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STEVEDORE BANGED DOWN his cup. “I’m back to work.” He strode out without a backwards glance. That left me with a cup in my hand and trouble on my mind. I sipped slowly as I studied the robot over the rim. The wretched thing was wavering gently in the middle of the kitchen, one of its servo-motors whirring unnaturally loud every time it kicked in.
It probably wasn’t going to be that difficult to knock it off. I glanced around at what was to hand. There was a hefty-looking frying pan hanging by the stove.
But then I softened. By the look of it his demise seemed all but inevitable, if not immanent. “Graves, old chap,” I asked conversationally, “What model are you?”
“I’m a TK Turbo Nine, sir. Built in 2298.”
Bingo, my guess about his age was bang on.
“Ah. So was that a good year for robots, then?”
“No sir. The TK Corporation made nothing but crap that year.”
I pondered his reply for a few seconds, trying to decide whether his circuits were already sufficiently fried to make his testimony unreliable in a court of law.
“How long were you indentured to the service of Mr Hickster, Graves?”
“His entire life, sir, since he turned one.”
“Ah, very good. And was Mr Hickster a kind man to you?”
“No sir. He was a complete prick, sir!”
I pondered that for a while too. Perhaps this silicone-brained twit was more reliable than I thought. “When did you arrive here, Graves?”
“Forty two, sir.”
“Uh ... right.” I contemplated the frying pan option once more, but didn’t act. I needed more time to think this over. Also, smacked him in the head would completely miss his brain.
“Graves, ah, go and fetch me those cough drops now, would you?”
“Right away, sir!” He spun around efficiently and promptly collided with the cupboard door I’d left open. “Here you are sir!” he called cheerfully as he closed it and whirred away out the far doorway. I gently banged my head on the counter top for a few seconds until I knew it would feel good to stop, then stopped.
It felt good.
He returned with some medication I didn’t even recognise, opened the cupboard to its previous position and stopped in the middle of the floor facing away from me. “Ah, Master Bagel at last. I am Graves, part of your inheritance. The Authority has already authorised my transfer to your care.”
Right, I was beginning to get the picture. I made a decision.
“Ah, Graves is it?” I said in a firm, authoritarian voice, “Good. Please go at once to your recharging cupboard and wipe all memories of your previous master.”
“Certainly sir!” It turned around, stepped smartly through the doorway it had originally sprung out of, and came back out again immediately.
“Will that include the data and programs he stored in me while he was Mayor?”
Hello.
“No. Ah, I’d like to keep those. Thanks for asking.”
“Very good sir.” It went back into its cupboard and shut the door. It didn’t come out for some time. Just when I figured it had managed to screw up my instructions it came surging out again. “Ah, that feels better.” It declared.
“Nothing like a good crap, is there?” I said to test a theory.
“Certainly not sir! Would you be needing those cough drops now?”
“Ahhh, no thank you. Just make me some coffee if you have any.”
“Right away sir!” It whirred to a cupboard and took out a metal canister.
“May I smell it first?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t rat poison or something.
“Certainly sir!” He offered me the can. It was coffee.
“It’s good. Carry on.”
Graves got to work, producing a tortured squeaking sound I finally realised was meant to be cheerful whistling. Yes indeed, I thought, the TK Corporation certainly did make some crap that year. But the coffee was surprisingly good. I halved my cup into another cup and took the second one through to Stevedore. “Coffee, mate?”
Grunt.
I left it near the door and went back to the kitchen. Graves was squeaking happily, wiping the counter top in an endless repetition of the same pattern of swipes. I figured I had better get that data out of him before it was too late.
“Graves old chap. About that data you mentioned.”
“What data would that-at-at-at-at be, sir?”
“One of the former Mayors of this town installed some data in your system.”
“Really, sir? Fancy that.”
I contemplated head-on-counter therapy again, but thought I’d better persevere, “Yes. His name was Mayor Hickster. I’ll be needing that data now, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, sir!” He raised his left fist at me, middle finger pointing directly upwards, “Where shall I stick it, sir?”
I looked closely at the proffered finger tip. It had a small dark blue window built into it. Some sort of primitive light-stream data transfer system.
“Is that some sort of primitive light-stream data transfer system?”
“Certainly sir! Where shall I stick it?”
I was tempted. Oh yes, I was so tempted. But I figured that Graves probably didn’t have a rectum anyway. “What sort of computer can take that data?”
“Anything with a Routed Electro-Conflux T-Unified Matrix will do fine sir.”
“Say that again, that matrix bit.”
“Routed Electro-Conflux T-Unified Matrix.”
I wrote it into my notebook carefully. “Is there one of those here?”
“I’ll go and look, sir!”
