Robot Blues (19 page)

This was going to
be the tricky part—getting the ‘bot inside the crate.

The robot was
regarding the crate with interest and, by the green light flashing on its head,
Xris guessed it was scanning the crate as it had scanned him.

“Inside,” said
Xris, pointing to the crate. “You go— inside.”

The voices were
coming closer, within range of the translator. He had deliberately left tracks
for them to follow. They had spotted the indentations of his boots and had
figured out quickly enough that they weren’t dealing with some sort of space
ghost.

“Go. Inside,” Xris
repeated, more urgently.

The robot
completed its scan. It drew its nineteen arms into its interior, flew over to
the crate, and nestled down into it.

“Grnx,”
it
said, and then all its lights blinked out.

The robot had shut
itself down.

“Sleep tight.”
Xris breathed easy for the first time since he’d entered that tomblike
spaceplane. He placed the robot’s missing arm gently next to it and shut the
lid of the crate. He even took time to make sure all the instruments were
reading correctly. After all the trouble he’d gone through to get this ‘bot, he
didn’t want anything happening to it during transit. Everything checked out.

Using the remote,
Xris sent the crate back up and over the fence. It drifted effortlessly to the
ground. He ordered it back to the maintenance shed, told it to shut down.

The voices were
headed his direction, following his tracks. Keeping near the fence line,
staying well clear of the road he’d taken into the construction site, Xris
returned to the main road, loped back in the direction of the town. He took
care to keep his tracks visible, stepping in muddy patches, crashing through
undergrowth.

He soon
outdistanced the voices, but they were hot on his trail. When he reached the
outskirts of town, he stopped, cleaned the mud off his boots, and after that
took care to leave no trail at all. He circled back around to Jake’s Bar.

He’d left security
a nice puzzle to solve. He hoped security would read it this way.

The night watchman
catches a thief looting the spaceplane. He scares the thief away. The thief
flees across the desert, only to run smack into the fence which surrounds the
Army base. The thief spends a few panicked moments trying to figure out how to
climb the fence, gives it up, and follows the fence line back into town. This
scenario should draw suspicion away from the Army base.

Of course, the
charade might be completely useless, given the fact that whoever had snatched
Jamil knew about them, the robot, everything. But Xris figured he should at
least make the effort. He took a few moments to detach his tool hand, replace
it with the “pretty” hand.

Captain Kergonan
returned and began to wonder just how the hell he was going to get back on
base.

Xris turned his
steps that direction.

The rain continued
to fall. He reached the main road, decided to take it, not risk getting himself
lost in the unfamiliar territory. He hadn’t been on the road long when car
lights beamed in the distance. They were coming from the base, not from the
town. He could hide in the ditch....

The hell with it.
Jail would be dry. And warm.

Xris stopped,
waved his arms.

The hoverjeep
pulled over. An MP climbed out.

Xris put on his
best contrite, shamefaced air. “Good to see you fellows,” he said.

A nuke lamp
flashed in his eyes.

“Captain Kergonan?”

“Yeah, that’s me.
You must be wondering—”

“Excuse me.
Captain. We were ordered out to search for you. Captain Strauss told us that
your colonel had sent you off base. You probably don’t know this, sir,” the MP
continued, keeping a straight face, “but there was some trouble at one of the
local taverns tonight.

Captain Strauss
was worried that you might have accidentally become involved. Maybe ended up in
a Pan-dor jail.”

“Well, yes, as a
matter of fact, I did happen to be in the vicinity. In all the confusion, I
guess I got turned around. I’ve been roaming around this damn desert half the
night.”

“Yes, sir,” said
the MP. “If you’ll climb into the car, sir, we’ll take you back to base.”

Xris climbed in,
settled down in the seat. Tess again. He’d have to send her something. A
present. He had no idea what she might like, but Raoul would know. He’d get
Raoul to pick out something nice....

It was after
midnight when Xris arrived back on base. The MPs drove him to his quarters,
gave him a brief scolding on letting someone know when he left base, let him
go. He headed for his quarters, just in case anyone was watching, then—halfway
there—he took a detour.

