Robot Blues (53 page)

“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.”

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 Corasians 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.

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.