Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Tak stopped talking. He was giving Boz a genuine opportunity to think about this “little extrapolation”. He would not be disappointed in Boz's response, which was delivered within only ten seconds.

  'Pinch my pulsars. You ain't suggestin' a sort of indefinite benefit? I mean, you ain't talkin' about never bein' bored to death? Like I mean, keep interested, keep alive? I mean serious immortality stuff? Is that what you're suggestin'? Is that it?'

  'Wow and wow again!' shrieked Mr Tak. 'That's exactly it. Immortality. That's what I'm seeking to prove and that's what I'm practising myself. Boredom is the deadliest thing in the universe and only a few of us realise it. It seeps into our lives at every turn. Whenever we have to wait for something, whenever there's a gap in our doing things, whenever our life loses its interest. And its effect is cumulative. Enough of it seeps into our system and it starts to gnaw away at our metabolism. It causes all the ills and diseases that doctors blame on bugs and other things. But they're only the outward manifestations of this boredom canker. And eventually it kills. It really does.

  'But, keep it at bay, and the process never gets started. The metabolism goes on and on, unscathed. The body goes on living. The being achieves immortality. It's as simple as that. And that's what my research will prove one day. And I will be the literal living proof of my theory. Isn't it all fascinating? Isn't it all so interesting?'

  Boz's thoughts on Mr Tak had now crystallised into the certainty that he had interested himself into total lunacy. But Boz was here for some important information, and whatever he thought could not be betrayed in his remarks. 'Mr Tak, I salute your imagination and your tenacity of thought, as I'm sure my grand kiddies and their grand kiddies will as well. An' I hope you'll find the time to meet them when I'm long gone, consumed by this noisome, boredom stuff. Although I must say, you've helped me keep it away for these last few minutes, you certainly have. An' let me guess. Your practical researchin' is close to provin' your hypo-the-thesis, I s'pose. It's close to holy-grail day.'

  'Holy-grail?' puzzled Tak. 'Oh yes. Oh yes, I understand. Well, yes and no. I think I am close, but the results of my work are… well… well, they're lagging a little bit behind my understanding of the process. You know. Difficult to get the data assembled in quite the way you want it - to prove what you know is happening. I have, of course, reached a few milestones. I've a gerber fish, for example, that's a year older than any other in captivity. He's interested in a kaleidoscope in his tank. In fact, very interested. And then there's a group of terrapin I've had for years now - which show no sign of ageing at all. They're on an infinitely variable diet. No two days the same. That's obviously proving very interesting for them. And of course there's me. I know I've stopped ageing. But to find the proof and, beyond that, the distillation of the essence of boredom. How to kill it at its source. How to interfere with the physiological process of the boredom "virus". Well, that's still a little elusive, I'm afraid.

  'But, Mr Aukaukukaura, I am patient. I am, after all, now immortal!'

  Tak chuckled a little, and the interlude in his verbosity gave Boz his chance to leap back into their rather one-sided conversation.

  'Mr Tak sir, my admiration an' my fascination is matched only by my puzzlement, puzzlement that, I has to admit, has its connections with my purpose in visitin' yous here. You know, my own lill' problem that we agreed we'd take a look at - when we'd nailed down the lid on your own. When my own lill' test was solved. Yous remember, I'm sure?'

  'Oh yes. Yes, that sounds even more interesting, Mr Aukaukukaura. Please go on. A problem mixed with a puzzle. A veritable enigma. Most interesting. You have my full attention.'

  Boz thought that he would not like to be married to Mr Tak. He was not in the least bit surprised that there had been no mention of a Mrs Tak. Whatever Mr Tak's theories on immortality postulated, Boz doubted whether they could encompass the probability of a Mrs Tak strangling the life out of her irritating, exhausting, self-centred spouse.

