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  He ached, he anguished and he hoped, and eventually he felt the varavan stop. And then he heard the driver opening its back door.

  His heart raced.

  27.

  Doggerbat wasn't waiting by the varavan. He was with Lysaars waiting instead for news of Renton's arrival at the spaceport. And, as events unfolded, he was then further occupied. Receiving unsolicited suitcases, no matter how large, simply failed to make its way onto his agenda for the whole of the day.

  So, in Doggerbat's absence, Renton's jumbo case was admitted into the villains' nest by a surly security guard who lived in a drab blockhouse at its entrance - unconvincingly described as The Red Inc Corporation Reception Suite.

  The guard's temperament was not improved by having to assist the varavan driver in manhandling an overweight piece of luggage, which had to be dragged all the way into a small room just off reception. And so, by way of celebrating the completion of this task, he delivered to the offending suitcase a suitably hefty kick. It caught Renton firmly and squarely in his ribs. Fortunately, an injudicious fondness for overloud, heavy-metal music had damaged the guard's hearing, and Renton's squeak of pain went unnoticed. Mr Surly then left the room. Our hero was to have more than the required minute or two to extricate himself from his self-imposed confinement and to ready himself for whatever daring deeds were next in store.

  He found that he was in an untidy dustbin of a room, lit by just a small skylight in the ceiling. There were no windows in its walls. It was a cubby-hole, a place used as a repository for unwanted bits and pieces of Red Inc's receptionary activities. There were piles of magazines, boxes of antique laserades, assorted empty lager capsules, goggles, books, dusters, plastic cups, dead potted plants and, in one corner, a big Bastard. In fact, one of the biggest Bastards Renton had ever seen. It had to be one of the very earliest models, built before the extreme miniaturisation of hyper-communication equipment really took off. The Bastard, or to give it its full name, the “Bi-hyperal Analogue System Transmitting And Receiving Decoder”, was the standard means of sending and receiving electronic mail through space at hyper speed. There was a Bastard in virtually every office and every factory in the universe. Bastards were everywhere.

  At first, Renton thought this Bastard was just another piece of junk, but then he noticed that a small stand-by indicator light was pulsing away on its top. The machine was still being used. This dustbin, it appeared, was also one of Red Inc's communication rooms.

  'Mmm,' thought Renton, 'maybe I should take a closer look.'

  And he did. He began to study the Bastard and he tried to divine the purpose of each of its unfamiliar function controls - but mostly without success. However, he was able to engage the message-file feature. And with this, even though he wasn't able to read the messages themselves, he was able to scroll through the identities of all their senders and receivers in the preceding ninety days. Who was Lysaars dealing with other than his contacts at Spazum?

  The answer was several thousand people in as many organisations in just about every corner of the universe. But they looked a strange mix for a business supposedly dealing in paint. Some were individuals with apparently private addresses. Renton noticed a few doctors and professors amongst these. Others were academic institutions and medical research establishments, and there were even a few hospices listed. And then there were commercial organisations of all sorts, but none that Renton recognised. It simply didn't look like any list of business customers and suppliers that he'd ever seen before.

  Stranger still was the appearance of a number of entries for a Mr Gruspic. Mr Gruspic's title was not given, but his address, from which a stream of messages had been received, was the Pan-Universal Registration Council, the single authority in the universe with the power to grant and revoke space-vehicle operating licences. These were the licences, which, if you owned a spacecraft, were nothing less than essential. Indeed, you couldn't move your spacecraft one inch from its mooring without one. They were that essential.

  But what did anybody at the PRC want with paint? It was just possible that all the messages were to do with licences, but surely Red Inc wasn't switching its spacecraft that often. And it couldn't have that many. Could it?

