“And so now what do I do?” Tess appealed to them. “If the Navy flies in to take out the Corasians, we lose Harsch. If we lost the robot, we lose Harsch. Harsch loses the Corasians. The Corasians attack our outposts. God! I got lost myself trying to solve that one.
“But then, suddenly, everything’s all right!” Tess spread her hands. “We recover the robot. I think, fine, we can carry out the mission as planned. Everything’s on track. And then you”—she looked at Xris—”want to chuck the whole thing and run off on some godforsaken rescue mission!”
Xris sat silent, sucking the flavor out of the wad of the twist in his mouth.
“All right, so I have a suspicious nature,” Tess said. “In my business, that’s what keeps you alive. I wondered: Were you really ready to chuck the job and go off on a mission you knew was hopeless? Or did you intend to steal the robot, now that you knew how valuable it was? All my doubts came back. I had to do one thing: Get the robot to Harsch. And I had to do it fast. Maybe I made a mistake, threatening to blow up the plane. Maybe I should have just told you the truth, but even now, looking back on it, I don’t see where I could have reasonably made any other decision.”
“She’s got a point, Xris,” Jamil said. “A lot of what we did wasn’t real bright.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Quong observed with a shrug. “Harsch will never again sell technology to the enemy. And the Corasians will not be able to build space Lanes or take them out. Tycho died for a worthy cause. He deserves a commendation.”
“I’m not sure the rest of us do. One thing.” Xris lifted It is head, looked at Tess. “Why did you gas us when we landed on the Corasian ship?”
“Because you were going to fight to the death. I knew that. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I knew then that you were on the level. It was my responsibility to see that you came out of this alive, if I could. I figured that once we were on board, we’d at least stand a chance. As it turned out, I made yet another mistake.”
“You lost Jeffrey Grant.”
“That was a last-minute thing. I don’t know quite why I did it or what I hoped would happen. It’s just ... I felt so sorry for him. He was the innocent bystander. He didn’t ask for any of this. I knew Harsch and the Corasians would come on board the PRRS to pick up the robot. I figured that once they found it, they’d leave without bothering to search the rest of the spaceplane.”
“What did you plan to do with him then?” Quong asked.
“When I boarded the Corasian mothership, I sent a secret signal to the King James II, giving them our location. I knew the Navy was on its way. I figured Grant would stay hidden until I could come back for him. What I didn’t count on was the fact that Jeffrey Grant not only hid himself, he hid the robot, too.”
“So that’s what happened to it,” Xris said.
“That’s all I can think of. Harsch was furious when he couldn’t find it. Furious and scared. He knew what the Corasians would do to him if he came up empty-handed. At least it gave me a chance to keep you alive, Xris. The Corasians wanted to dissect you on the spot. I told Harsch that you had hidden the robot. He ordered the Corasians to keep you alive until he found out where.”
“We owe you our lives. Captain,” Quong said formally, and made a little bow. “I, for one, extend my thanks.”
“Me, too,” said Jamil. “And if Xris there doesn’t offer to take you someplace romantic and treat you to champagne and a chance to watch the moon rise over the ocean, you let me know.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Tess said, her face flushed. “I botched this job from the beginning. If it hadn’t been for you, for all of you ...”
Xris took out another twist. “Let’s call it even.”
“Xris!” Harry shouted up the ladder. “Message for you. From the Admiralty.”
Xris wondered what this was all about, figured it must be Dixter waiting to offer his heartfelt thanks. At the moment, Xris wasn’t in the mood. He stood up reluctantly, walked past Harry, headed for the cockpit.
Xris threw himself into the pilot’s chair, faced the comm.
“Xris here,” he said.
A face appeared, but it wasn’t the rugged, aging face of the Lord Admiral. It was ...
“Darlene!” Xris breathed. He was on his feet, leaning out to the screen, actually touching the screen as if he could touch her, make sure she was alive.
“Hi, Xris,” Darlene said. “Good to see you.”
“It’s damn good to see you!” he said fervently. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. So’s everyone on board the cruise ship. We didn’t make the Jump into hyperspace. We weren’t in the Lane when the robot took it out. But the ship was damaged by the explosion and we lost communications.”
“Explosion? What explosion?”
“When my window blew out.”
“Your ...” Xris stared at her. “What—”
Darlene grinned. “It’s a long story. I’ll have to tell you later. The captain won’t let me talk long. I’m under arrest.”
“Arrest!” Xris was completely baffled. He didn’t even know where to begin. “Look, just answer me one thing. Are you okay?”
