Dordy raised his hand. “Androids don’t have to be thanked any more than they have to be paid, Mr. Horn. You just go where that booklet of Lars Talibrand’s leads you. You can do it. I wouldn’t be allowed to.”
Berl gave a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh, and waited impatiently by the door for Horn to join him.
“But—” Horn felt briefly giddy. “But you know where, don’t you? You know what Lars Talibrand’s work was! Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you don’t have to walk out of that door, sir. The moment you do, you’ll be in it up to your neck, and from then on it will be up to you whether you come out with your life. Goodbye, Mr. Horn.”
The heli Berl had borrowed was indeed a long way from the passenger models to which Horn was accustomed. Potbellied, immensely powerful, it lumbered through the sky at a slow hundred and fifty with its unretracted legs spread wide on either side of its folded grappling equipment. He sat in acute discomfort on a plain metal bench which doubled as a toolchest—the tools rattled like the chains of a banshee every time the engine hit a particular frequency—beside what struck him as an appallingly flimsy door fitted with a catch Berl sternly warned him not to touch or even brush against while they were moving, for fear it might spring open.
The square edge of his seat cut off the circulation in his legs, sending his calves to prickling sleep no matter how often he tried to shift his weight from one side to the other. There was a stink of lubricant from the bearings of the rotor overhead.
“It’s not designed for this sort of trip,” Berl vouchsafed after they had been in flight nealy an hour. He seemed to be half amused and half sympathetic towards Horn’s vain attempts to make himself comfortable. But it was the first thing he had said without prompting since they set out; to Horn’s halting remarks about the advantages and drawbacks of carnival, uttered earlier, he had returned only grunts and nods.
It was cold up here; Horn leaned back to make the most of what warmth seeped through from the engine astern of their cockpit.
“Ah—what exactly is this machine designed for, then?” he ventured. “Didn’t you say something about borrowing it from the wreck-salvage section?”
“That’s right,” Berl nodded. There was no light except from the stars and the dim glow of the instrument panel; the blueness of his skin was turned to a grey as neutral as was Horn’s own complexion. “All I could get was this heavy lifting job, y’see. Rest of the helis are due for major overhauls. Take days, maybe all of what’s left before carnival is through. But this type doesn’t see too much service during an average year, doesn’t get worn out so quick. It’s the kind you send out when a couple of groundcars get so tangled up in an important intersection you can’t risk waiting till you’ve cut ’em into sections the small helis can handle. Ever seen one of them at work?”
“No, I don’t believe I ever have,” Horn said. “I’ve been by at a spot where accidents like that had recently happened, I think, but it was always cleaned up before I arrived. I guess—” He hesitated, couldn’t decide why, and finished what he had been about to say. “I guess you boys do a pretty fast job!”
“We try to. Right now, of course, we can take things easy—you can’t do much harm if you break a bubbletaxi, and all it needs is to send out a mechanic in a floater. The rest of the year, though, you keep us pretty busy.”
He didn’t sound in the least resentful—rather, his tone was one of satisfaction, as though he was glad of the demands his job made on him. Nonetheless he fell silent again, and there was an interval during which the only sound was the drone of the rotors. Horn, peering overside, spotted the lights of a city to the east, which he could not identify: a patch of misty brilliance like an extra-galactic nebula viewed through a giant telescope, dotted with occasional brighter points like novae. He commented on the resemblance to Berl, not wanting to let the conversation die, but the android only shrugged.
“Wouldn’t know about that. My job’s wreck-salvage.”
Am I crazy? Horn asked himself. To think of leaving Earth on some wild chase among the outworlds, when there’s so much right here at home I know nothing about?
But it was too late for second thoughts. Berl was throttling back the power and the heli was losing height. A group of lights ahead suddenly took on familiar patterns. That was the Horn family’s estate, and they were about to land. He realized with dismay that he hadn’t planned what he was going to say to his relatives, rehearsed counters to their predictable objections.