  Renton's musing over the puzzle of the PRC connection was brought to an abrupt halt by a sound outside the door. Someone was approaching. He quickly pushed his suitcase into its original vertical position and crouched behind it, his head squeezed between two stacks of dirty buckets. The door opened and for the second time today Renton and the surly security guard made fairly close contact but failed to introduce themselves to each other. The guard stopped only long enough to pick up his sandwich-box and to glance at the Bastard. Then the door closed behind him.

  Renton re-emerged from his hiding space and considered his options. To remain in the room was useless. Even if he wasn't discovered, he was pretty unlikely to make much progress in his rescue bid if he stayed here, cooped up all the time. So that was out. To leave the room by the door was a possibility, but the likelihood was that a third opportunity to meet Mr Surly would present itself instantaneously - and he didn't feel in a particularly sociable mood at the moment. So that was out too. That just left the skylight.

  Now in most adventure movies he'd seen, the athletic hero simply reaches up to the commonly used skylight exit, springs a catch and lifts himself effortlessly through the opening. It was as simple as removing the ubiquitous grill from the ubiquitous man-sized air-duct that allows even the most seriously incarcerated hero to pop out for a well-earned second innings against his ball-tampering opponents. Renton's skylight manoeuvre, however, proved to be a little more difficult, and on its own lasted almost as long as the average adventure movie.

  Even his 6'3" frame left his outstretched hands a foot or so short of the ceiling. And unscrewing twelve screws with the end of a spoon, whilst balancing on a stack of buckets, and doing all this silently, took a great deal of time. And on three occasions he had to leap back into his hiding place at the sound of steps outside the door - although thankfully nobody actually came in to trip over his buckets.

  And this all added up to hard work rather than an adventure - and tiring hard work at that. Nevertheless, exhausted as he was, his sense of achievement when the last screw dropped into his hand was quite considerable, not to say overwhelming. He had a way out of his dungeon. And he'd done it all on his own.

  And now it was time to use the way out. And he began by pushing the skylight out of its frame. That was really quite easy. Then it was just a matter of his pulling himself through the frame - but that wasn't quite as straightforward…

  He was hopeless at press-ups and pull-ups, and any sort of exercise that entailed using his arms. His long body required long arms not strong arms. And for the task in hand these long arms needed the help of his more powerful legs, and these needed a mezzanine floor, a platform nearer the skylight to allow the necessary leverage to be applied.

  And for this, Renton had to gamble that he would be left alone for some time. And the gamble paid off. He was. Sixteen buckets, two brooms, an umbrella and the big suitcase later, he had his platform. An engineering project standing in the centre of the floor, which old surly could not have failed to notice should he have entered the room at this point. But he didn't. And the construction didn't even fall over in a noisy avalanche as Renton pulled himself through the opening and onto the roof.

  He peered back through the hole, and before sliding the skylight back into place (more to assuage his sense of tidiness than to conceal his escape route) he gazed mournfully at the suitcase. It had been a good friend. It had been invaluable to his progress on three occasions, and now he had to abandon it. He hoped it came to no harm.

  He scrambled to the side of the flat roof and looked around. He was on the top of a smallish gatehouse building, which sat next to a much larger one-storey office block. Beyond that were a number of taller buildings, relatives of those at Tousselok spaceport. They might be warehouses or fa
ctory units. Or one of them, thought Renton, might be a prison. Madeleine had to be here somewhere.

  Around the entire complex was a corrugated plastic wall topped with some rusty looking chicken-wire that more than doubled its height. Beyond the wire was the Crabbsbab prairie with more buildings in the distance and here and there the outline of a lumbering prairie ambler. This was Renton's first sight of a scunger, and he was suitably impressed. He was also immediately intrigued as to how in heaven's name they managed the procreation bit. They were so large and ungainly looking, it was difficult to imagine that this could involve anything intimate, anything involving actual contact. Maybe he just left something for her to find, or maybe the snouts were multi-functional, or maybe… well, maybe something else. But surely nothing involving the more commonly used humping configuration.