  And he also thought that a direct question to this idiot on the whereabouts of Lysaars might not be too well received - and that instead, he should work his way there - with a subsidiary line of questioning, such as: 'What I can't understand, dear sir, is why your noble research studies require so much paint. To be specific, “A” quality electropaint as supplied by a company by the name of Red Inc on a lill' ole planet called Crabbsbab.'

  Tak's response was immediate and without any sense of defensiveness or suspicion. 'Paint? That's not paint. It's water. H²O in a paint container. All a bit peculiar really. But interesting in a mysterious sort of way. It's part of a sponsorship arrangement - from a gentleman by the name of Mr Lysaars. As well as the funds he sends me, I get these paint vats full of water. I have to have them emptied and then returned to the Spazum place on Corcul. Goodness knows why. Tax dodge or something, I s'pose. In fact, Mr Lysaars did, I think, ask me not to talk about it. But I imagine it's harmless enough…'

  Mr Tak's insectal face went through a change of both expression and colour. His racing brain had clearly caught a glimpse of some blur at the side of the track. And he had just recognised what that blur was. It was a nosy reptilian who he had just supplied with confidential information about his principal… well, one had to admit it, his one and only sponsor. He had just put at risk that gurgling stream of lovely lucre that was the lifeline for his research centre, for the research itself and for his immortality!

  'Who are you!? Why are you here? Why are you prying? I don't like it. You haven't been genuine. You should not be interfering with my studies. Who sent you? Does Lysaars know about this? Does he know you? '

  Boz tried to answer at least one of these questions, but Tak went on.

  'Never mind. I'm getting bored. I'm getting bored! Do you hear me? I'm getting bored! Get out! Get out!'

  Tak tumbled from the couch and grabbed a multiple TV handset. He pressed its master function button and all the hundreds of TV transmissions, which until then had been playing silently in the room, were suddenly silent no more. There was an avalanche of sounds. The sounds of strident newscasters, of chattering quiz-show hosts, of laughing audiences and of roaring sports crowds. And there were noisy space-battle sounds, and ear-splitting rock band sounds, and wet pornographic sounds - and dozens of dialogues in dozens of languages. In fact, there was just about every sound one could ever imagine. It was dreadful. But for Tak, essential. He was moving his attention from one TV image to the next, searching desperately for something interesting, interesting enough to divert his thoughts from this reptilian visitation and the damage it may have wreaked on his life.

  Boz judged correctly that his audience was at an end and it was highly unlikely that he could now follow his subsidiary line of questioning to its intended conclusion. Instead it was time to move back to the green, woodalike door of the Tak Research Centre. Time to slide away - with a clue, albeit with no information…

  As he left Tak's noisy playpen of a room, his erstwhile host had still to select a single TV transmission that would supply the required dose of interest. Interest to overcome not boredom but panic.

  Boz just hoped that the poor old tosser would succeed before his hearing went.

  40.

  Renton had wondered whether he could find a decent barber on Iacouvou. Time wasn't exactly on his side, but on their approach to the planet he'd indulged in a spot of mental list making, and the haircut idea had emerged from this. In fact, the full list had been as follows:

  • he needed to steel himself for the challenges that lay ahead - in their pursuit of Lysaars;

  • he needed to understand a lot more of what Lysaars was up to, to stand any real chance of meeting these challenges;

  • he needed to sort out his feelings for his travelling companion, preferably before she was unremembered or killed in the process - and preferably before any of that carnal stuff got under way for real;

  • he needed to explore all the implications of having found a companion hyper-blurter; and<
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  • he needed a haircut. His hair was now past its optimum length for ease of control. And it really did need every bit of help it could get to maintain anything like a respectable appearance. And that meant a barber.

  Crouching here, on his hands and knees, in Professor Polisible's study, Renton had forgotten all thoughts of tonsorial attention. And had he brought them to mind, he might have considered them a little irrelevant to his present situation anyway.