“The captain’s turning me over to the Navy. I’m under twenty-four-hour guard. I’m fine, Xris. Good-bye for now. I’ll see you soon. Tell little Harry and the rest of the ‘kids’ I said hi.” She waved at him.
Her image faded away, was replaced by the grinning face of Mendaharin Tusca.
“Don’t worry, Xris,” Tusk said. “We know what’s going on. We’ll keep her safe.”
“Thank you, Tusk,” said Xris. “I mean that. And tell the Lord Admiral thanks, too.”
“And our thanks to you, Xris. You and your team. Oh, by the way, we recovered your Claymore. We’ll have it fixed up, returned to you. And the Navy will probably be able to find some money to reimburse you for your time.”
“Do me a favor, will you, Tusk? You heard about Tycho? Send that money to his family. I’ll let you know where, who to contact.”
Tusk nodded. “Sure thing. See you on board, Xris.”
The screen went dark.
The Scimitar cruised toward the massive King James II. Harry turned over control to the computer, went up to give the rest the news.
Xris spent a moment alone, gave his thanks to Whoever might be listening. He took another moment to ask that same quiet Listener to take good care of Tycho.
Then he called up, “Tess, can you come down here a second?”
She came to him, her expression troubled. “What is it, Xris? You sound so solemn.”
He took hold of her hand with his good hand, his only hand. “Is Jamil right? Are you into champagne and moonlit beaches?”
Tess smiled. “Actually, I’m more into beer and cheap motel rooms, but—”
He took her into his arms—make that arm—and kissed her.
Up above, Jamil whistled, Harry chortled, the Little One stomped his feet, Quong scolded the others for being crass, and Raoul—waking briefly—asked for someone to bring him his lip gloss.
“One more question,” said Xris, when he was free for talking. “What happened to Jeffrey Grant and the robot?”
“We’re not sure,” Tess said. “We hope to find him soon. The robot is immensely valuable to us now. For the first time, we have one that works and we have the professor’s unit.”
“So what’s the problem?” Xris asked. “Find Grant and take the robot back. He won’t be happy, but then, he’s a civilian.”
“I wish it were that easy.” Tess sighed. “You see, I told you one other little lie. I didn’t plant a real bomb in the PRRS. The bomb Harry found when he scanned was a decoy.
“I put the real bomb in the robot.”
Chapter 45
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on . . .
John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn
Jeffrey Grant managed to escape the Corasi
ans quite easily. He simply sat down in the pilot’s seat, ordered the computer to launch the PRRS, and then flew off. He expected someone to shoot at him.
No one did.
He expected to be caught in a tractor beam.
No beam appeared.
The Corasian collective mind was focused on other, more important details, such as endeavoring to discover the whereabouts of the robot and the acquisition of several prime hunks of meat. The collective mind paid no attention to Jeffrey Grant.
One might say it was the story of his life.
Mildly amazed at the ease of his escape, expecting any second to be surrounded by Corasian fighters, Grant nervously ordered the computer to find the nearest space Lane and jump into it.
The computer located the Lane, but reported that access was prohibited. Another ship or plane was occupying it at the time. Afraid that the Corasians were going to catch him, Grant flew on and eventually located another Lane.
This one was free. The PRRS made the jump.
The ship in the first Lane was the King James II, but Jeffrey Grant was never to know that.
While in hyperspace, on his way back to XIO, he spent the time polishing the robot, making it ready.
It occurred to Jeffrey Grant, just prior to landing, that the people at the rental-plane agency might take exception to the fact that he had lost their plane. While still in orbit above the planet, Grant contacted the agency, and attempted to explain.
“I had it parked on Pandor, you see, and left it only for a moment to go look—”
“Trant?” said the young woman. “Jeremiah Trant?”
“Grant,” said Jeffrey humbly. “Jeffrey Grant. I was only gone a mo—”
“Ah, Mr. Grant! No need to worry. Your rental plane was returned.”
“It was?” Grant realized a bit late he shouldn’t sound surprised. “I mean ... so it was. Should have been. I’m glad. Is ... is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Grant. The gentleman returned the plane, said that you would no longer be requiring it, and paid the bill in full.”
What she did not tell Jeffrey Grant was that the pilot who had returned the plane had arrived under Naval escort, had flashed his Naval Intelligence ID and had asked to be contacted if anyone named Jeffrey Grant turned up inquiring about the rental plane.
Jeffrey Grant was relieved and bothered at the same time. He was relieved over the fact that the plane was back—he had been wondering how he was going to pay for its loss.
He was bothered by its unexpected return.
He had the feeling that someone was following him.
