Dumpiter Read online

  However, Renton was unable to bring this balanced view to his present circumstances. He sat in the cab feeling awful.

  Until, that is, he had his first visitor…

  'Are you all right, sir?'

  Renton looked up. And there, leaning through the open door of the autocab, was a woman. Her expression, he noticed, was one of concern edged with resentment, the sort of resentment that's born of an overuse of the concern function. One sees it on the faces of nurses and doctors, and on the faces of overworked members of the fire brigade and the police force. In fact, on the face of any poor soul whose job is all about the well-being of others - and the need to show care all the time…

  'She's a copper,' he thought. But then he looked at her uniform, and immediately he wasn't so sure. It was something Renton would have described as a blouse and trouser job, but which in all likelihood now had a far niftier name. And it was completely covered in dark blue lupins and harebells, provocatively intertwined, and on a pale blue background.

  Ah, but sitting on her head was this dinky little beret of the same material, and it had a badge on it. It said: “Ranamavana Traffic Police”. And there was a similar badge on her sleeve as well, at the top of a particularly attractive harebell. So despite Renton's second thoughts, this lady was indeed a member of the local fuzzery - and was clearly intent on her duties…

  'Sir. Are you all right? You haven't banged your head, have you?'

  'Errh, no, no,' stuttered Renton. 'I haven't banged anything. Not since I arrived here.'

  Which was an honest statement, innocently meant - but somewhat open to misinterpretation. And it had two effects. In the first place, it extinguished that expression of concern on the officer's face and replaced it with one of distaste. And in the second place, it got Renton thinking about sex - something most men do about every five minutes, but something Renton did at variable time intervals and always when it was least appropriate. Like when he was being interviewed by a traffic-policewoman at the scene of an autocab disintegration.

  The officer now removed a small, cigar-shaped machine from a lupin-edged pocket in her trousers, and held it before her. With what was now going on in Renton's mind, he half expected it to start vibrating. But it didn't. It just recorded her voice.

  She flicked a switch at its base, and looking at her watch, informed it that it was now 12.47 and that their location was the southbound side of Carborundum Boulevard, just north of its junction with Abrasives Avenue. (They were in that part of the city that had once been its grinding and polishing quarter.) Then she depressed the switch and looked up at Renton.

  'May I have your name, sir?'

  'Errh, Renton Tenting.'

  'And some proof of your identity?'

  Now, at this point, Renton reached into his inside jacket pocket, and at exactly the same time, the police officer adjusted her stance at the door of the cab - presumably to relieve her body from the strain of leaning it forward. And as she did this, her boobs pressed hard against her blouse - just as those of Renton's travelling companion back on the spaceship hadn't - and in a manner designed to inflame even further his now disgracefully lascivious thoughts. And that was a uniform as well! And what makes women in uniforms so raunchy? Well, it's the knowledge that at some point the uniform gives way to the not in the least bit uniform. That under that standard exterior-wear there could be all sorts of very unstandard interior-wear. And unstandard could include the enticing and the downright naughty. And who could tell? Some of that naughty might be here with her now - with her boobs resting snug in its grasp… And this was all very stimulating for Renton, and all very distracting. And why, instead of extracting his passport, Renton took from his pocket, a colourful, pocket-sized brochure, produced by the mighty Spazum Corporation, describing its extensive range of body-paints and how they might best be applied. And then he handed the brochure to the police-lady and she took it.

  She started to flick through it. And there was now a new expression on her face. Resignation. She had another idiot on her hands.

  'Sir, this doesn't really constitute a proof of identity,' she informed him. 'It's a little booklet about body-paint. It's not really what I had in mind.'

  'Oh!' exclaimed Renton, suddenly torn from the world of prosaic outerwear and exotic underwear. 'Oh dearie me.'

  'You do have an ID card, don't you? Or a passport or something? I mean, just something with your name on would be a start.'

  'Oh yes. Yes, I… I…' And as he stuttered, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his passport. And this time he examined it to check that it was the required item before he handed it over.

  She flicked through it, stopping first to examine the photograph - which made Renton look like the result of intensive interbreeding over a period of several millennia - and then at his “personal details” page.

  'It says here you're an accountant.'

  'Oh, that was ages ago,' offered Renton. 'Absolutely ages ago. Before I knew what I wanted to do.'

  'Before you started selling this paint stuff?'

  'Oh no. I don't sell it. I buy it. Well, I mean I'm buying it now. That's why I'm here. In Ranamavana. I'm on a paint-buying trip…'

  'Don't they sell body-paint in… in Omoria?'

  'Oh yes. But I'm buying a lot of it. And they're putting on a demonstration for me, you see. So I can… errh, see what it looks like…'

  'Pardon.'

  'Errh, Spazum. They're putting on a demonstration of it. Tomorrow. All the different sorts they do…'

  Renton's heart sank. Because he now saw in the eyes of his inquisitor a deep suspicion, and the likely beginning of a further line of enquiry he could well do without.

  'You're a big user of it, are you?'

  'No, not personally. I… I… errh, need it for my work.'