  Renton chided himself for allowing this distraction from his project. He was here to rescue Madeleine, not to play guessing games on mating games. So he got back to studying the buildings again. The office block was likely to be the most difficult to penetrate unchallenged. Offices were always occupied. Better to use its roof as a route to the warehouse-type buildings beyond, and to begin his search for Madeleine in one of these. It all seemed logical, and with only a short pause to check that nobody was about, he leapt the small gap between the gatehouse roof and the office block roof and made his way to its far end. Less than two minutes later he was crouching behind a fuel tank just inside the main entrance of the first warehouse.

  But it wasn't a warehouse. It was some sort of garage for about a dozen or so shiny, metallium vehicles - and it smelled of milk. There was nobody around, so Renton crept towards the nearest of the vehicles to have a better look at it. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

  It was about fifty feet long, broader than any road vehicle he'd ever seen, and fitted with four enormous wheels. At its front end was a hefty power unit surmounted by a simple seat and in front of the seat a steering wheel flanked by some vertical rods - although Renton's mind couldn't quite grasp that it was a steering wheel; it was so large and so home-made looking. And steering wheels were passé anyway. Then behind the power unit there was a long flatbed and on this, two square-sectioned tanks that ran down its full length - at its sides. And between them, towards the back, was a metallium pillar about a foot in diameter and about ten feet high and with a little ladder pinned to its side. At its top there was another seat framed by a sort of trellis arch with retaining straps dangling from its uprights and with a small control panel suspended from its top.

  And this control panel, Renton suspected, was to control the large telescopic arm that was anchored just beneath the elevated seat and that reached to within three feet or so of the back of the power unit. This arm had fifty or more metal loops hanging from its underside and threaded through these was a wide-diameter metallium hose that ended in an enormous rubber cup. More of the hose hung down from the loop nearest the vertical pillar and was coiled within the canyon made by the two side-tanks.

  Closer inspection of the base of the pillar indicated that it was revolvable. Renton surmised that the telescopic arm could probably be turned up to ninety degrees or more either side of its present resting position. And it was high enough to clear the side tanks and anybody using the seat on the power unit.

  Each vehicle in the garage was a little different from its neighbours, but all were essentially mobile, turntable contraptions with manoeuvrable and extendable hoses. Prairie fire-fighting devices? Prairie spraying machines? Prairie drain-cleaning machines?

  Renton wasn't convinced. Why was there a large rubber cup at the end of the hose? And why did they smell of milk? Because he was now sure that it was the wheeled vehicles that were the source of the stale lactic pong, and not the building they were in.

  Again he had to stop himself pondering over these new unknowns. Madeleine, despite last being seen in a resin vat, was hardly likely to be locked away in one of these vehicle's side-tanks, and the vehicles themselves were of no use at all. 'So, come on Renton, just store what you've seen and get on with it. You've eliminated this building. Get on with the next one.'

  He got on with the next one. This was filled with cylindrical metallium tanks, which also smelled of milk. There were no people around and no Madeleine.

  He got on with another next one. This was a twin of the second although in this one he had an event. He was obliged to squeeze behind one of the metallium cylinders to avoid an unscheduled rendezvous with two gentlemen in white overalls. He still didn't think it was quite the right time to introduce himself to anybody on the Red Inc payroll.

  The next building had a more familiar air. It was much larger than the first three he'd explored and at its nearer end were banks of vats: Spazum resin and paint vats. At its other end were more of the cylindrical metallium tanks and a network of piping. There were several white overall types down there and they were doing something. But Renton couldn't get close enough to see what it was. And, as he reminded himself again, it didn't appear to have much to do with Madeleine's whereabouts.

  He moved on and continued to move on until he was sure he had explored all the buildings in the compound other than the office block. The contents of all of these had been more vats, more cylindrical tanks, a few more mobile turntable vehicles, a collection of more recognisable road vehicles, and in one, a pair of very expensive-looking hovers. For the size of the establishment, there had been surprisingly few people about… convenient for Renton but more than a little odd.