Arriving at the
maintenance shed to check on the ‘bot, Xris felt like a parent going to a child’s
bedroom to check on its slumbers. After some searching in the dark, he
discovered the crate nestled between a hoverjeep with a banged-up fender and a
light truck with a recoil-less launcher on the fritz. He opened the crate.
There was the ‘bot.

Xris debated
briefly hauling the ‘bot’s crate back to his room. The sound of measured
footfalls decided him against it. He could not have explained to anyone’s
satisfaction what he was doing taking his crate for a walk at this time of
night. Patting the ‘bot solicitously on the head, Xris shut the crate, returned
to the transient officers’ quarters.

His clothes were
soaked. He was cold clear through to his bones. He had aches in muscles he hadn’t
even thought were real muscles. He was dead tired—a reaction to spending half
the night living off adrenaline. He would have given six robots in six fancy
crates to be able to go to his room, lie down and relax. Unfortunately, he
still had more work to do.

He went to Jamil’s
room, packed up Jamil’s gear, and hauled it back to his own room, Xris still
had to get ready for that damn speech tomorrow.

He luxuriated in a
hot shower. Lying down on his bed, a twist in his mouth. Xris took out Jamil’s
electronic notepad, brought up the file on “Foreign Object Damage to Spaceplane
Engines,” and began to read. Within five minutes, Xris was asleep.

Tis an ill cook
that cannot lick his own fingers.

William Shakespeare,
Romeo and Juliet,
Act 3, Line 198

Nightfall on
Adonia. This was the evening that was to see the vanquishing of the enemy—Raj
Vu. Raoul’s party commenced precisely at 1800 hours. That is to say the party
began then. The guests did not start to arrive— nor were they expected—much
before 2200 hours. Most would show up after midnight and more than a few would
appear the next day, somewhere around the dinner hour. Adonians take a very
relaxed view of time.

Raoul was up
early, however, as are all generals on the day of the big battle. He crawled
out of bed around noon, applied a cucumber mask to alleviate the effects of the
stress of the last few days on his complexion, soaked in a seaweed bath to
boost his metabolism, and confided to Darlene that he’d taken only the mildest
of artificial stimulants, in order to keep his thinking clear.

He spent the rest
of the afternoon shampooing and styling his hair, applying his makeup, took two
hours to decide what to wear—this crucial decision had been preying on his mind
for days—and finally, at about 1800, appeared clad in a black unitard trimmed
with black sequins, accompanied by a white and black feather cape, sequined
black high heels, and an armload of red ruby bracelets.

“I’m dressing
down, my dear,” Raoul said to Darlene. “It’s impolite for the host to outshine
his guests.”

Darlene, in a
simple silk suit devoid of decoration, hoped she could stay awake for the
guests to arrive. The Little One kept to his room, partly in order to spare
Raoul’s nerves and partly to avoid being trampled by the armies on the side of
good.

Off-worlders often
expressed sympathy for those on Adonia who were forced to work for a living,
those who were the props and mainstays of the decadent lifestyle of the other
Adonians. What off-worlders failed to realize was that most Adonians work for a
living; it just doesn’t show.

Work takes second
place to pleasure. Office hours do not exist. If there is ever anything on
Adonia that has to adhere to a schedule, has to be done on time—the taking off
and landing of spaceplanes, for example—the Adonians hire off-worlders to see
to it.

The caterer was
actually early, but she compensated for this marvel by bringing the wrong food.
This occasioned a fight in the kitchen, which ended with Raoul pink-cheeked and
overheated but victorious, a cherry torte on the floor, and the caterer made to
deliver the layer cake made with nine different flavors of chocolate as she’d
been ordered.

“I can’t believe
she thought I wouldn’t know the difference!” Raoul sniffed.

The two bartenders
arrived on time, which proceeding made Raoul suspicious, but they assured him
it wasn’t intentional. The bartenders were extremely handsome young men, tanned
and muscular and highly Ornamental. Raoul tasted the champagne—just to make
certain
it
had not been replicated. Finding the bubbles genuine, he forgave
the bartenders and, after an exchange of kisses all around, showed them where
to set up the bars—one in the atrium amid the orchids and one by the side of
the swimming pool.

