The lunch broke up on this fine note of pompous bullshit, but a note that ironically contained a passing reference to a problem not apparent to the mighty Lysaars during Rattlepitt's lecture. In alluding to Rattlepitt's advanced years, Lysaars had been guilty of gross understatement.
Rattlepitt was nearly ninety years old, which for an insectal of his breed was very old indeed. His body's insectal exoskeleton tended to mask this ageing process - in the physical form - but it could do nothing to defer the onset of senility. This normally made its mark at about seventy years of age, and in Rattlepitt's case had coincided with his withdrawal from his valid electronics research and his move into the more bizarre and entirely bogus field of life-force research.
Rattlepitt was no longer rational. He didn't look it or even sound it, but he was in the most advanced stage of senile dementia, and all his research into immortality was no more than a pile of nonsense. His famous mathematics were based on a heavily flawed recollection of calculus, with “offsetting” rules that changed by the day and allowed any desired assertion to be mathematically proven without fail. Had Dr Rattlepitt tried it, he could have demonstrated mathematically that his mother had been a pair of lederhosen. Nobody was going to become immortal using the Rattlepitt method of life evermore. And the contraption he'd built to coax all those life-forces into their new host was effectively no more than a pile of junk. It might be able to play around with alpha patterns, but it couldn't add as much as a microsecond to anybody's life. It was completely and absolutely ineffectual in its primary purpose.
Unfortunately the bofar device was not a Rattlepitt contraption. It was based on real science and it was not ineffectual. It would work. And it would kill one hundred thousand souls. Completely needlessly. In two days time.
46.
On the way back from Iacouvou, they had used drugs. It had worked, but it had been a risk. And Boz had insisted they didn't do this again.
'So,' thought Renton, 'Shall I reveal the ear-protectors before we go into hyper, or just after?'
Renton really wasn't sure. But that he had to at some stage was a cert. He and Madeleine were now on their way to Dumpiter. And that meant he and Madeleine, without those super-relaxant drugs, were now on their way to another session of mutual blurting - with all its attendant consequences for their presently peaceful coexistence. In fact, they were now only seconds away from this aspect of the flight. Because it was now time to press that little red button, which would launch them into the realms of super-speed - and super-discomfort - as they once again gave voice to their innermost thoughts.
And Renton couldn't handle that. Not a second time. And so the ear-protectors. It wasn't the most sophisticated of solutions. But if they both couldn't hear the other's thoughts, it should do the trick.
'Uhm. After we go into hyper,' he decided. 'After all, no need to rush things, is there?' And so he reached over to the little panel at the back of the control console and flicked up its lid. Which was when Madeleine spoke.
'Wait,' she said. 'I've got something to say first. And I want to say it my way. While I still can. And you know what I mean, don't you?'
Renton did know what she meant. But he couldn't quite absorb this. Because he was still grappling with this totally unexpected announcement, and what it might lead to - taking into account how serious she looked…
'You see,' she continued, 'I think I've been a bit of a bitch. And I think I owe you some sort of explanation.'
Renton tried to protest. But he didn't quite manage it. And instead, his head nodded in agreement with Madeleine's proposal. But it didn't seem to matter. She was now set up for her confession, and whatever Renton did with his head, it wasn't about to stop her.
'And let's start with my bright idea of becoming a porn star. Well, what can I say? I was a complete idiot. And, of course, I've only myself to blame - not only for dreaming up such a load of old nonsense in the first place, but then for getting myself entangled in all this Lysaars business as well. But I didn't see it like that. Not then. I just blamed you - for everything. So, even when you came and rescued me on Crabbsbab, as far as I was concerned, you were still the villain, the true architect of all my ills. And I resented you even more. And maybe, if I'm really honest, there was a bit of pride being dented as well. You know, me being the copper and you being… well, you know, not the copper…
'And that was another problem. You know, your… your "unpredictable performance". That didn't help matters either. I mean, what you did on the milker… well, that was bloody impressive. It really was. But then you lost it, didn't you? Along with all our clothes and, I have to admit it, any remaining confidence I had in you that you actually knew what you were doing.
'And then, damn me, you go and deliver us into the arms of the wonderful Boz. Which is when, of course, I then go and discover that I've got this bump on my head and I realise I've been unremembered. And I also realise that it's not only Boz who's wonderful. So's this bloke who's been following me round, and who's been trying to save my life…
Madeleine stared at Renton, a look of mild exasperation in her eyes.
'But what happens then?' she continued. 'Yes, that bloody unbelievable blurting stuff. And well, I just couldn't believe it. And I couldn't deal with it either. It really bowled me over.
'And from what I can remember, I got a bit tetchy, didn't I? Until the episode with Gruspic. And what happened then, I'm not sure. But I think it was something to do with getting my self-respect back. Even if it was a rather strange way to do it.
'But getting my self-respect back also gave me my sense of perspective back. I'd been on the biggest roller-coaster of my life - by light years. And now I was back on terra firma, and back with the reality of my situation - and what you and Boz were both doing to help me - and how much you were both risking to help me.
