“Like they protected her from you?” Raoul asked, with a slight, sweet smile.
Xris stared at him.
“You found her,” Raoul continued. “It would have only been a matter of time before the Hung accomplished the same task. She would have died at their hands. And she would have died alone.”
“She’s alone now,” Xris muttered.
“No, Xris Cyborg. For you are in her thoughts. And she is in yours.”
“A lot of help that’s going to be.”
“There is nothing you can do, my friend. The matter is out of your hands, beyond your ability to control. And that, of course, is why you find it frustrating. It is very presumptuous, not to mention egotistical, for you to take responsibility for the odd quirks and twists of fate. Only the Creator—should He, She, or It exist—may lay claim to that, for which blessing we should all be extremely thankful.”
“You’ve been hanging around Quong too much,” Xris snapped. He was silent a moment, brooding, then said abruptly, “Anyhow, thanks for what you did for her. And, again, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“No thanks are needed, Xris Cyborg,” Raoul returned. He shut the compact, placed it back in his purse, along with his makeup kit. “Although the apology is accepted. As you said, Darlene is one of the team. One for all and damn the torpedoes, as our friend Tycho has been known to say. And here comes that wretched woman!” He glanced at Xris from beneath lavender eyelids. “I can’t think what you see in her!”
Xris patted reassuringly the pocket where the coded message resided. The first moment alone on Harry’s spaceplane, he would try to get through to Darlene.
Tess motioned them to join her. She was brisk, cool, a demeanor put on—Xris guessed—to conceal her nervousness and anxiety. This job had every prospect of blowing up in her face now. He should have felt a little vindictive satisfaction, but he was gloomily aware that— if the bomb went off—he was standing right beside her. Tess managed a smile for Raoul.
“You look lovely,” she said sincerely.
“No thanks to you!” Raoul sniffed, tossed his hair, and—well-groomed head held high—flounced past her.
Jeffrey Grant sat in his spaceplane, eating a chocolate bar and watching the two armed MPs standing guard outside the hatch. He wasn’t surprised at the reception he’d received. He was actually pleased. It restored his faith in his government. He was glad to think that they were on top of this matter, that they were treating this with the respect it was due. He’d been worried that no one here would understand the danger, that he would have to be firm and persuasive.
If there were two things he was not good at, it was being firm and persuasive.
As it was, obviously these people knew the treasure they had and were guarding it carefully. Grant settled back and finished the chocolate bar.
He had enjoyed the trip. It felt good being at the controls of a spaceplane once more, even if it was a rental, and a cheap one at that. He threw the candy wrapper in the trash compactor, took another look at the antique machine that he’d brought with him. He’d strapped the unit into the copilot’s seat to keep it from being jostled. The machine was still humming, loudly, contentedly. Grant found himself humming, too. A tuneless song, a song whose words he’d long since forgotten ... or had never known. Something about robot blues.
He puttered around the plane, tidying up, for he knew he would be receiving visitors. This done, he went back to his chair and amused himself by watching the comings and goings of the squadrons, naming each type of plane as it landed or took off, imagining himself at the controls, wondering what missions they were flying. He was so absorbed in watching and imagining and wondering that he didn’t, at first, notice the rather odd procession advancing across the tarmac toward his plane. When he did, he glanced at them, said to himself “Time for your debriefing, Captain,” and returned to revel in the glorious sight of a Claymore bomber thundering into the Pandoran sky.
The MPs saluted. Grant was quick to open the hatch, so as not to annoy anyone. He met his guests at the entrance to the small plane.
“Please come in, Captain, sir, Captain, ma’am,” he said shyly, speaking standard military, to put them at ease. “You, too, uh ...” He was momentarily stumped on the lovely personage with the lipstick, long hair, pants, and an Adam’s apple. He finally gave up and coughed to cover his embarrassment. As for the small figure in the fedora and the raincoat. Grant looked at it with interest. Turning to the female captain, he said politely, “Your child, ma’am?”
“Uh, no,” the woman replied, taken aback. “He’s—”
“A spy,” said the lovely long-haired person. “He’s incognito. So am I.” The lovely person sat down, crossed his legs. “You won’t tell, will you?”
“No, certainly. Of course not,” Grant murmured.
The female captain appeared to be under considerable strain and this exchange did nothing to relax her. She frowned and bit her lip and shot an irritated glance at the male captain.
“Won’t you all please sit down?” Grant said, recalling the duties of a host. “Would you care for refreshment? I have soft drinks and chocolate bars.”
“No, thank you,” the male captain said, smiling politely. “My name is Captain Xris Kergonan. This is Captain Tess Strauss. This is my aide, Corporal de Beausoleil, and this person”—he indicated the small being in the raincoat—”is known only as the Little One. I can’t tell you his real name. Military security.”
Grant nodded. “Very sound.”
“What?” Captain Kergonan appeared confused.
“I said, “Very sound,’“ Grant reiterated. “In light of the circumstances. Now”—he clasped his hands together, to keep from wringing them, which would have looked undignified—”please tell me. Where is the robot?”
