Robot Blues (12 page)

Yes, thought
Darlene, that pretty much says it all.

Having determined
that all his trunks were present and accounted for, Raoul entered the delivery
data into the ‘bot, added a generous tip. (“I forgot to tip once.” Raoul
sniffed. “Only six trunks made it. The rest of my clothes ended up spending
Carnival in Jardina. I trust they had a good time. I couldn’t set foot outside
the house!”) The three left the spaceport, headed for the main form of
transportation in Adonian cities, known as the magnet.

The magnet was a
glistening silver commuter train which ran whisper-soft and extremely fast over
magnetized tracks. Magnets went everywhere in an Adonian city, and people went
everywhere in them. Driving oneself around in one’s own vehic was considered
demeaning, not to mention the fact driving was stressful, which caused
wrinkles, and being seated in a vehic any length of time was thought to
contribute to poor posture.

A short walk
through the spaceport—walking was good for a person, developed shapely
calves—brought them to the magnet station. Like the spaceport and every other
building in Adonia, the station was the epitome of luxury, comfort, the very
latest in style and design.

Traveling in the magnet,
gazing out the windows, Darlene marveled at the beauty of the world. Every
object she looked on—even an object as mundane as a waste container—was elegant
in shape, graceful in design, lovely to behold. Mountains, valleys, sky, grass,
trees, flowers, rivers, buildings, people, animals—all were comely to look
upon, pleasing to the eye.

“I’d probably grow
tired of this if I lived here,” she said to herself. “Like eating candy. I
couldn’t make a steady diet of it. But a dark chocolate raspberry truffle now
and then is heaven.”

Raoul lived in the
city of Kanapalia, which was located on the larger of Adonia’s two continents.
Kanapalia, built on the side of a mountain, overlooking the glittering blue
waters of the Bay of Kanapalia, might be described as a resort city. But then
so could every other city on Adonia.

Since
factories—ugly, dirty, smelly things—were not allowed on the Adonian home
world, all materials which required manufacturing were imported. This made the
cost of living extraordinarily high on Adonia, but since only those with high
levels of income were permitted to remain on-world, the high cost of goods was
not a problem. Any Adonian whose income fell below a certain level was
deported. Poverty is so unsightly.

Kanapalia, with
its year-round perfect climate, its magnificent views of mountain and sea, its
picturesque mansions adorning the cliffs, its splendid, sun-drenched beauty,
brought tears to the eyes of the off-worlders. As, of course, it should. Most
Adonians were well-traveled. They’d been to other parts of the galaxy, mainly
in order to reassure themselves that, after all, there was no place like home.

Seated in the
comfort and elegance of the magnet, with its wide leather-cushioned seats, its
quietly appointed interior that was not permitted to draw attention away from
the spectacular scenes of mountain, sea, and clear cobalt sky, Darlene felt
herself start to slip under the spell of Adonia. The beauty of the world, the
beauty of its people, the air that blew bright and crisp from the sea acted on
an off-worlder like one of the mind-altering drugs which were so easy to obtain
in this planet of pleasure. Darlene began to feel that nothing bad could happen
to her here. Evil—ugly, dirty, smelly—would never be permitted on Adonia.

Darlene knew very
well that she was deluding herself. But it was delightful to give in to the
delusion. She’d lived in the isolation of safe, sterilized surroundings for too
long. She had been afraid for too many years, afraid of the bureau, afraid of
the Hung, afraid of co-workers, afraid of friends. No ... that was not true.
She’d had no friends to fear. Her sole refuge was work, her altar the computer.
As long as she knelt before it, nothing and no one could drag her out of
sanctuary.

At least that’s
what she’d thought, until Xris crashed through the sealed and locked doors of
her sterile world. Intending her death, he’d brought her back to life. And now
she meant to enjoy it.

Darlene Rowan quit
searching every face on-board the magnet to see if it was the face of an
assassin. She quit looking constantly at the Little One, to see if he had tuned
in to any hostile thoughts aimed at her. She packed up all her worries and her
fears and stowed them away.

Unfortunately, she
stowed them in her computer case, which was still carrying, though she didn’t
know it, the tattle-tell transmitter.

