Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'Just as long as you need it, honey. And just as eager at the end as it is at the outset.'

  'My, my, and I thought you were the shy one, when all this time you've been having me on. You're as randy as the rest of them, aren't you? And probably a dab-hand at body-paint as well.'

  'Randy, yes. Handy, no. I'm more an artist with my body, if you know what I mean.'

  'Good. Because I am as well. And I think it's about time we both got stuck into some real art. So come on. Get that body out and lets get on with it. And if you're very lucky, I might even give you a bit of a primer…'

  And at this point, just as Madeleine was reaching for her top button, something happened to stop her. She froze. And where just a second before there had been rapture in her eyes, there was now confusion. It shone out so clearly that even Renton became aware of it. And of what was going on - with both of them.

  'Oh shit,' he said. 'You're a hyper-blurter as well!'

  'What!'

  'A hyper-blurter. You know, just like me…'

  Renton had been overcome with unrestrained thought vocalisation - for a short but intense period. But he was now coming out of it, to be overcome with something new: the realisation that he was sharing this spacecraft with a fellow sufferer, who had not only exposed her condition in the plainest of terms, but also in the most revealing of terms - as he'd done with his. God, what did he do now? And how should he feel? Relieved? Flattered? Alarmed? Embarrassed? Or maybe very fortunate - in more ways than one?

  He couldn't decide. So instead he embarked on an explanation. Madeleine, it seemed, was now out of blurting herself. She'd stopped making suggestions as to how they might engage in a dose of copulation and she'd entirely lost that look of simmering ecstasy. She now wore a look of just acute desperation. He drew breath, leant towards her and gripped her arms. Then, looking her straight in the eyes, he began to explain.

  'When I was young, whenever I went hyper, I'd become sort of… well, mentally incontinent. I mean, I couldn't stop my thoughts leaking out. And I couldn't stop them leaking out because I spoke them. Whatever I thought I would put into words. And there was nothing I could do about it. Absolutely nothing at all. And it wasn't very nice, I can tell you. But then it cleared up. The problem just went away. And I thought I was rid of it forever. But then just recently it came back. And even more recently - like just a few seconds ago - it came back again. And not only that, but it showed up in somebody else as well, in somebody else in this cabin, in somebody by the name of Madeleine Maiden…'

  Renton had to repeat this explanation a full six times, with each explanation interrupted by questions from Madeleine along with a string of denials and protestations - to say nothing of the odd lapse into intemperate language. But in the end, the message got through, helped on its way by another lapse into blurting on her part, this one exposing just how strong the link is between anger and lust - and causing Renton to believe that, despite the earlier “cancellation”, ravishment was now no less than imminent.

  But no. The blurting attack was only a fleeting one, and Madeleine was soon back with her thoughts hidden and her ardour subdued. And with her curiosity satisfied. No way, it appeared, did she want to explore the significance of her unguarded comments. Of her unexpurgated desires for her companion's body and her willingness to engage in a shed-load of nooky. Neither did Renton. After all, it hadn't all been one-way traffic. And more to the point, how could either of them deal with it, with the sudden revelation that they wanted to get in each other's pants - before they'd even got into each other's affections…?

  So the cabin became near silent for the rest of their journey. It was bothered by very little in the way of conversation. And, much to the relief of both its occupants, it remained entirely unsullied by any further blurting. Whatever thoughts Renton and Madeleine entertained for the remainder of the trip were safely contained in their minds. And just as well. Had they leaked out, they would have been even trickier to handle than what had already been revealed…

  39.

  Boz had chosen to visit one of the Red Inc customers who lived on the planet, Kathikastak. His name was Spiripid Tak, and he was the principal of the Spiripid Tak Research Centre.

  This eponymously named establishment was situated in the Kytyke province of Kathikastak, a strange mountainous region, which, on first sight, was a rather odd place to find any sort of habitation at all. But Kytyke's steep mountains had a very special quality; they were riddled with miles upon miles of tunnels, linking together countless thousands of cavities within the not-so-solid Kytyke rock.