“Robot?” Captain Kergonan leaned against the control panel. “I must tell you, Mr.”—he lifted his hand, glanced at the pilot’s license he held; the MPs had confiscated the license immediately upon Grant’s arrival— “Mr. Grant, that you are in very serious trouble. The people of Pandor do not like off-worlders. They have laws which prohibit them from visiting this planet—”
“Oh, dear,” said Grant, truly distressed. “I didn’t know. I’m terribly sorry. Will this cause an ... an ...” Momentarily he couldn’t think of the word. “An incident, do you suppose?”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Captain Strauss. “We’re going to try to smooth this over. I’m sure you don’t want to cause trouble.”
“I really didn’t mean to violate any laws,” Jeffrey Grant said, worried. “I suppose I should have checked first, before I came, but I was so upset about the robot, you see. I didn’t know who had it and I was afraid they might damage—”
“Excuse me. What robot?” Captain Kergonan asked mildly.
At this point, the lovely person—Grant couldn’t recall his name—reached out with a delicate hand and tugged on the back end of Captain Kergonan’s uniform.
“Give it up, Xris Cyborg,” said the lovely person. He indicated the small being in the raincoat. “The Little One says to inform you that this drab gray person is not Sakuta or Harsch or anyone else except himself. And”— dramatic pause—”he himself knows more about the robot than anyone else here in this spaceplane.”
Jeffrey Grant smiled shyly, proudly, glad to be appreciated.
Chapter 24
Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.
Francis Bacon, “Apophthegms contained in Resuscitatio” No. 36
Dr. Quong and Tycho, accompanied by two MPs, walked over to the maintenance shed. The MPs had been briefed by Tess, who told them that a problem had developed with the colonel’s exhibit materials; the crate appeared to be malfunctioning. Although it presented no threat at the moment, Dr. Quong and Tycho, expert on biochemical warfare, were going to check the crate out, remove it to a place of safety. The MPs were ordered to show Quong and Tycho the way to the maintenance shed, go along to see that no unauthoriz
ed personnel obstructed the proceedings.
Not being required to strictly guard the two, the MPs walked several paces ahead, clearly not wanting to come any closer to Tycho than was necessary. The “chameleon,” for his part, altered the shade of his skin to a sickly bluish gray, which, with his excessive thinness, made it look as if he were in the last stages of some wasting disease. He and Quong were able to talk freely without fear of anyone overhearing.
“Why is it,” Tycho grumbled, his translator giving his voice a tinny, mechanical sound, “that no one ever hires us for a normal job?”
“Define normal,” Quong said.
“I could if I wanted to,” Tycho said, taking offense. “In several different languages.”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. What do you consider to be a normal job for people such as ourselves?”
“Ah, I see. Yes, well ...” Tycho gave it some thought. “Not the job itself so much as the fact that it should have a clear-cut beginning, a clean middle, and a swift and satisfactory finish. And the money should be good and in no way traceable. With us, it’s always the same. Either the job gets screwed up somehow or we end up having to report the income. Or both.”
“Friend Tycho, as a citizen, it is your duty to pay taxes,” Quong said seriously.
“And who tries, every year, to take the payments on his sports runabout as a medical deduction?”
Quong bristled. “Driving the runabout is a reliever of stress, as I have several times informed you. I have a written medical opinion—”
“Of your own writing.”
“—that it is necessary for my mental well-being— Ah, I think we have arrived at our destination.”
The MPs had stopped, were talking to a sergeant, who was wiping greasy hands on a rag and looking considerably alarmed.
“The crate is over there in the corner, sirs,” he said as Tycho and Quong approached. He nodded in the general direction, apparently had no intention of getting any closer. “There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
“We certainly hope not, Sergeant. Now, have you or any of your people come within a three-meter distance of the crate?” Dr. Quong asked crisply.
“Three meters.” The sergeant ruminated, shook his head. “Nope, sir. Why? What would happen if we did?”
Tycho produced a strange-looking instrument from his briefcase. Activating it, he pointed it at the sergeant and touched a button, producing a slight whooshing sound. A series of lights began to flash different colors.
“What’s that, sir?” The sergeant eyed it suspiciously.
“Have you experienced any of the following in the past twelve hours: dizziness, nausea, trouble swallowing, fever, swelling of the hands or feet, bloody stools, coughing, vomiting, or premature ejaculation?” Dr. Quong asked, electronic notebook in hand.
Huh?” The sergeant blinked at them, backed up a pace. “I—”
“What about tenderness of the stomach, swelling of the head, skin eruption, or attention deficit disorder?”
The sergeant, looking worried, put his hand to his brow. “Now you mention it, I—”
“Thank you!” Tycho said abruptly, switching off his toothbrush and inserting it back into his briefcase. “All appears normal, Doctor. He has not been contaminat— er—affected.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Quong murmured. “Now, Sergeant, if you could show us the crate ...”
“Over there, sir, next to the Devastator. You can’t miss it.” The sergeant stood his ground, was apparently not going anywhere near the crater.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Dr. Quong, and turned to the other mechanics. “Perhaps you gentlemen could wait outside.”
This request was obeyed with alacrity, most of those within the work area having already sidled over near the door. When everyone was outside the shed, the MPs took up a position in front of the door, a completely unnecessary precaution.