  Shortly after their arrival on Iacouvou, Renton, much against his better judgement, had allowed Madeleine to coax him into an autocab. However, Iacouvou's autocabs were in much better order than those in Ranamavana, and their journey to Eviva Village had proved entirely uneventful. There, they had discovered that the “Village”, which was the home of Professor Polisible's institute for studying something or other, was, in fact, no more than a rather drab office-like building surrounded by a huge wall over-topped by dense vegetation. Its overall aspect was generally uninviting in the extreme. Quite clearly, casual visitors were not encouraged.

  This had spawned a plan in Renton's mind, which rested very heavily on the application of stealth. Madeleine would remain with the autocab and he would scale the wall by standing on the vehicle's roof. Then he would partake of some surreptitious snooping. He would try and track down where within the building the professor stored his Spazum paint vats - on the basis that this would be a good starting point for his further enquiries. And then he would take it from there.

  Madeleine had not been an immediate convert to this strategy, but Renton had been unusually adamant. And, moreover, she was still getting her breath back. After all, being confronted with your status as a blurter and a raver - and in such an intimate fashion - tended to leave you pretty damn breathless at the best of times. And she clearly needed just a little more time to recover. So eventually, she'd accepted her bit part in the plot. And not too reluctantly at that.

  Soon, he was in the grounds of the institute. He'd jumped down from the wall and was now standing in jungle-like shrubbery. He was completely hidden from view. He was also completely trapped. He had not considered how he might rescale the wall without an autocab to stand on. But that was a problem for later. For now there were other concerns.

  There was this loading bay. He had circled the entire building and there was this one obvious entrance for bulky deliveries such as large paint vats. And it was open. And when he entered it he could see that it was very obviously the institute's goods receiving bay. He could also see what he'd been searching for: three vats, three green, Spazum paint vats. They were unmistakable. As unmistakable as were their contents. They were all full of water.

  'Water,' he pronounced to himself. 'Water.'

  And then, just as he was trying to work out what this could possibly mean, two complete strangers grabbed him by the knees. Renton was shocked. But he was also puzzled. By their lowly positions. Not in a social status sense but in a physical configuration sense. They were both on their hands and knees. Or more precisely, on their free hands and knees. Their other hands were gripping his legs - really quite tightly.

  'Get down,' one of them barked. 'Get down.'

  It did seem a little rude to be standing while his hosts were below on all fours, and Renton complied without question. Immediately, his new companions switched their grasp to his upper arms and began pulling him away - towards a doorway. And it was strange doorway in that it was wider than it was high. It was no more than four feet to its top, but it was easily wide enough to accommodate three people shuffling forwards side by side - all on their hands and knees. Renton was baffled. He was also mildly amused.

  Their progress was interrupted on the other side of the doorway, when one of Renton's quadrupedal guards made a call from an intercom on a nearby wall. This gave Renton an opportunity to survey his new acquaintances and his new surroundings.

  He studied the guard making the intercom call. He was a regular-looking humanoid with a rather out-of-the-ordinary, pointed nose, but otherwise nothing unusual. His clothes, however, were a little strange. He was wearing a “shirt”, but it was a shirt that was no more than a tube of material stretching from his waist towards his shoulders and ending just short of his arms. Renton could not see how it would not simply slide down when he stood up. There were no armholes, no collar, and nothing else to suspend it when its wearer was in the vertical. Then there were his trousers. These were more conventional than the shirt, but they had built-in kneepads, and these pads matched similar smaller pads at the ends of his socks. He wore no shoes. Renton's razor mind had little trouble in concluding what all of this meant. It meant that these guys were not dressed for any perpendicular form of living - that these guys spent their entire lives on their hands and knees.

  Everything about the surroundings reinforced this view. The intercom being used by the guard was set in the wall no more than two feet from its base. There were other controls set at a similar height. And in one corner of the room they'd entered was a “table”. It was, in fact, no more than a sheet of plastic resting on the floor. And on it were glasses and mugs - each with a drinking straw. 'Just what you'd need to drink from when you're on all fours,' thought Renton.