'So you see,' she concluded, 'I needed to say all this. Because it's important. And if I'd not said it before you'd pressed that button there… well, I wouldn't be saying it at all, would I? In fact, God knows what I'd be saying.
'Oh, and sorry. Sorry for being such a bitch…'
Renton nodded again, this time not because he was trying to protest, but merely because he was stalling for time - and hoping that something sensible would come out of his mouth when he finally spoke.
'Uhmm…,' he said at last. And then something sensible did arrive. 'Uhmm, I don't know what to say, Madeleine. Other than I think for someone who's been… well, you know, been interfered with. And has this awful thing hanging over them… even though we know we'll sort it out… Well, it'd be a bit of a thing if you didn't get a bit upset. And especially with me. I mean, I do know I'm a bit of a dickhead, you know…'
'Very generous of you to say so. But very inaccurate as well. Having this bloody chip in my head doesn't give me a licence to be ungrateful and spiteful. And certainly not with you.
'And remember, I've already expressed certain other sentiments about your good self. On our way to Iacouvou… And if I recall correctly, they contained within them, not one single reference to the term: "dickhead".
'Possibly to another that's a little briefer… but definitely not to anything to suggest that I thought you were anything other than a real turn-on…'
'What!'
'Oh come on, Renton. You can't have forgotten. And you can't have forgotten what you said either. So let's just be grown up about all this.
'Look, we've got a long journey ahead of us, haven't we? And then there's the unknown. So why be bashful? Why not take our chances while we can?
'Oh, and incidentally, this isn't by way of an apology or anything. I've already done that bit. No, this is just me being a woman. And me hoping you'll be a man…'
Well, put like that, Renton was at a bit of a loss to assemble anything like a reasonable counter argument. And anyway, weren't carnal relations with women the very object of his original plan? Not necessarily this early maybe - but so bloody what… Oh, and didn't he quite fancy this particul
ar young woman as well - despite her infuriatingly bobbed hair and her intimidatingly fine bones? Yes, true love might be somewhere far beyond the horizon, and might never ever make it here at all. But true lust was right here with him now. And the lady he lusted after had not only made verbal reparations to their relationship, but she'd also made a proposition. So what was he waiting for…?
He leant over and pressed the red button. And when he'd done that, he pressed another one.
And then it was hours later, and Renton had woken and Madeleine had not.
He was glowing. And he was pondering. He was already re-living that magical encounter. Over and over again. Until he drifted too close to his emotions - when he started to consider his response to Madeleine's contrition. Had he been contrite enough himself? Had he been honest about his own resentment at her actions, about how offensive he'd found some of her behaviour?
Well no. Probably not. In fact, definitely not. In fact, he'd behaved like an entirely obnoxious creep, hadn't he? Happy to accept her own generous confession, but quite unprepared to accept his own culpability. He'd been a real heel.
But, there again, what could he have done? And she hadn't seemed to mind anyway. In fact, quite the reverse. Hell, look what had happened. Look how she'd distracted him. And yes, she had distracted him, hadn't she? Really quite effectively. And he'd never claimed to be perfect anyway…
And so this went on; Renton becoming more and more uncomfortable about how he'd acted, and more and more defensive about how he'd acted - and getting nowhere at all. Until ultimately he found a way out - through another concern. And this concern was whether he should be spending all this time mulling over his omissions of the past - when there was the future to consider…
After all, the future was very close. And it was very unknown and potentially very dangerous. And, almost certainly, it would revolve around Lysaars' business. So how about a bit of preparation, possibly a bit of mental list making of what they knew about this business? Hell, it was the least he could do.
So, eventually, Renton pushed to the side his thoughts of sins of the flesh and (his) sins of omission - and his general sense of discomfort. And, instead, he focussed on the evils of corporate crime - as practised by a fat man. And the final distillation he came up with was as follows:
• Lysaars was conducting a clandestine procurement programme to acquire vast amounts of spaceship paint;
• this paint was then being used in a respray operation - presumably of stolen spaceships;
• this was located on Dumpiter, the one planet in the universe where every vessel ever built finally ends its days, to be stripped down and partially recycled - and therefore the perfect place for such a nefarious endeavour; and
• the resprayed ships were then being sold on with false licences supplied by the obnoxious Gruspic, through his position in the Pan-Universal Registration Council.
And there was a secondary distillation as well - of questions, of the irritating, unanswered concerns surrounding this business, all of which were potential dangers in the near future - for the three pursuers of its chief bozo. They might now understand the basics of what was going on, but what might be the impact on their already puny chances of success of:
• not knowing the nature of the “big event” on Dumpiter, or
• not understanding the involvement in the piece of a troop of fruitcakes, all searching for the secret of eternal life, or
• not understanding the reference that Gruspic had made to raydox, and how this ubiquitous spacecraft-protection fluid fitted into the picture.