  'You need it for your work, eh? And what sort of work is that then?'

  'I'm… I'm in… errh, films…'

  'You're a film actor!?'

  'No. I'm a film… errh, a film director.'

  This wasn't entirely accurate. Indeed, it was actually a lie. But Renton saw it more as a shortcut - to the end of this unwanted line of enquiry.

  The policewoman started to smile. 'You mean you direct porno films? That sort of stuff?'

  'What!? Who said anything about… errh, you know… errh, about porno films?'

  'Well, what other sorts of films use loads of body-paint? You're not into documentaries, are you?'

  'Well, no. But I… errh, I… errh…'

  And then he stopped. Because he'd become aware of where his planned response to this last question could lead him: right into the shit. Yes, he was just about to inform this floral-suited rozzer that the films, which were the subject of her enquiry, involved the painting of children with body-paint. And that wouldn't be a good move. Even if the truth were that the children in question were all playing elves and goblins in a new ten-part production for children's TV back on Omoria, and copious amounts of body-paint were to be sloshed onto their supple young frames in order to help all the young viewers to fix in their minds who were the elves and who were the goblins. And the finished article would be about as pornographic as a tuna sandwich. And instead of informing her of these facts, he lied again.

  'OK,' he mumbled. 'I make porno films. But there's no law against it.'

  'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't quite catch what you said.'

  'I said you're right. I make porno films. But I didn’t think there was any law against it. There certainly isn't in Omoria…'

  'So this passport's invalid then?'

  'What?'

  'It says you're an accountant, not a pornographer. Which isn't right, is it? And that means it's invalid. And that means you've entered Ioda on invalid papers.'

  Renton felt cold. However, it was nothing to do with the ambient temperature in Ranamavana, but all to do with that bottomless chasm that was opening up before him, and from which there now blew a raw and icy draught… What had he been thinking of? And how
, as a novice make-up artist on an innocent shopping trip, had he suddenly become an illegal immigrant pornographer who might be facing deportation or incarceration - depending on the particular laws of this scruffy little police state and the whims of one of its more officious little storm-troopers…? And how would he deal with the blurting if they deported him? And how might they react, back on Omoria, when they found out what had happened? And how would that affect his master plan and his quest for a new life…?

  'So,' the policewoman said, handing the passport back to Renton. 'I should get it fixed, if I were you. And I suspect "Director" would do just as well as "Pornographer". Sounds a little less provocative, doesn't it?'

  'What!?'

  'It might just cause you a little less bother in the future - if you just use "Director".'

  Renton was no longer cold - but just warm - with either gratitude or confusion. He wasn't quite sure. Nor was he sure what to say now. Or whether he could say anything at all. He was that confused - and that grateful. But then he had to say something, because he'd just been asked a question. And the question was: 'What time are you visiting Spazum tomorrow?'

  His answer was short but to the point. It was: 'Eh?'

  The policewoman tried again.

  'The demonstration tomorrow; when is it scheduled for?'

  This time he managed significantly more than an “Eh”, and even a question in return.

  'Errh, eleven o'clock. But… errh, why do you ask?'

  'Well, if we need to follow this up… You know, this regrettable autocab incident. We don't want to go interfering with your schedule, do we? You being a visitor here - who's come to spend a lot of money with us. That wouldn't be right, would it?'

  Renton looked at the officer in amazement. How could that gaping chasm have closed up quite so quickly? And how could they be so nice to itinerant pornographers in this beautiful country? And how could they find such wonderful people to put in their police force…?

  'Where are you staying, sir?'

  'Errh, The Excessive. The Excessive Hotel.'

  'Oh, that's only about four blocks down the street there. You could walk it in fifteen minutes. And it'd be a damn site safer than in one of these dreadful autocabs. I should get going if I were you.'

  'Eh? But what about this cab?'

  'Oh, the cab people'll clear it up. And they'll contact you if they want to. Through your credit disc. But it's hardly likely…'

  'But…'

  'And, Mr Tenting, I suspect, after what you've been through, a nice rest in a nice hotel is just what you need. So I'd be on my way if I were you. Just up the street there.'

  'And that's it? You don't want me for anything else?'

  'No, Mr Tenting. This traffic incident is, as far as I'm concerned, well and truly closed. So, that's it. And I really don't need you for anything else.

  'Indeed, all that remains for me to do is to bid you good day, sir. Oh, and do enjoy the rest of your stay in Ranamavana.'

  And with that, she was gone. And where before there'd been lupins and harebells stretched across her ample bosom, there was now a clear view of a cluster of gawpers, people who had gathered to stare at a stranded autocab and its stranded occupant - in his strange, without-a-flower-to-be-seen, foreign clothes.

  So Renton, still in a state of mild shock, decided to take her advice. He got out of the cab and began walking towards The Excessive, still crumpled and damp, but now very relieved - albeit marginally irritated - that he hadn't asked the lady police person for her name.

  Not that he'd found her attractive, you understand. But it's just that he'd like to have known…

  5.