I rested my head on the cool counter again and savoured the thought of more treatment, then got up and started searching the house. Knowing Hickster he’d probably have a few other dirty secrets lurking. After about half an hour, and well before Graves reappeared from wherever he had gone to, I came across a small plain package at the back of a cluttered cupboard. Curious, I slit open the old brittle tape.
Cigarettes!
Hastily I pulled my hand clear, letting out an involuntary squeak of terror. Had I come in contact with any of the active ingredients? Carefully I sniffed my fingers. They smelt slightly of weather-cured chitin, but that was all. With my heart beating fast I then noticed that each packet was sealed in clear plastic. Gingerly, using a knife from the kitchen, I levered out the top layer to estimate the contents of the box.
Thirty packets of twenty each. I knew enough about this stuff to realise I was looking at an estimated street value of six million credits. But the odd thing was, Hickster had declared himself broke. Had he simply forgotten about these?
Cigarettes! According to my medical studies they were made of the most addictive and dangerous substance in the Galaxy. Nervously I took the box to the kitchen and checked that the garbage shredder was working. When Graves finally returned, bearing a packet of cough drops, I slid the box along to him and said, “Put all of these little boxes down the shredder will you? They’re past their use-by date.”
“Certainly, sir!” He set to work at once. I hastily retreated, fearing the fumes.
Holy crap, I'd just passed on the chance to earn six gigs. I’d finally done something ethical! Felt my Brownie Points clicking upwards at last.
#
I SEARCHED THE HOUSE again but didn’t find any more cigarettes, or a computer with the requisite R.E.C.T.U.M. Hickster must have dumped his original one years ago. But I had by then become almost crazed with curiosity about that data. I told Graves I was going out for a while and called a taxi. I didn’t dare trust him to do it right. When I got home to the clinic I started the computer and asked it straight off, “Do you have a Routed Electro-Conflux T-Unified Matrix?
“No. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes, were you by any chance made by the TK Corporation?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky.” I turned it off and left for the Club.
No one knew of anyone with a computer old enough. “Have you tried asking Stevedore?” asked Tipper, already on her third beer, “Speaking of which, he should be here for Sharp’s show by now.”
“I’ll get him.” I went outside. There wasn’t a taxi to be seen. I decided to walk. It was very nearly the last stupid thing I ever did. After surviving a tourist run to The Edge, it would have been sweet injustice to expire simply by walking to Hickster’s mansion.
I arrived gasping for breath. It had taken me fifteen minutes because although I sort of knew the way at surface level, I was only guessing it on the taxi level. After three false turns and an extra seven minutes, I had pushed the passive osmosis pump in my breather ring way past its limit. I’ll admit it, I was terrified out there in the night, utterly alone on an empty one-lane taxiway with no side rails, with barely any light to navigate by, and no sat-nav.
Gratefully I staggered into the mansion and gasped in some good air. All was quiet except for the sound of a power tool at work. I went further in. Stevedore was lost in his work. The new piano was starting to take shape. I reminded him about his show.
“Bloody hell!” he cried, dropping his tools and running around in a panic trying to find his top hat and cape. He found them eventually, in his truck.
I accepted a ride. He drove like a maniac. For the fourth time that day I thought I was going to die, and didn’t. (Was it a good sign, or was I blowing my nine lives way too fast?)
As we locked into the new club’s more extensive parking bay I suddenly remembered why I needed to talk to Stevedore. “Hey, while I remember, have you got a computer with a Routed Electro-Conflux T-Unified Matrix?”
“Sure, back at the house.”
Lacking a marble counter top, I found a good substitute in the form of a tiled wall in the men’s and gave myself a brief but satisfying pain/relief treatment.
It pays to know a bit about medicine.
#
I DIDN’T STAY LATE, catching a taxi home at midnight. Even then I had a twelve minute wait for a free cab. The town was seething with people. At home the kitchen was a mess and the office computer was winking. “You have one message,” it told me as I went past the door.
I went in and sat down. “Play it.”
The screen filled with the nano-surgically enhanced face of Dr Panther. “Bagel,” she began in her usual brisk manner, “Getting good reports on your work. Keep it up. But wondering why your power bill is up fifty percent. Call me.”
I played it again, studying her face for any sign of guile, but for once she appeared guileless. Tiredly I switched it off and went to the bedroom. I gathered up my un-processed laundry and dumped it on the floor then dumped myself in its place. Fook; every time I got near that bed I felt instantly exhausted. Despite that I took a long time to get to sleep. So much on my mind. I had to call Panther and explain about my power bill, murder a robot, keep even more Kirrikibats happy and find a way of disposing of an embarrassing amount of gold. And in my new role as the town’s miracle worker I was probably expected to restore the missing earthquakes and improve the taxi service too.
For a brief moment my old life in Crush Central seemed quite appealing.