  In none of the buildings had he seen any trace of Madeleine, nor even a single banana-yellow paint vat.

  It was now getting dark and Renton thought it was time to review his first full day of intentional adventuring. He was sitting at the back of one of the smaller sheds where there was a cosy little den behind a bank of red barrels.

  He began to list his achievements:

  a) He'd found and penetrated the enemy's camp - which was, in itself, quite remarkable. And what's more…

  b) He'd escaped detection. He'd not been found in the suitcase or in the storeroom. And he'd heard no alarm being raised, which presumably meant that his stairway to the skylight had still not been discovered. Obviously the guard at reception only visited the room to deposit large suitcases or to collect his sandwiches - and very rarely to use the Bastard. Oh, and he'd also been able to escape detection whilst undertaking a grand tour of the enemy compound. Altogether, not too bad for an absolute beginner. And there was another substantial achievement:

  c) He'd checked all the buildings, and as well as discovering what they contained, he'd narrowed down his remaining search area to the office block. And finally:

  d) He'd collected a little bit of information on Lysaars' contacts - which might or might not prove useful in the future.

  All in all, not a bad day's work. In fact, something of an unqualified success. Or was it? Was there any not so good news? Well yes. Maybe there was. And yes, he had to admit it: of course there was. And he didn't find it too difficult to compile a second list in his mind - guaranteed to take the edge off the first. And it started with Madeleine:

  • He hadn't rescued her. Indeed, he hadn't even found her.

  • He was slap bang in the middle of the enemy's camp with no idea of how he was going to escape.

  • He had a five o'clock shadow. He was dusty and sticky. And his hair, inevitably, was in an abominable state. Suitcase travel, screwdriving with a spoon, and the wind that whipped around the compound, had all done their worst, and

  • He was hungry. He had managed a drink from a standpipe, but food had not come his way. He'd found no deserted sandwich boxes on his travels.

  And what to do about these negatives?

  Well, he'd not brought his toilet bag with him and he'd lost his comb somewhere along the way. So he discounted the third item. The second item could be deferred. But the last item… That was his real concern. If he didn't eat something soon he would get a headache. There was just
no doubt about it. And there was only one place to go where some sort of comestibles might be available: the office block. And heck, if he went there, who could tell? He might even be able to attend to the first item on the list - and that would be great!

  Even if it did mean more unpaid overtime…

  28.

  It had been a disrupted day at Red Inc. Only a tiny number of the workforce had been about their normal duties - attending to some urgent decanting work. The rest, the majority of Lysaars' troops, had been diverted to the area of Tousselok spaceport to retrieve a clanger, the one so carelessly dropped by Koldsoor and Loudlippse.

  This cock-up had made Lysaars really furious. He simply could not believe that some lanky wimp had managed to sneak past his special reception committee. Tenting had graduated from a bothersome irritation to a full-blown nuisance. He had to be found and dealt with - quickly.

  And now Lysaars was sitting in his bunker office, staring at the framed daubs of yellows and pinks that hung on one of its walls. It was a painting entitled “Destitute Millinery” by the little known artist, Shellika, and it had cost him a small fortune when he'd bought it about two years previously. And now Shellika was known even less, and Lysaars had begun to believe he'd been duped. His investment in a “fine work of art of incomparable quality” was looking more than ever like a small canvas covered with crude daubs of paint. And today they looked like especially crude daubs of paint. Even the colours looked wrong. He seethed.

  When time allowed he would get another one. He would remove the taste of this Tenting from his mouth by finding a really good painting. One with people and a background, one that looked like something you could recognise - perhaps something military. Yes, that would be much more in keeping with this bunker-hideaway of his. It was, after all, very much a military sort of bunker, built to withstand just about any weapon known in the universe. And one fitted out to endure sieges lasting for a year or more - even taking account of the prodigious appetite of its owner.