  And this rampant honeycombing had been made use of. It had been cleverly exploited to provide some novel troglodytic solutions to the housing problems of the Kathikastak rich. A little reworking and restyling of a few chambers and passages, and an unpromising cold stone environment could be transformed into a really chic and literally unique home. The sort of home that the locals found highly desirable.

  For Kathikastakians were insectals, antlike insectals whose ancient ancestors made nests of tunnels under the ground. So what could be better than a smart, spacious cave-dwelling to echo those habits from the past? What better way to indulge oneself in a satisfying bit of race-memory? If one could afford it, that is. Kytyke homes were very desirable, but they weren't very cheap. They could be afforded by only a few. And Spiripid Tak was one of these few. But he'd gone one better than his equally well-off neighbours. His home was also his workplace, his research centre, somewhere he could indulge his race-memory all the day and every day. And whilst it wasn't the biggest research establishment on Kathikastak, it was certainly one of the most impressive. Boz had never seen anything quite like it before.

  And he certainly hadn't seen such an ornate front door before, nor many that were as large. As he stepped from his hired hover just a few paces from the front of the Tak residence, the door positively towered above him. It must have been more than twenty feet high. And it was covered in all manner of scrolls, swags, coils and assorted hieroglyphics. All in various shades of green. But it wasn't its size or its decoration that was its most notable feature. Nor was it the fact that it was set in a solid rock face. No. What was really notable about this door was that it had been placed in the rock face some five hundred metres above its base. Spiripid Tak's combined home and office was an eyrie, a troglodytic establishment but very much a high one.

  Outside the door was a small hover pad, created by smoothing out the top of a natural ledge. And to the sides and above the door were assorted windows, their haphazard placing and their variable shapes and sizes betraying their true nature. They were the tidied-up openings of the honeycomb tunnels making up the interior of chez Tak, made weatherproof by the application of some sort of heavy-duty cling-film. Boz had noticed how it rippled from the turbulence of his hover.

  All in all it really was quite a place, at least from the outside. And now Boz felt quite excited. He wanted to know what sort of fellow lived in a pad like this. How this Tak bloke would turn out to be. 'Well, better find out,' he thought. And he approached the door. When he pressed the brass intercom button at its centre, a silky-smooth autovox addressed him politely.

  'Hello. Welcome to the Spiripid Tak Research Centre. Please state your name and your purpose. Thank you.'

  'This here is Bostrom T Aukaukukaura. An' I would like to see Mr Tak, if yous don't mind.'

  'Thank you. Please wait.'

  Boz did exactly that for about thirty seconds whereupon the door opened and the autovox invited him to: 'enter and wait again.' Boz complied and waited again in a large entrance vestibule, which bore little evidence of its all-encompassing rockiness. It was lined from floor to ceiling with row upon row of shelves, filled with all sorts of things of all shapes and sizes. But Boz had little time to absorb much of this before a tall, red-faced insectal scurried in from another room and began to talk to him. He talked very quickly. 'Hello. I'm Tak. I don't know you. I like visits from people I don't know. They can be interesting
. They can be interesting for a long time. Some are not. But most are. I hope you're interesting. You look it. Not many of your sort round these parts. Can't recall the last time I saw one, come to think of it. Well, let's go through. Can't forget my manners. Come this way. Hope you had a good trip. Yes, this might be interesting. It could be…' Spiripid Tak scuttled away as quickly as he'd arrived, and Boz was obliged to follow him at a very unreptilian-like pace.

  His host piloted him through a series of rooms, all, like the vestibule, lined with shelves and all full of lots of assorted this and that. There were exercise machines, scientific instruments, musical instruments, weaponry, indoor games - and unidentifiable gizmos of every sort imaginable. There were piles of insectal pornography, there were plasper maps, gambling machines, models, toys - and all sorts of measuring equipment. And there were laserades everywhere - and TVs in every room. Indeed it would have been difficult to think of some form of diversion that was not represented somewhere within this cacophony of objects.

  Spiripid finally came to rest in a large room. He flopped onto a couch between an untidy stack of holovideos and three plastic sacks filled to overflowing with numerous computer games. He beckoned Boz to a similarly littered couch facing his own, and Boz settled down in the debris.

  'I like this room, Mr Aukaukukaura. I spend a lot of time here. It's most stimulating. I have lots of interest here. Oh yes, lots of interest.'

