 inches from the ground and hovered silently away from the rank. Renton now had nothing to do other than observe the slice of Ranamavana open to his view in the ten-kilometre trip from the spaceport to his hotel, “The Excessive”.

  To begin with there was the normal mix of spaceport-approach hotels, vehicle rental lots and light industrial units. Then the roadside landscape began to change into a residential one - of the urban renewal requiring further renewal variety. And at this point Renton's interest shifted to the inside of the cab.

  The interior of any autocab is a pink vacuum. There is no intrinsic interest inside the vehicle save for the monitor, its keyboard and a row of buttons controlling the cab's windows - for the benefit of the occasional victim of claustrophobia. There are not even any advertisements - for nightclubs, exotic restaurants or spaceport-approach hotels - such things now being considered an infringement of an individual's private and paid for “own space”. But what interested Renton in the cab was not the visible, it was the smellable.

  It was not a strong smell, but it was a smell that conjured up images of charred paint and crinkled plastic. This was a little disturbing. Renton sniffed. He tried to locate the source of the smell. But without success. He was only able to surmise that as all the workings of the autocab were beneath his feet, the smell, whatever it was, must be coming from that part of the vehicle.

  Then the smell seemed to subside and within a minute or so Renton was unsure whether even a trace of it remained. But as his interest was just about to meander back to the external environment, he heard noises, noises that were clearly more to do with his immediate environment. A slight scraping sound was followed by a rattle, a knock, another rattle and then a low booming sound. Renton's eyes widened. A new rattling sound developed. At three-second intervals it was joined by a short hiss. The hiss appeared to have its own echo, and a degree of syncopation now crept into the sound show. Some giant cymbals came in at about the same time that Renton's sense of balance told him that the autocab was now hovering along at something like 12" above the ground on one side and at about 10" on the other. A minute after that the cab corrected itself and a minute later it was leaning the other way - at about a 13" to 9" differential.

  A puddle of pale green liquid now appeared at Renton's feet. The monitor screen lit up with the words: “DO NOT VANDALISE THIS VEHICLE”. A whirring sound joined the existing orchestra and all of the cab's windows slid down. Renton was aware of most of these phenomena including the gale racing through the interior of the cab, the exterior of which was now doing close to 50 miles per hour. But he was not yet properly aware of the wind damage to his hair.

  Autocabs are, as their name implies, fully automated. They travel at an even speed, other than when negotiating bends and corners, when they slow down just a little to maintain the modest level of comfort afforded to their fare-paying passengers. And they do not stop on a journey as, like all other road vehicles, they are programmed to avoid any obstructions and any other vehicles. There are no traffic lights in the modern universe.

  This concise description of the operating method of a cab quickly went through Renton's mind. He also remembered that there was no manual override system - as a manual override would allow human interference in the control of the vehicle - and there are clearly drawbacks to such an arrangement. No, Renton was in a plastic box travelling at 50 miles per hour and, incredible as it was, the box was malfunctioning and there was nothing he could do about it. Or was there?

  Renton's pattern of life meant that once he had given an autocab a destination it was unthinkable that he should change his mind. But not all people were like Renton. He vaguely remembered that it was possible to redirect an autocab by giving it a new destination - mid-trip. He knew the vehicle's health was not first class, but perhaps it might just work. And anyway, it seemed a preferable course of action to the only alternative he now had available: that of a slide into panic.

  Renton's previous visits to Ranamavana had not furnished him with a detailed geography of the city, and his basically sound idea was now frustrated by not knowing a destination other than that of The Excessive. And certainly not one that was in any way close to where he was now. However, this rather sizeable problem was soon overcome. It was simple. All he needed to do was gaze out of the open windows of his vehicle for any building that advertised its identity prominently. And the
re was one, just a few hundred yards down the road, a large squat building with the words “Firestone House” standing in profile on its roof. 'Thank God for that rubber-wear,' he thought to himself.

  Renton leaned over to the keyboard and began to type in FIRE… and the roof of the autocab disappeared in a mist of water droplets. He was quickly soaked. The cab continued on its course and the monitor told Renton that there was a “MALFUNCTION”.

  The pale green liquid at Renton's feet had now formed into globules. They were in the water that covered the floor. Then both the globules and the water disappeared - suddenly - as the autocab's door shot open and everything liquid inside the cab was immediately outside it.

  By looking through the open doorway, Renton could see that the hover height of the vehicle, still travelling at 50 mph, was instead of its normal 11", about 1" above the ground. And he began to wonder whether the road surfaces of Ranamavana were commendably, if not almost impossibly, flat, and if they weren't, what might be the imminent result.

  But he didn't need to wonder for too long. For the autocab had now decided that it was time to hover 12" below its normal 11" hovering height. Still at 50 mph. There was a sickly screeching sound as vehicle and road came together. And this caused the stupid autocab to lurch violently, throwing Renton to the side of the vehicle, which fortunately still had a side. Renton grabbed the back of the pink seat waiting for a reverse lurch that would attempt to dispatch him through the open door on its other side. It never came. Plastic and macplastic road surface opted for rapid, straight-line deceleration with only a minor slow speed swing to one side as the cab came to rest.

  Renton was physically intact as was his travelling bag. He also had a good tale to tell his colleagues over the next few weeks. He was in general good health, had a good job and a mother who loved him. With such a whopping combined credit to the profit and loss account of life, it seemed slightly churlish to focus on just a few minor debits. And there were only a few: wind-blown, wet, disarranged, curled up and generally very upset hair, a degree of moisture in the clothing now being reinforced from within by a film of perspiration, permanently damaged desert boots (by both water and the unidentified green liquid), a pallid complexion and a dry mouth. Add to these the prospect of trouble with the autocab company, impending dealings with the authorities in some form or other, the attention of the public and a situation remote from his intended destination, and it still didn't amount to much.