Small, who had taken the precaution of draping a handkerchief over McGurk’s less than sanitary corn set, gave a grunt of derision. “I don’t know who owns those ships . .. but it certainty isn’t you.”
“Oh really?” Jepp replied, eyeing the huge doughnut-shaped space hab that had appeared on the shuttle’s viewscreen. “How’s that refueling station doing? You know, the one that charges twice the going rate, just for being out on the Rim?”
Small felt something gnaw at his gut. He made it to his feet, grabbed the cane, and walked toward the door. Maybe the folks down at the corn center could tell him what the hell was going on. “Now Jorley ... there’s no reason to get all excited . .. let’s talk.”
A mob had formed in front of the corn center but parted to let Small through. Voices babbled and questions flew, but the merchant ignored them. People scattered as Small barged into the main office and eyed the wall screen. There were ships all right, lots of them, more than he could count. And there, right between some red deltas was his pride and joy, the largely automated refueling station he called “Halo.”
The computer-generated likeness of the station was gold and glistened in the sun. Then, as if by magic, the Halo was gone. Small yelled “No!” but it was too late. Instructions had gone to the Hoon, weapons had been fired, and the hab ceased to exist.
Jepp tried to remember how many people lived on board but wasn’t sure. He should have checked first—should have known the answer. What was wrong with him anyway? Would he go to hell? No, not so long as he furthered God’s plan. His voice was filled with steel. “Prepare to receive God’s servants. Make them welcome or suffer my wrath.”
Small started to reply, started to ask “What servants?” but realized the connection had been severed. All other air traffic was turned away as a procession of shimmery shuttles landed at Fortuna’s much-abused spaceport. Neptune Small, his flunkies, a crowd of townspeople, and spaceport staff all watched in amazement as dozens of smooth-faced robots filed out of the alien spaceships and made their way into the slums that bordered the port.
Many feared that the machines would suddenly turn violent, but there was no sign that any of them bore weapons, and none of the robots did anything to offend. What they did do, however, was take up positions on street corners, enter bars, and invade houses of prostitution. There were objections, of course, along with various attempts to eject them, but to no avail. Even after being physically accosted and thrown out into the streets, the robots simply picked themselves up and marched back in. Eventually, after the bouncers tired of trying to stop them, the machines were allowed to stay. That’s when they launched their carefully prepared sermons. Long rambling affairs that borrowed from a number of sects, denominations, and traditions, but were faithful to none. It was only after walking around for a bit and sampling a number of presentations that Small realized the robots were speaking in unison!
Jepp, self-styled messiah that he was, had constructed the perfect cult. Each and every member thought the same thoughts, had the same beliefs, and babbled the same nonsense. Including the need to eradicate the Thraki. Whoever they might be.
People listened at first, curious as to what the silvery machines had to say, but soon grew bored and drifted away.
Three of the robots were machine-napped but set free the moment that the orbital barrage began. The buildings were chosen at random and destroyed one at a time till the Sheen were released. Small lost two properties during the attack, and his peers lost structures as well. Finally, at their urging, the businessman was forced to go looking for Jepp. The self-styled messiah was easy to locate. Every streetcomer robot seemed to know exactly where their master was.
The prefab warehouse catered to the sort of misfits that used Long Jump as a base of operations, and was subdivided into a labyrinth of heavily screened cubicles. It was difficult to see in the murky corridors, but most of the compartments seemed to crammed with semi-worthless junk. The owner, a weasel nicknamed “Pop,” dogged the merchant’s steps. He was as small as the other man was large and dressed in property confiscated from his nonpaying customers. A two-thousand credit spydersilk robe napped around his tiny body as he walked. “He’s down this way Mr. Small... along with some of his infernal machines. They just walked in and took over.”
The twosome turned a comer, passed under a dangling light wand, and located their quarry. Jepp was there all right—along with a clutch of robots. A silver globe bumped into Small’s wellshad feet, transformed itself into something that resembled a spider, and attempted to scale the merchant’s right leg. He bent over to peel the device off. Sam took exception. “Hey1 Watch it buster! Hands off.”
Startled by the robot’s use of standard, the merchant took a step backward. The robot lost interest and dropped free. Jepp, who had chosen to ignore the businessman up till then, scanned the title of a holo disk and dropped it into a box. “Don’t mind Sam . .. he’s harmless enough. I wondered when you would show up.”
Small, who felt inexplicably nervous, was shocked by the sound of his own voice. He sounded weak, and a little bit subservient, like those who worked for him. “Really? Yes, I suppose you did.”
“Of course I did,” Jepp said matter-of-factly. “So what did your friends say? Get rid of him? And do it fast?”
“Something like that,” Small admitted lamely.
“So what will you give me?” Jepp demanded, hands on hips.
Small shrugged. “Whatever you want. So long as you leave and take the machines with you.”
“ ‘Whatever I want,’ “ Jepp mused. “I like the sound of that. . . One can imagine all sorts of things. The sort of worldly garbage that a man like you would ask for.
“But God has no interest in such things . .. and neither do his servants. I ask only two things, one for the Hoon, and the other for myself.”
Small felt a small, hard lump form in his throat He had no idea who or what the Hoon was ... but wasn’t sure it mattered. As with all business deals, the price was what mattered. “Yes? What do you want?”
“The Sheen are looking for a race known as the Thraki.
Have you heard of them?”
The merchant shook his head. Chins jiggled. “No, but we don’t get much news out here. You know how it is ... The Feddies don’t care about us, and we don’t care about them.”
Jepp looked unimpressed. “You have contacts ... use them. Talk to the smugglers. They know what’s going on ... they have to. I want a report by this time tomorrow.”
Small nodded weakly “It shall be as you say. And the second request?”
“Five years’ worth of the best ship rations you can lay your hands on, fifty thousand gallons of purified water, a class one autodoc with plenty of supplies, ten dark blue ship suits, ten sets of underwear, two pairs of size twelve boots and ten thousand bibes. At the spaceport by tomorrow night.”
The fact that the list didn’t involve large quantities of money or other valuables granted Small a tremendous sense of relief. ‘That sounds doable . .. Everything but the Bibles. I doubt there’s more than 100 on the entire planet.”
“Then print some more,” Jepp replied sweetly, “or Judgment Day may arrive a little bit early.”
The Hoon was both annoyed and amused by the supplies that the soft body wanted to bring aboard. Not that it made much difference since there was plenty of room.
Of greater significance was the fact that the biological had clearly decided to stay. A thoroughly disagreeable prospect except for one thing: Prior to quitting the planet’s surface, the human had acquired some valuable intelligence. It seemed that this particular world was little more than an outpost for a much larger multicultural civilization. A society still struggling to cope with the fact that the Thraki armada had dropped out of hyperspace, seized control of a planet, and taken up residence there. An extremely important development—assuming it was true.