Well, he would probably still have time to think about that. It was hours before dawn. The whole family was probably scattered over a hundred square miles, and before his father came home he could expect plenty of opportunity to sit and muse by himself.
The heli touched down. Berl reached across him and flipped the catch of the passenger door. It dropped to form a ramp for his exit. Stiffly rising to scramble out, Horn muttered automatic thanks, and instantly re-heard Dordy’s cynical remark that androids didn’t have to be thanked any more than they had to be paid.
“Say—uh—Mr. Horn!”
Turning, he saw Berl leaning down from the high doorway of the heli.
“Dordy told me you have Lars Talibrand’s certificate. Is that right?”
Horn clapped his palm to the pocket in which he had slipped the document. It was where it ought to be. He nodded.
“Well—uh …” Berl seemed oddly at a loss. “Could I see it? Just for a moment?”
“Why—why, sure!” Bewildered, Horn produced it and handed it over. There was a pause. He could just discern the android’s fingers turning the pages in the dim glow of the instrument lights.
Then the document was being extended for him to retrieve, and Berl was saying in a tone absolutely unlike any of his previous remarks, “Than you, sir! I really appreciate that!”
What? I’m the one who’s been done a favor, surely! But while Horn was still fumbling for words Berl had closed the door and fed power to the rotors. Battered by the vertical gale, he turned and trudged towards the house; before he reached it, the heli was out of sight.
He had been set down on the rear lawn among beds of night-secented flowers which ordinarily perfumed the whole vicinity of the house. The heli had left behind so strong a reek of hot oil, however, that it was still in his nostrils when a hand-held flashlight sprang up ahead of him and a quiet, familiar voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Derry. Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Rowl. Uh—you don’t seem very surprised to see me back.” Horn fell in alongside the portly android butler who had been in his family’s service since he was first imported. He had heard—but only at second-second-hand—of the argument which had raged about employing an android in the household of the planet’s leading robot manufacturer, no matter how fallible those robots had been thirty years ago. The disagreement had been settled on the basis that it must be an imported android, whose prestige value would perhaps compensate for the obvious drawbacks. Nonetheless, Rowl was still the only android on the staff; the rest were custom-designed robots.
“Well, no, Mr. Derry,” Rowl said. “You see, the manager’s secretary called me from the hotel where you were staying and warned me of your impending arrival.”
“Did he now!” Horn checked in mid-stride, briefly possessed of a vague sense that he had been left out of something, his imagination tantalised by a half-formed vision of a planet-embracing network of androids, a colossal grapevine of news and gossip. But he had known Rowl since his birth; far too many years of childhood memory conspired against his thinking of the butler in any other than the ordinary context of his home. At a loss for the latest of uncountable times since the start of carnival, he peered into the house through the transparent walls which in summer gave the illusion of continuity between living-area and gardens, seeing no movement except that of the ever-busy cleaning robots.
“Well, that was thoughtful of him,” he said at last. “Ah—is anyone else at home?”
“No, sir. Mr.
Derry senior went to a party last night and did not return, though he is expected not to remain away indefinitely, and Mrs. Lu”—his mother—“said that …” Rowl gave a discreet cough, letting the words tail away.
“Said that if he could do it so could she and she won’t be back tonight,” Horn snorted. “You don’t have to be tactful with me, Rowl!”
“I suppose not, sir,” Rowl admitted, looking pained nonetheless at the accuracy of Horn’s guess. “Well, anyway: Mr. Horn”—his grandfather, who as head of the family alone rated the formal use of its surname—“has been saying he doesn’t enjoy carnival as much as he used to. He was in a very bad temper when he returned yesterday morning, and I regret to say I expect he will probably feel the same today.”
“What about my sister?”
“Oh, Miss Via is with a party of students under the supervision of your cousin Mrs. Leadora. That entire branch of the family is here, incidentally.”