The pool cleaners
arrived with the first of the guests, who were highly entertained by the
proceeding and stood around sipping champagne and offering helpful suggestions.
The people hired to pitch the tent never came at all, but since it wasn’t
raining, Raoul didn’t miss them. The orchestra began as a soloist, grew to a
trio, expanded to a quartet, and by the end of the night had almost enough
members to play the Mozart symphonies that had been commanded, if you weren’t
picky about lack of violins.

Darlene sat
outdoors at a table near the swimming pool, drinking champagne, enjoying the
pageantry, the beauty, the splendor. And that was just the pool cleaners.

Raoul was the
perfect host, relaxed, charming, unperturbed, unruffled, no matter what the
emergency (such as when a group of guests set the deck on fire). He was
wherever he should be and wasn’t where he was not wanted. He mingled and
chatted and kissed and hugged, he welcomed Raj Vu as one long-lost brother
might have welcomed the twin he hadn’t seen in twenty years. And if Raoul made
a disparaging remark about Raj Vu appearing at an evening affair in blue
jeans—though they were decorated with rhinestones—this was only after Raj Vu
had been heard to make cutting remarks about the food.

Breathless and
panting, the Little One planted himself in front of his friend and made wild gestures
with his hands.

Raoul, preoccupied
with his insult, could think of nothing else. “Did you hear what Raj Vu said?
That my truffles were ... were ... were mushrooms!” Raoul was faint from the
shock, forced to fortify himself with champagne. “That man may be a swine, but
he wouldn’t know a genuine truffle if it bit him in the snout!”

The Little One
flung himself on Raoul, began to pummel him on his shapely legs. “Forget the
truffles!” The frantic command made its appearance in Raoul’s head, seeming to flash
on and off in bright colors, like a neon sign.

This, at least
partially, captured Raoul’s attention.

“Forget the
truffles?” he repeated, dismayed. “But Raj Vu said—”

“Boil Raj Vu’s
liver in vinegar!” was the next remark, pertaining perhaps to some quaint
Tongan custom of which Raoul was not, thankfully, familiar. He was about to
remark that, although the man undoubtedly deserved it, this operation might be
somewhat messy, when the Little One interrupted.

“What do you know
about the bartenders?” The question jabbed Raoul’s brain.

“Well”—Raoul was
thoughtful—”they’re both quite good looking and very charming, especially the
blond. He’s invited me to his gym to work on my triceps. I don’t know what they
are, but he says they need developing. I said that I was looking forward to
whatever developed and he—”

The Little One
took off the fedora, flung it to the floor, and stomped his foot emphatically.
Raoul was struck dumb, stared at his friend in astonishment. The Adonians are
noted for their beauty and so, since every action requires an opposite and
equal reaction, it is not surprising that there existed a race known for its
ugliness. The Little One belonged to such a race.

It is difficult to
describe his physiognomy, except to say that once Xris had come across the
Little One after he’d been attacked by members of the now defunct Knights of
the Black Earth. It was the first Xris had seen of the face beneath the fedora.
He had thought, in horror, that the Little One’s face and head had been smashed
into a bloody, misshapen mass of bone, blood, and brains, only to find out that
his injuries were relatively minor. The Little One’s face normally looked like
that.

Raoul averted his
head, shaded his eyes. He had gone quite pale. “Please, dear friend, you know
how this affects—”

The Little One
lunged, grabbed hold of Raoul’s wrists, forced his friend to look at him. “The
bartenders are assassins! They’re here to murder Darlene!” The thoughts,
materializing in Raoul’s head, were tinged with blood.

Raoul stared,
aghast. “Here? Now? During my party?”

“Yes! Any moment!”
This flashed red with alarm.

“But ... someone
dropping dead at my party! That would ruin it!” Raoul clung to the kitchen
counter for support. “Absolutely ruin it.”

The Little One’s
thoughts became very black and savage. “It won’t do Darlene a whole hell of a
lot of good, either!”

“Oh, yes. Quite,”
Raoul murmured, and after some consideration, he added, “I see your point.
Where is she? Is she all right? We should warn her—”