  There was also a long “desk” running along one wall. Like the table it was resting on the floor, and set in front of it was a padded bench about eighteen inches high. But not a bench made for sitting on. No, this one was designed for chest-resting - allowing the horizontal quadrupeds to use their hands on any desktop duties they might need to attend to - without falling forward.

  This was a seriously horizontal room. And, Renton suspected, the whole building might be equally shy of the vertical.

  He was right. When the threesome resumed their progress through the long corridors of the institute, they moved through a world populated by people shuffling around on their hands and knees. And very obviously expert in this form of motion. So much so that they made it look entirely natural. And they were even able to maintain a very respectable “walking” speed. Renton, however, could not. His inexpertise was just as obvious, and his attempts to keep up with his captors were proving totally inadequate. He was continually toppling forward - despite their best efforts to support him. Clearly this enforced form of frogmarching was a little too literal to manage. At least, for a learner like Renton.

  The purgatory had finally come to an end, and Renton was now crouching before the redoubtable Professor Polisible in his study - not thinking about a haircut. He knew it was the professor because a handsome nameplate on his one-inch high desk announced this fact in neat copperplate.

  The professor was an old man with very little hair. Renton noticed this immediately as it was the top of the professor's head that was facing him. The old academic was inevitably on all fours with his chest resting on a very elegant bench, another one clearly designed for this purpose. And he wore under his eyes a pair of mirror spectacles that allowed him to observe his uninvited guest without raising his head. His face was to the floor. He looked at Renton and the world through the upside down imagery of these novel specs, a visual aid apparently unavailable to the other inmates of the asylum.

  Finally he spoke. His voice was precise and colourless. 'We have few visitors to Eviva Village. Even fewer enter our institute in such an unconventional manner.'

  Renton responded with silence. He thought it better to gauge just how upset his hosts might actually be before he chanced any sort of chit-chat with them. And anyway, the professor quickly went on.

  'My apologies for posing such unimaginative questions, but who are you and what do you want? And why were you trying to sneak yourself into this building?'

  Renton improvised: 'Uhh… uhh… My name is Renton Tenting. And I'm looking for a scoop.'

  'A scoop? What do you mean, a scoop?' intoned the professor. 'You mean a shovel?'

  'No, no,' responded Renton, 'a journalistic-type scoop. You know. A news story. One nobody else knows about.'

  'And you're looking for th
is scoop thing in Eviva Village? Well that, I have to say, sounds rather implausible. Tell me, what is the nature of this exclusive scoop story you're so eager to obtain?'

  Renton frowned. 'Well, what goes on in… in Eviva Village. What your study programme is all about. Errh, like why you're all living on your hands and knees. That sort of thing.'

  'And this is going to be an exclusive story?' huffed the professor. 'Young man, I don't know from which backwater of our glorious universe you have recently emerged, but I'm afraid you will find that any story pertaining to our work here is hardly exclusive. Our work and its purpose are already well known throughout the galaxies. Our research is renowned. And I'm stunned you don't know this. I can only imagine you must live in some very remote corner of the universe, somewhere at the very far limits of civilisation. Tell me, where, precisely, do you live?'

  'Errh… on Omoria. On a planet called Omoria.'

  Renton saw the reflections of a sneer in the professor's eyes through his mirror spectacles.

  'Omoria? Never heard of it. Must be most backward.'

  'Well,' conceded Renton, 'it's certainly not at the centre of the universe, I suppose.'

  'No, I suppose it isn't,' agreed the professor. And then he went on. 'So you're a journalist of some sort, are you? Well, as you've come all this way and as you seem to have an audience back on Omoria, or whatever the place is called, who are all ignorant of our work - and as it's my birthday and I'm in such an unusually good mood this morning, I suppose you might as well be sent on your way with some basic idea of what we do here. A simple precis of our work that your underdeveloped Omorians might just understand.