“Damn. I’d clean forgotten about their being invited for the week. Oh well, never mind—I shan’t be around long enough to be pestered by them, with luck. Rowl, do you suppose there’s a hundred thousand in ready cash in the house?”
“Well … yes, sir, there is indeed. But of course the ordinary expenses of carnival will substantially reduce that sum during the next few days.”
“Let ’em have their fun on credit, then! If a Horn can’t command credit, who on this horrible planet can? I’m going to need cash—a lot of it—in a hurry! Here, get me a drink and a snack, will you? I need it to set me up for an argument with grandad.”
If Rowl had the faintest inkling why his employer’s grandson wanted so much money in a hurry, he didn’t betray the fact, but merely bowed and moved to comply.
CHAPTER VIII
HE ATE sitting alone on the long central lounge which ran from end to end of the house, his back to the transparent wall fronting the garden, as though the world beyond held too many problems for him to feel comfortable looking at it. His appetite was long ago sated, and he had called on Rowl for several more drinks, before the hours of waiting were over and the peace of the house was shattered by the irruption of his sister Via at the head of a score of shrieking teenagers, with his mother’s elderly cousin Leadora vainly struggling to quiet them.
The moment she saw her brother, Via rushed forward with a cry. “Derry, you beast! You’ve lost my bet for me!”
“What bet?” Horn said crossly.
“Oh, I told Sampidge that you’d enjoy carnival so much better on your own that you wouldn’t come back until you absolutely had to. And he said you would come home early because it’s much more fun to spend carnival with people you know, and here you are back already so I’ll have to let hm do all kinds of awful things to me and you’re a beast! You’re an absolute and utter beast!”
“You ought to be more careful who you make bets with, then,” Horn snapped, pushing her aside as she made to pummel him and rising to his feet. “But don’t worry—your bet’s a washout, anyhow. I haven’t come back to spend the rest of carnival with people I know. I’ve just come to pick up some cash so I can buy a flight to Newholme.”
“Where’s that?” Via said foggily. “Is it far?”
At that moment there was a lull in the chatter and laughter which had filled the room, and Horn’s harsh reply was loud enough to be heard by everyone.
“Far? It’s a pretty long way from Earth, but it’s hardly far enough!”
Heads turned on all sides to look at him. A boy of about eighteen with a scholarly manner detached himself from the group of young people he had been talking to and approached Horn—Sampidge, who had made the bet with Via.
“Did I hear you say you were leaving Earth? Isn’t the middle of carnival an odd time to get the pioneering spirit?”
Horn scowled at him. He had no idea what Via’s bet with Sampidge had involved, but on a brief acquaintance he had conceived an acute dislike for him and was prepared to make some cynical guesses.
“Pioneering spirit has nothing to do with it,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve finally figured out it would be easier to book one passage on a starship than rid this planet of all the people like you who make it unbearable!”
“Hoity-toity!” Sampidge began, bridling, but at that moment someone in the background, already bored with the distraction offered by Horn’s outburst, picked up a fat cushion from the long lounge and threw it at Sampidge. It missed and hit Via, who hurled it back with a shriek, and in another few seconds there was a first-class mock fight in progress, from which Horn gratefully withdrew into a corner, reflecting sourly on the all-too-real fight he had himself become involved in exactly one day ago.
Then a rasping voice cut through the racket. “What the hell is all this? Rowl, clear these young ruffians out of here!”
Silence fell instantly, like night on an airless world. Shamefacedly, the teenagers abandoned the cushions they were flinging around, muttered, “Good morning, sir!” like so many androids, and made themselves scarce, Via and Sampidge along with the rest.
As they passed him in the doorway, Grandad Horn favored each of them with a scowl. The same look was still on his face when he finally spotted his grandson at the side of the room.
“Derry? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you’d taken it into your empty head that our company wasn’t good enough for you this carnival—what are you doing back so soon? Rowl, get me a drink!”