  The Excessive wasn't the sort of hotel that an apprentice make-up artist would normally have chosen. But Renton wasn't a normal apprentice make-up artist. He was a learner larruper-on, who until only a few months ago (and not ages ago) had been an accountant.

  Now, such are the ways of creation, that accountants have always been well rewarded, even if only infrequently well regarded. And consequently, over the last twelve years, Renton had acquired an indecent amount of money - and some expensive tastes. And one of these tastes was for swish hotels - like The Excessive. He had stayed there before, - when he had visited Ranamavana as a bean-counter. And there was no way he wasn't going to stay there again. Because not only was it a rather plush hotel, but it was also one of the few hotels on any planet anywhere, where you would find a bather in every room…

  Renton was in his now - and wondering whether, if he had a bather at home, he'd become addicted to it or whether he'd use it responsibly. Because he could well see how it could get out of hand.

  After all, bathers offered the ultimate bathing experience - in what looked like a conventional bath-tub, but what, in reality, was a marvel of modern engineering. For a bather could provide a suite of additional features that made the bathing experience nothing less than divine. Renton was enjoying some of these now - with his selection of sandalwood scents, subdued orange lighting, holographic scenes of a coral reef, (with “ocean sounds” accompaniment), “moss texture” on the bath surface, and as an automatic cleansing action, the sensation of coarse loofahs on his body.

  And this last feature is the true magic of these machines: their ability to control minutely the behaviour of water at the body's surface through a combination of electronic and electrostatic wizardry. So whether you're being cleaned by what feel like nibbling fish, stiff nailbrushes, velvet flannels or scraping fingernails, nothing is visible in the water - as it is the water itself that's providing the “feel”. And the feel really is like the genuine article.

  It is also the problem - that causes the addiction - with certain bather patrons making repeated visits to their bathers throughout the day, or in extreme cases, never leaving them at all. But not to experience scenes of coral reefs with light-loofah cleansing… Oh no. No, they're there instead to witness holographic scenes of scantily clad ladies - and most important of all - to experience the actual sensation of these very same ladies, doing to them what they appear to be doing in the holograms. Yes, for the manufacturers of the bathers, this wasn't quite as simple as reproducing the sensation of nibbling fish, but when they perfected it, and achieved a complex and vigorous water action that could be synchronized to holographic movement, they'd got a winner. And they'd also got a brand new form of pornographic experience for in-home use and a new source of addiction for countless young males. Oh, and that prehistoric pop song: “Ain't nothing like the real thing”, finally lost its long-established popularity.

  But no. Renton didn't think he'd ever resort to that sort of nonsense. And even here now, he wasn't tempted. And well, even if he was, he wasn't quite sure how to do it… You know, whether you had to coordinate various options on the programme menu or ask for a special menu… And anyway, how would it be described on your bill? And would they know at reception when you checked out…? Not that he'd ever contemplated it, of course. But he had just wondered about the practicalities sometimes - as one does about all sorts of practicalities… when one's in the bath - or even in the bather, come to that…

  And in any event, there are always more pressing demands, aren't there? And if you're Renton, and you've just experienced the most traumatic arrival on a planet you could ever imagine, these pressing demands will almost certainly manifest themselves in the need to indulge in a little bout of mental list making, Renton's very own way of sorting out his life and bringing order to the chaos. He did it virtually every day, and always after an upsetting experience - or a chain of upsetting experiences. And if ever there was a need for a bit of mental list making, there was certainly a need for it now…

  So, pushing aside any remaining thoughts of undressed ladies and synchronized frotterism, Renton began. And he put together his list in chronological order. In his mind. 'Right,' he thought. 'We've got:

  • item 1. re-emergence of blurting

  • item 2. autocab destroyed

  • item 3. one pair of desert
boots ruined

  • item 4. slight awkwardness with local constabulary

  • item 5. serious awkwardness with body-paint

  'So what do I carry forward from that little list? Well, the autocab destruction was a little traumatic at the time, but it looks as though I'm probably in the clear now - from what that police lady said, anyway. And even if I'm not, I think I've got more of a case against the cab people than they've got against me. So we'll forget about that. Then there's the loss of the desert boots. Well, there was a slight stain on one of them anyway, and I've got others - (Renton had seven unused pairs at home) - so forget that as well. And the same goes for the slight awkwardness with the local constabulary. It happened, but it's over now. And I'm hardly likely to meet her again anyway.

  'So that just leaves: (a) how to deal with the re-emergence of blurting, and (b) how to deal with this body-paint mission - or even how to concentrate on it with this bloody blurting thing hanging over me.

  'Well, there's only one way to deal with the blurting, and that's to ignore it - at least for the time being. Yes, in the best traditions of bureaucracy, put it in the pending tray and do sod all about it. And the same for the body-paint… Well, until tomorrow anyway. And then, who knows? It might not seem quite so appalling…'

  So lists and logic had done their work. Enough anyway to allow Renton to relax. And so much so, that he now felt like a drink - and even a cigar. So he stepped out of the bather and into the drying chamber and out of the drying chamber and into a colourful bathrobe, and then out of the bathroom. Then he made himself a strong gin and tonic, lit a small cigar and settled on his bed.