All kinds of wild schemes and evasion plans flooded Grant’s mind, caused it—like an old-fashioned gas-powered engine—to stall out. Eventually Grant did what he had been planning to do ever since he escaped the Corasian mothership. He landed the PRRS in a field about fifty kilometers outside on XIO City.
Once down, he packed the robot in its crate. Using the remote control, Grant activated the robot’s crate, guided it to the hatch of the PRRS. Before he left, Jeffrey Grant wrote out a brief note of apology to the Royal Navy, explaining that he hadn’t really meant to steal their spaceplane, thanked the Navy for all it had done for him and the galaxy. He left the note on the console.
Grant made a final tour of the plane, picked up a briefcase which one of the Army officers had left behind, then exiled the PRRS. Grant made certain the door was locked, then briefcase in one hand, remote in the other he led the robot, concealed in its crate, out of a corn field and onto the main highway.
They hitched a ride with a gravtruck into town.
Jeffrey Grant sat at the cluttered desk in his small museum, penning meticulously and neatly the words on the placard.
LANE-LAYING ROBOT. CIRCA 2180. INVENTED. DESIGNED, AND BUILT BY COLIN LASAIRION. PH.D. FOR FURTHER INFORMATION. ASK CURATOR.
Grant had been a bit hesitant about adding that last notation foreseeing endless questions from tourists— but he believed that it was his duty to do what he could to educate his fellow man. He printed in bold letters across the bottom, DO NOT TOUCH.
He allowed the ink on the placard to dry, then set the placard in its stand.
Jeffrey Grant stepped back. Folding his hands together, he silently, calmly, proudly regarded a dream.
The robot with the sad eyes stood in the place of honor in the quiet little museum, against the far wall, directly across from the front door. The machine, designated as a Collimated Command Receiver Unit, stood at the robot’s side. The blue light no longer flashed, the machine no longer hummed. But the soothing light from its screen light which Jeffrey Grant had always found very attractive—glowed brightly.
Perhaps it was the angle of the light, shining up from underneath the robot, that caused the humanlike eyes of the robot to change expression. They looked—at least to Jeffrey Grant—almost happy. Either that, or the robot, now surrounded by familiar items from the past, felt truly at home here. Jeffrey Grant hoped that it was the latter.
He studied the exhibit a long time. He rearranged one of the robot’s telescopic arms at a better, more lifelike angle. He dusted all the rest of the objects in the museum, arranged and neatly stacked his old books.
Then he went on a search throughout the rest of the building, looking for other occupants, thinking that perhaps someone might have moved in while he was gone.
But no one had. It was a holiday on XIO. The building was empty.
Grant returned to the museum, waited for an hour or so to see if tourists would arrive.
None came. The street, as usual, was deserted.
Grant took one last look around, to make certain that all was as it should be.
It was.
He picked up the briefcase, walked out the door, made certain—fussily—that the door was locked. He walked down the street, walked several blocks, until he was in sight of his house.
Something unusual was happening at his house. Police cars, their lights flashing, were parked out in front, along with several expensive-looking vehics that were not marked. His neighbors had gathered in his yard. As he watched, a vid news crew pulled up.
Jeffrey Grant sat down on a bench at a bus stop. He could see, up the street, the building that housed his museum. He could see, down the street, his house.
Jeffrey Grant opened the briefcase. He reached inside, and pressed a small red button.
The explosion blew out the front of the museum, took down the entire building, sent a cloud of dust and debris a hundred meters into the air. The tremendous blast shook the ground.
Men in uniform dashed out of Jeffrey Grant’s house at a run. Heads turned. Fingers pointed to the rising column of smoke. The neighbors surged after them. Police sirens began to wail. Police cars sped past Jeffrey Grant.
The unmarked expensive vehics soared into the air. They flew past Jeffrey Grant.
The vid crew, which had, by purest chance, a vidcam aimed in the right direction, was going on the air, live. The crew roared past Jeffrey Grant.
Jeffrey Grant’s neighbors, who mostly didn’t know him, ran past him, hastening to the scene of the disaster.
Jeffrey Grant sat on the bench at the bus stop and happily explained to a young child, who had come out to watch the police cars, all about Professor Lasairion’s wonderful Lane-laying robots.
About the Authors
MARGARET WEIS is the New York Times best-selling author of over thirty books with more than twelve million copies in print. Her books include the Star of the Guardians series, the Death Gate Cycle, the Darksword trilogy, and the Dragonlance series.
DON PERRIN formerly worked for the Canadian defense department, most recently on electronic software. The authors are currently working on the third Mag Force novel, to be published in 1997.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About the Authors
Robot Blues Page 40