He marched forward and carefully folded his aged legs on the edge of the long lounge.
“I’ve decided this kind of company isn’t good enough for me—period!” Horn said, the anger he would have directed at Sampidge and his sister making the words fiercer than he had intended. “I want the fare to leave Earth!”
Rowl appeared with the drink Grandad Horn had requested—the old man had long ago conceded that when it came to personal service none of his robots could match their android butler—and was waved aside.
“Derry, you’re either out of your head, or … ah-hah! I get it!” The old man leaned back, chuckling. “Who was she? Must have been quite a dish to take away your taste for carnival!”
“I’m not mooning over a woman!” Horn blazed. “I’m just fed up with Earth, and—and I have something to do out there behind the sky!”
His grandfather’s near-century of age sat lightly on him. He had often taken advantage of that to attempt brotherly confidences with his grandson. Now, in spite of all the previous disasters this habit had led to, he tried again. Patting the cushion beside him, he said, “Come and sit down, Derry. Never let it be said I don’t have time to solve my family’s problems for them.”
The arrogance of that made Horn angrier still. He remained defiantly where he was.
“Very well!” His grandfather finally reached for the drink Rowl had brought him and took a swig of it. “But at least tell me what’s happened!”
“Well, last night I killed someone,” Horn began. “A lawforce superintendent named Coolin—”
But his grandfather had leapt ahead of him. “That’s not good, young fellow—not good at all! A lawforce superintendent! What did he do, pick on you unjustly in a crowd or something?”
“Sure he picked on me. Forced me to a dueling hall. He—”
“You beat him in a regular duel? Hell, boy, that’s not something to be ashamed of—it’s something to be proud of! And everyone’s equal during carnival, no matter who they are for the rest of the year!” Mentally the old man was slapping shut the well-filled pocketbook he would have had to draw on otherwise.
From outside there came the noise of a heli descending. The old man cocked his head on one side. “Rowl! Who’s that turning up here at this time of night?”
“Mr. Derry senior, sir,” the butler said. “At least I presume so—it’s the model of heli which he uses.”
“Good, good! Now you look here, young man! You get Rowl to give you a drink and hang on until your father comes in, and we’ll see if we can straighten out this craz
y notion of yours.”
But his father came in staggering under his load of euphorics, in no condition to talk sense. Snorting with annoyance the old man sent Rowl for antidotes and ice.
“Now you get your head clear, and fast!” he exclaimed. “When are you going to latch on to the fact that you have responsibilities, Derry? Here’s this boy of yours full of some crackbrain plan to run away from Earth, and you’re so piped you can barely walk!”
“He’s what?” His father turned a bulbous glare on Horn. “He’s got a plan to what?”
“That’s better,” the old man said sharply. “At least you’re paying attention now. Well, boy, tell us the whole story and we’ll see about it.”
Horn complied. He hadn’t intended to explain, but only to demand the money he needed and march out, leaving his relatives to ask one another what they had done to drive him away. Somehow, though, once he started talking he couldn’t stop, and all kinds of things which he knew even before he mentioned them his listeners would not understand came tumbling out.
“So because your carnival week was spoiled by some off-planet character getting himself stuck with a knife,” said his father at last, “you want to renege on all your family obligations and hide your head on some backward ball of mud like the one he probably came from!”
“Family obligations!” flared Horn. “That’s good, coming from you! I never saw you do anything with family obligations except off-load them on to Grandad’s back! Do you know where your wife is right now?”
“Why, you foul-mouthed little—!” For an instant it looked as though his father was going to jump up and take a swing at him. Then his grandfather’s curt voice broke in.
“Sit down, Derry. Control yourself. There’s nothing wrong with the boy which a whipping would help, and anyhow he’s too old to be treated that way by now. Or should be. If it hadn’t been for this android at the hotel stuffing his ears with all kinds of nonsense about the man who got killed—”
“It isn’t nonsense!” Horn stamped his foot.