“See, friend Tycho?” said Quong, as they walked over to find the robot crate. “This was easy.”
They discovered the crate leaning up against the Devastator, just where Xris had described it. Tycho bent his long, thin frame, crouched down to peer at it.
“You are being overly pessimistic,” the doctor continued. Quong remained standing, keeping an eye on the MPs.
“Am I?” Tycho straightened. His expression was grim. His skin had Hushed to a fevered orange. “Take a look at this and tell me if I’m being a pestilence.”
“Pessimist,” Quong corrected; Tycho’s translator occasional lapsed into incoherence.
The doctor walked over, bent down to study the robot crate. He took a good, long look. Quong raised his gaze.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“Without a paddle,” Tycho added gloomily.
Chapter 25
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies,
Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray, “Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College”
Ignorance is bliss and Xris was, for the moment, blissful. Or rather, he had his own set of problems and was operating under the assumption that these problems were his most urgent problems. Which meant that he was currently blissful, if only by contrast.
He and Tess, Raoul and the Little One were all crowded together in the front of the rent-a-plane, discussing Jeffrey Grant. Grant hovered near, shy, uncomfortable, and persistent.
“You’re saying that the Little One figured this all out telepathically.” Tess cast a scornful glance at the rain-coated figure. “And that’s how he knows that this man knows about the robot.”
“Of course,” Raoul said loftily. “How else would he know?”
“Oh, maybe because this man works for you. That he showed up right on cue—”
“For what reason?” Xris asked impatiently. “To do what?”
Tess lifted her hands helplessly. “I don’t know! I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know who to believe.
All right. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that the Little One is right. That this man does know something about the robot. How?”
“Maybe he’s Harsch,” Xris suggested. “Maybe he’s using the telepathic scrambler.”
The Little One opened his small palms, slapped himself on the forehead several times.
“No. He could tell,” Raoul stated flatly.
The Little One put his head between his two hands, heedlessly smashing the rim of the fedora, and rocked his head back and forth, rolling his eyes.
“He said that the entire time we were with Sakuta, he”—Raoul gently touched his friend on the shoulder—” felt dizzy and sick. He thought it was some sort of flu and he said nothing about it, for fear Dr. Quong would start poking at him again. No offense to the good doctor,” Raoul hastened to add. “But you must admit that his bedside manner is somewhat abrupt—”
“The telepathic scrambler,” Xris reminded Raoul. The iridescent-winged mind had fluttered from one flower of conversation to another, required netting.
“Ah, yes.” Raoul had to pause to think of where he’d been. “The Little One thought he was coming down with the flu. He didn’t, however. His health has been excellent, as you know. The strange feeling passed, but it left him rather out of sorts. In a bad mood. He kept thinking that something was wrong and he should know what, but he couldn’t figure it out. And then, during the party, when I mentioned to Darlene that the assassins had scramblers, he put two and whatever that other number is together and came up with—”
“Assassins? Scramblers?” Tess looked from Xris to Raoul.
“Not important,” Xris said. “Another case we were working on. I know one thing. This isn’t the same person I met at the museum. Not by a long shot. Of course, Harsch might be a master of disguise.”
“The Little One says that this is not Harsch,” Raoul reiterated. “The Little One is of the opinion that this Grant person is precisely the
Grant person he claims to be. He has acquired knowledge about the robot from years of study of ancient space flight, with particular emphasis on ... on ...” Raoul waved a vague hand. “Professor Lasagna ..
“Lasairion, sir,” Jeffrey Grant corrected. He had been listening to the conversation with the befuddled gaze of someone whose translator is on the fritz. He could understand a few words from time to time, but most of the talk was meaningless. Now, however, he had heard something he understood. He rose to his feet, literally trembling with excitement. “Do you know about Professor Lasairion?”
Raoul bowed from the waist. “God forbid. I am merely the translator. And then, of course, there is his machine.”
“What machine?” Tess demanded, clearly rattled.
Raoul pointed to the copilot’s chair. They all trooped around to look. In the chair, strapped in lovingly with extreme care, was some sort of strange-looking machine. A small electric backlit screen tilted up from an ancient computer keyboard—the kind with all the letters in the most inconvenient places. A blue light flashed intermittently on the side of the machine. An odd, yet not unpleasant humming emanated from it.
“Please don’t touch it, Captain,” Grant begged, as the entire contingent stared at it. “It’s very old and delicate.”
“Another antique,” Xris said. “With a few more of these we could hold a garage sale.”
“It is very special,” Raoul said, with a knowing flutter of his eyelids. “This machine is in communication with the robot. According to the Grant-person, that is why it is making that tooth-grating sound.”
Jeffrey Grant gazed at the Little One in astonishment. “That’s exactly what I was thinking! He’s quite remarkable, isn’t he, sir? As for the humming sound, I know it is a bit irritating. I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m not completely certain how it works—”
Tess interrupted him. “This machine’s in communication with the robot. . . Good God!” She bent down, peered at it intently. “Are you telling me that this machine is a ... a Collimated Command Receiver Unit?”
Robot Blues Page 23