  Boz thought it certainly was an interesting room. Like all its cousins in this strange house, it was lined with shelves and filled with all manner of objects. But it was a great deal larger than any of the others he'd seen and it bore one or two unique features. One of these was a wall almost entirely obscured by a curtain of TVs - all playing with the sound turned down. Some were tuned into the major news and entertainment channels operated throughout the universe, others were on university loops and insectal networks, and a few dotted here and there were on porno lines. There was a full range of humanoid, insectal and reptilian porn, and humanoids doing it to insectals, insectals doing it to reptilians, insectals doing it to themselves, and one where Boz couldn't quite work out who was doing what to whom and what was being used to do it with.

  Another feature of the room, which caught Boz's attention, was a long table covered with plates and bowls, most of which contained what looked like food. There were other dishes, however, which were filled with what could surely not be food. They were all so… well, so disgusting-looking. One was piled high with a mess of red hair mixed with pink mucous. Boz could not imagine any creature anywhere wanting to put that stuff in its mouth. And the same could be said of another offering that looked like a long-dead, white grub - about a foot long. There were yet others, which were slightly less emetic in appearance, but equally unrecognisable as something ever intended to be eaten.

  'You find my dining table interesting, Mr Aukaukukaura? It is. It really is. It's always interesting. There's always a new dish from another planet. A new experience. Some new delicacy… That white grub thing, for example. That should prove fascinating. I've not had anything that size before. Hope it tastes OK. A lot of new food's disgusting, you know. But some's not. I get it sent from everywhere. Costs a fortune. Would you like some? Help yourself. Or would you like a drink? I've a fantastic cellar. You'd not believe all the wine…'

  Boz was beginning to think that this fellow was one star short of a constellation. 'No thank you, Mr Tak. I've already had myself a fill of both solid and liquid sustainin' substances. So I'm really OK. But thank you, dear sir, all the same.'

  'You talk in a very interesting way,' observed Spiripid. 'Bit like a Timbuakian. But you're not from Timbuakia, are you? I wonder if there's a connection. That's interesting. Yes. Where are you from? Or is it a Kelech dialect I'm thinking of? Fascinating that. It's as though…'

  'Mr Tak,' interrupted Boz, 'I can see you are a very busy person. My manners suggest I should waste as little of your time as possible. Would you 'preciate my tellin' yous why I'm situated in your very nice research centre here?'

  Insectal expressions were difficult to interpret, but Boz thought he'd managed to engender a modicum of surprise in his host. And at least he'd stopped him talking…

  'Well I would. Well I would. That will be interesting. At least I hope it will. I certainly do. But first a little test. I always find this interesting. Seeing how different people use the information I give them. What questions they ask. It's intriguing. It really is. Can we do it? It won't take long. Can I test you? It's not really a test. It's a problem-solving thing really. Well, Mr Aukaukukaura?'

  'Well, right on, Mr Tak. I'm sure I don't like to see no problems left unsolved. Hell, it's poseeteevly untidy, I reckon. I really do.' Boz glanced around and wondered whether that was a wise observation to make in this particular environment. He continued quickly before Tak could re-engage his mouth-machine. 'But I have a lill' ole problem of my own to solve, Mr Tak, which o' course is the reason for my bein' in this here place in the first place, so t' speak. So what you say I try and solve yours first - on condition like that yous do likewise for my own? How tight does that grab you, young sir?'

  Tak's expression was easily discernible now. The yellowish facets of his eyes twinkled and his feelers vibrated rapidly. He was a happy insectal. He wriggled on his couch in a state of childish anticipation, knocking most of the stack of holovideos to the floor. 'Oh yes. Oh yes. Most interesting. Most interesting. A very good idea. Splendid. Me first, then you. Yes, splendid.'

  He rose from his seat and began to move around the room in what to Boz looked like a slow scurry. Tak wasn't covering much ground between the mounds of assorted paraphernalia, but he was doing it with such animation and such energy, scurrying was still in there somewhere.