Raoul’s chateau
was small, by Adonian standards. Gleaming white, with a red-tile roof, it
nestled against the mountainside, overlooked the crashing waves of the sea
beneath. But the chateau, though small, had all the necessities of life:
swimming pool, whirlpool, sauna, ornamental fish pond, ornamental garden,
fountain in the courtyard, atrium, aviary.

Considering Raoul’s
flamboyant taste in clothes, Darlene was pleasantly surprised to find his
chateau decorated with taste and elegance. There are strict laws governing
interior decorating on the books of every major city of Adonia, however, and
this had something to do with it, as Raoul was free to admit.

Left to his own
devices, Raoul expressed a longing for an orange crushed-velvet sofa in
combination with a hot pink coffee table with gilt edges. This being illegal,
as described in the Decorator’s Code, Section Twenty-six, Paragraph H, he was
forced to make do with mahogany and leather, silk curtains and hand-woven rugs.
Sheets were of linen and cambric, edged with lace. Down comforters were warm
and would make Darlene feel as if she were going to bed in whipped cream. The
first thing Raoul did, on arriving at his home, was to send for the hairdresser.

“I didn’t know
beauticians made house calls,” Darlene said.

“Only in
emergencies,” was Raoul’s reply.

And that was the
last she saw or heard of him for the next three days. Raoul entered into the
throes of planning his party. Less planning has gone into the taking over of
small countries.

“The main
objective,” Raoul stated, laying out his battle plan for the edification of the
Little One, “is to vanquish Raj Vu.”

The fedora nodded
agreement, the bright eyes beneath the fedora gleamed with fighting fervor.

The enemy, Raj Vu,
was an Adonian who lived four mansions and a palace up the road from Raoul and
was considered by everyone in Kanapalia, including Raj Vu himself, to be the
crowned czar of party-giving. His guest list was highly selective and you knew
you were somebody on Adonia if you received an invitation to one of Raj Vu’s
affairs.

Despite the fact
that they were almost neighbors, Raoul had not received an invitation. Raj Vu
had once been overheard referring to Raoul as “that grubby little poisoner and
his dog-in-a-raincoat toadie.” Raoul’s friends considered it their duty to tell
him this and did so the moment they were sober enough to recall it. Not long
ago, however, Raoul had been instrumental in saving the life of the queen; he
and the Little One having helped thwart a kidnapping attempt on Her Majesty.
Both had been invited to the palace, both had been on galaxy-wide news. Raoul
could claim, and often did, that he and the queen were dear friends.

Not long after,
Raoul had received an invitation to one of Raj Vu’s parties. Though highly
incensed by the “grubby little poisoner” remark and hating Raj Vu quite
devotedly, Raoul felt it his duty to attend the party on “a reconnaissance
mission,” as he stated. He expected to have a dreadful time but would suffer
through it for the good of the cause. He suffered to such an extent that he was
forced to take to his bed three days later, when the party ended, and it was a
week before he could lift his head from his pillow or consume solid food. It was
at that moment Raoul declared (in a whisper) that he would outparty Raj Vu or
perish in the attempt.

The day he arrived
on Adonia, Raoul called a meeting of his chiefs of staff, these being the
caterer, the hired bartenders, the plant renters, the pool cleaners, the tent
makers, the groundskeepers, the carpenters, the wine steward, and the butler.
There were the local police to be bribed, the fire department forewarned, the
hospital put on alert.

“I’m a nervous
wreck,” he complained to the Little One the morning of the day before the
event.

They were
breakfasting on the terrace. Raoul smoothed his hair, which was being ruffled
by a mild breeze. He sipped his warm cocoa, tossed bits of his croissant to the
swans in the ornamental pond, and repeated his complaint. “A nervous wreck. I
don’t know whether I’m coming or going.” He moved his chair to keep out of the
bright sunlight, which would have a devastating effect on his complexion.

“And do I receive
any help?” Raoul continued, his tone becoming plaintive. “I knew I could expect
nothing from Darlene. I counted on forty-eight hours at least to get her into
shape and it looks as if I’m not going to be far wrong. The manicurist left in
tears, did I tell you? I had to promise to pay the woman double to persuade her
to come back. But I might have expected better from you, my friend. You’ve been
no help to me at all. No help whatsoever.”