And there was more. Renton's performance of this listing process had left him with the distinct feeling that he had jumped to rather too many conclusions on the basis of the evidence to date - and that this athletic enthusiasm posed an even greater potential hazard than the unanswered questions. And that was even assuming that they could work out what they needed to do when they landed on Dumpiter…
It was all very well, this hot pursuit of the fat one. But how the hyper were they going to conduct this pursuit - on a planet they didn't know and on a planet where Lysaars could be anywhere?
Renton was more aware than ever that his lifelong tendency to think things through and plan things carefully had, ever since he'd embarked on this crazy escapade, been experiencing an extended episode of near anchoretic withdrawal. He was no longer Renton the Reckonner but Renton the Reactive. Get somewhere, see what happens and then respond to it. And hope. So far it had worked pretty well. But for how much longer?
Boz, in his quicker Starlaunch, was to fix a beacon at some out of the way place on Dumpiter. Renton and Madeleine would join him and then they would “take it from there”. In some way they would find out what was going on and then they would improvise, and do whatever it was they needed to do - to find Lysaars and to stop Madeleine's unremembering. An unavoidably reactive strategy. Renton just prayed it would work - at least for just one further time. It had to.
'Oh, and there's another piece to the puzzle,' he thought, 'the jitzies, the irrational behaviour syndrome. Where the hell does that slot in? It just doesn't fit…'
And it was just as he was thinking this that Madeleine awoke. And as Madeleine started to smile at him that there was a bleeping noise in the cabin. It was Boz's beacon -communicating automatically with their vessel. They were already that close.
'Dumpiter,' said Madeleine quietly.
'Yes, Dumpiter,' responded Renton in a whisper.
And then he realised something: for the very first time, the word sounded horribly threatening. And not even a new relationship with a new woman could blot out this truth - and especially a new relationship still soured by those sins of omission…
47.
A single xenon globe hung from the ceiling of the small cellar, its strange, sulphurous glow bathing the room in a dreary yellow light. Beneath the globe was a large metal table. It filled almost all the cellar. And at one end of the table sat Narry Zubfraim.
He was a big man with broad shoulders, but sitting there, in his grey, featureless cloak, he looked much smaller. He was stooped forward, as if in prayer. As if he were weighed down by an act of supplication. And the pained expression on his careworn face seemed to suggest the same thing: that this was a man who needed divine intervention. And maybe he did…
But he was not praying. After his meeting in the cellar with his “committee of friends” he was simply thinking. He was lost in thought - about how it had all begun. And how, in those dim, distant days, he and many like him had been ardent followers of Langail - and his plans to save their planet. Then, he had been as guilty as any in sharing in Lysaars' false vision of the future. The end had justified the means. A little bit of dishonesty for the best of causes was quite OK in Narry's book. Recycling spaceships wasn't exactly legal, but nobody was getting hurt, and just look what they'd get! A planet, their planet, racked with pain and disease, returned to health and a new life, a good, decent life. And an end to misery for its millions of suffering souls. Who could argue with the motives? And who in all honesty could argue with the means? It was no more than enlightened good sense.
Then the truth had started to seep through the thin walls of their naïveté, and they had begun to see the real consequences of what they had done. And they had also begun to appreciate just how far off was the promised redemption. Indeed many began to realise that it was so far off that it didn't count for anything at all. It was a pipe dream. Lysaars was never going to lead Dumpiter from its sick bed. Never in a million years.
But it was too late. They were locked in. Locked in by Langail's weakness and Lysaars' ruthlessness. There had been some rebellions of sorts, half-hearted affairs involving brief impassioned pleas to a frightened populace. But they'd been mismanaged or mistimed and they'd never stood a chance. In the end, for those whose consciences weighed heavy, there was nothing left to do but adopt a waiting game - as Narry had done. And then hope. Hope that one day something would happen. Something t
hat would lead to the salvation of their planet and to the salvation of its people.
Narry raised his head and stared into space. In the light of the cellar he looked jaundiced, and even his bright blue eyes looked strangely sickly.
'Have I done the right thing?' he said to himself. 'Or have I just unleashed even more misery on this wretched planet? And can I bear it if I have?'
His head dropped again, and suddenly he seemed smaller than ever.
48.
Renton took his first step onto Dumpiter, and his freshly brushed, left desert boot disappeared up to its lace in thick black oil. What he'd taken for a patch of shiny asphalt was, in fact, a puddle of gearbox oil no.2. Or more precisely, it was a puddle of gearbox oil no.2, laced with zillions of graphite resin globules. These globules rendered the oil useless as a lubricant, but they did add to its properties in aesthetic terms - and quite dramatically. And they did this by giving the oil a pearly, reflective appearance that pure oil simply didn't possess. It was really quite beautiful.
However, Renton didn't notice this improvement. Not at all. 'Bugger me. Look what I've trodden in,' was the full extent of his oil-appreciation comments. And when he added: 'Well, that's another pair ruined', his interest in the oil had very clearly already come to an end - as had presumably his interest in the other, still pristine desert boot - still resting on the bottom rung of the monoflight's access ladder.
He now bent to its terminally damaged partner, gingerly undid its lace and wriggled his foot free - and then let the puddle complete its job. The shoe sank - the very first casualty of the Dumpiter campaign.
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