  'Mr Aukaukukaura,' he started, 'what I want you to try to guess, your problem to solve, is this. What is the purpose of my research centre? Simple question. What do I do? What is the purpose of my work? And here's what I'll tell you. You can ask me questions afterwards. But here are the clues. Understand? Good. Well, let's just say my lifestyle is the biggest clue. I live here. I live here in my research centre. My life reflects my research. In this building are experiences to stimulate all the senses. And I mean every one. You have seen over there food to interest the most jaded palate. I have rooms filled with music recordings from every corner of the universe, and holofilms, and audio books. I even have a scent library. I have one of the most advanced bathers yet produced and the most sophisticated weather chamber available. It offers me an experience of every and any planet I want - without that awfully, that awfully…' Tak stuttered. It was as though he was having great difficulty in tackling the next word. '…that awfully boring travelling that's involved. And I have a series of scientific experiments that are fascinating. And I'm writing three books: a novel, a biography and a reference work on tusk moths. And a symphony. That's proving very difficult but very interesting. And I paint. And I'm taking singing lessons again.'

  Boz winced at the thought of a Tak serenade.

  'And I play tele-chess every day. And I make up crosswords. And I watch TV a lot. Although you have to be careful. It sometimes… well, you know, it sometimes loses its interest. And I embroider. And I'm a green belt in Mijacksie. And I do a bit of cartography. And a lot of other things, an awful lot of other things. Oh, and of course, I conduct my research programme as well. That's the most interesting of everything. Mustn't forget that. So what do you make of all that, Mr Aukaukukaura? What have you worked out? Any ideas? Know what to ask me? Oh, this is interesting. This really is. Well, Mr Aukaukukaura? Well?'

  Boz gave Tak a thoughtful look and, in a drawl that was as slow as Tak's tour de force had been hurried, he responded to Tak's challenge. 'I am steeply inclined to pronounce my belief that you here are tellin' me that Spiripid Tak takes no fancy whatsoneverever to bein' BORED. Am I right on that one, Mr Tak?'

  Tak accelerated to a positively frenzied scurry and crashed back onto his couch. Most of the remaining
holovideos slipped to the floor along with a shower of the computer games.

  'Correct, Mr Aukaukukaura! Correct! I abhor…' He stuttered again. 'I abhor boredom. My life must always be interesting. I mean always. Never, never the other. I am always occupied, always interested - or asleep. You aren't… you aren't bored when you're asleep. But awake, awake you must always be interested. I am interested now. Interested in seeing your own interest in my work, and interested to know whether you will deduce the purpose of my work, my research here. And what questions you'll now ask me. Oh yes, I am very interested indeed.'

  'Ummm, Mr Tak, I suspect I can do some due deducin' right readily without any questions at this here stage of the proceedin's.'

  'You can, Mr Aukaukukaura? You can? Please go on.' Tak leant back on the couch. His relaxed posture still radiated a restless energy.

  'I looks at it like this. Interest is good. Boredom is bad. That's your hypo-the-thesis. Most research is brewed up to prove an existin' ideah - to support what some dude already believes. Therefore, QED, your research is doin' jus' that - provin' that interest is bestest, boredom is poorsome.'

  Tak was now staring at Boz intently.

  'Now as to what way it's bestest, I reckon I've cracked that lill' ole nut as well. Ain't never heard of "bored to ill health" or "bored to sickness". But I sure have heard of "bored to death"! I reckon your research stuff is concernin' itself with provin', scientifically like, that if y' bored, yous will slide off this mortal coil affair quicker than if you're occupyin' y'self with all sorts of interestin' dibbles and dabbles. Interest sustains the principle of life, so t' speak. Get bored and you'll get dead. That's my deduction, Mr Tak sir. You're provin' you'll live longer if you sidestep borin' ole things - an' you're practisin' it y'self. You're mainlinin' on interestin' things. Ain't I right now?'

  Tak, for once, hesitated before he filled the opportunity to respond. 'Excellent, Mr Aukaukukaura. Excellent. And without a single question. Very interesting. Fascinating. Nobody's got that far that quickly. Not before. Fascinating. You're nearly there. What you've said is 95% there. But you're not quite to the purpose of my research, the real essence of my research. You've a little further to go. A little extrapolation. But one with immense significance.'