The Little One
growled, hunched down in the raincoat, crossed his arms over his chest, and
glared moodily out at the pond.

“If you won’t tell
me what’s bothering you,” Raoul went on, “I can’t be expected to sympathize.
Here, have a muffin. Perhaps you’re hypoglycemic.”

The Little One
took the muffin and lobbed it irritably at the swan, striking the bird squarely
on the beak. The swan swam off in indignation.

“Nice shot,” said
Darlene, coming to join them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down. “What’s
the matter with him?”

Raoul shrugged. “He’s
been in a bad mood ever since we arrived on Adonia. Actually, ever since we
left Meg-apolis. He refuses to discuss the matter. He won’t tell me what’s
wrong. He’s going to ruin my party,” Raoul concluded in tragic tones. “I just
know it.”

The Little One
growled again, but appeared remorseful at having upset his friend. Squirming
about in his chair, the telepath lifted his hands, fists clenched, in a gesture
of frustration.

Darlene regarded
him in concern. “He does seem upset.”

“I understand that
something’s bothering you,” Raoul continued, dabbing at the corner of one eye
with the sleeve of his silken bed jacket. He turned a pleading gaze to the
Little One. “But couldn’t it bother you just as well
after
the party as
before?”

The Little One
decided, on consideration, that it couldn’t.

“It’s not me, is
it?” Raoul asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “
I
haven’t done
anything to upset you, have I?”

The Little One was
emphatic, shook his head.

“I didn’t think
so,” Raoul said complacently, “but it never hurts to ask.”

“Not me?” Darlene
wondered. “Any assassins lurking about?”

The Little One
again shook his head.

“You say he was
upset before we left,” Darlene said, thoughtful. “Is it Xris?”

The Little One’s
head jerked up. The bright eyes gleamed at her from beneath the fedora.

“It is Xris!”
Darlene was alarmed. “Something’s happened to Xris?”

The Little One
again shook his head.

“Something’s
going
to happen to Xris?”

“The Little One is
a telepath, my dear, not a psychic,” Raoul said, eating a dish of strawberries
in cream.

The Little One did
not immediately reply. He stared out from beneath the brim of the fedora,
stared into the cloudless sky, stared out farther than that, perhaps, with the
fixed, narrow-eyed intensity of someone endeavoring to penetrate the mists of a
thick fog.

He failed. His
gaze dropped. He pummeled himself on the head, knocking the fedora askew. Then,
glowering, he laid his arms on the table, rested his small chin disconsolately
on his arms.

“There! You see!
He’s going to ruin my party. Absolutely ruin it!”

“The hell with
your party,” Darlene snapped. “I’m worried about Xris. I think— Oh, dear, no! I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

Her apologies were
too late. Raoul had fainted dead away.

A glass of
champagne, applied swiftly, restored the Adonian, assisted him to recover from
the staggering shock of hearing his party consigned to the nether regions.

“I truly didn’t
mean it,” Darlene repeated remorsefully, patting Raoul on the wrist.

“I know you didn’t,
my dear,” he said with a wan smile. “And I forgive you.”

“But if the Little
One does think that something might be going wrong for Xris, we should try to
find out what it is,” Darlene pursued.

“I’m certain that
Xris Cyborg would not want to ruin my party. He would permit nothing to happen
to him that would interfere.”

“I’m sure he
wouldn’t,” Darlene agreed gravely. “If he could help it. But what if he can’t?
Would you ask the Little One to try to describe what he’s feeling? Maybe we’ll
get a clue.”

Raoul sighed
despairingly, but since it was at least half an hour until the caterer was due
to arrive, he supposed he could indulge the odd whims of his guest.

The question being
put to the Little One, the telepath concentrated to such an extent that the hat
gradually slid down over his eyes, obliterating them completely. At length he
shrugged, scratched his head through the fedora, and looked up at Raoul, who
appeared slightly perplexed.

“As nearly as I
can make out, he says he feels as if he’d been shopping and found this charming
blouse, absolutely perfect, lace trim on the cuffs and tiny pearl buttons and
it fits like a dream and it’s on sale! Well, he gets it home, puts it on and”—Raoul
raised his eyes to heaven—”the sleeve falls off!”