Unique among the planets of the Alliance, Rot’n‘art has been entirely enclosed and roofed over. Seen from space, the planet is an irregular spheroid of metal and synthetics, which extend as much as a mile above the actual surface. It is not at all clear why someone-several generations of someones, to be precise-thought this particular form of development to be worth the effort. I suspect it was the Interplanetary Shippers Guild, who are greatly enriched by Rot’n’art’s need to import the vast majority of its foodstuffs, which despite its diminished population the planet can no longer grow for itself.
Rot’n‘art’s claim on the title of “galactic center” unquestionably holds true if the subject is service robots. Not that robots are at all rare on other worlds-far from it. But on many worlds, they are found only in positions unsuited to human workers: undersea mining, for example, or nuclear reactor maintenance. Because of the positions they are in, the visitor (whose interest in undersea mines or the innards of nuclear reactors is usually nil) rarely sees them.
Not so on Rot ‘n ’art. There, even more than on Cut ‘N’ Shoot, robots fill the majority of public contact positions. Stop in a restaurant for lunch? A robot takes one’s order, brings the food, and collects the payment. For all I know, another is back in the kitchen preparing one’s sandwich. Travel to some tourist destination? One robot vends the tickets, another collects them, a third operates the vehicle, and still another directs one to the best places to view the attractions. Robots so dominate the landscape that a first-time visitor is likely to wonder where the people of Rot’n‘art have fled.
Phule stepped off the liner to discover an empty, ill-lit corridor, which might have been swept some time in the last month, but not very carefully. There was a row of vending machines on the wall facing him. About half of them appeared to have been vandalized. The door hissed shut behind him, and he was alone. He stopped and looked around, confused; this didn’t look anything at all like the entrance to one of the major hubs of the galaxy…
“Welcome to Rot’n‘art, stranger,” said a harsh voice behind him.
Phule whirled quickly, ready for action. But the figure facing him was as unthreatening as he could imagine: a stringy-haired man in a ragged overcoat leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. Hardly the kind of reception he’d expected; but he might as well make the best of it. “Hello. Can you tell me the way to die spaceport office?” asked Phule.
“Spaceport office?” echoed the stranger. “You don’t want to go there.”
“Of course I do,” said Phule. “Why would I ask if I didn’t?”
With a visible effort, the man stood more upright and took a step forward. “Sheer ignorance, most likely,” he said, peering quizzically at Phule. “That’s the most common reason, with off-worlders. On the other hand, you might be perverse, or just plain stupid. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Say, could you spare a few credits so a guy could get himself some drugs?” He stuck out his hand, palm up.
Phule bristled. “What, first you insult me, then you ask me for money for drugs? You really must think I am stupid.”
The man shrugged and stuck his hand into his trousers pocket. “Well, some people are, you know. You can’t really tell until you ask. It never hurts, I figure-I just might end up getting some money. And some people might even consider it a commendable sign of an inquiring mind. But tell me, what makes you think you want to go to the spaceport office?”
Phule paused a moment-why should he tell this stranger his business? The fellow had done nothing to inspire confidence. But then again, he had nothing to lose. The sooner he found out how the land lay, the quicker he could decide how to find Beeker. This fellow’s information might be as good as anyone’s. He looked the man in the eyes, and said, “I’m trying to find somebody who recently came to Rot’n‘art, and I thought the spaceport office might have a record of his arrival.”
“Not much chance,” said the stranger. “There wasn’t anybody here making a record of your arrival, was there?”
“Not unless it’s you,” said Phule, looking at the man again.
The stranger opened his mouth, then shut it again, and looked at Phule with raised eyebrows. Finally he said, “Say, you aren’t so slow after all, are you? Or have you been on Rot’n‘art before?”
“First time on-world,” said Phule. “Now, friend, it’s been instructive talking to you, but I really need to be on my way. I do have to find somebody, and I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said the stranger, putting his hand on Phule’s elbow. “Rot’n‘art’s the galactic center of missing persons. In fact, I do a bit of work in that line myself-maybe I could lend a hand.”
“Really?” Phule raised his own eyebrow in return. “For a small fee, I suppose? I have to say, you don’t look like the kind of fellow who could be much help.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t judge people on first sight,” said the man. “You spend much time on Rot’n‘art, you find out that taking folks at face value can get you in a lot of trouble.”
“True enough,” said Phule. “But you can get in just as much trouble if you don’t pay attention to what’s in front of your face. You already tried to beg from me, and told me you’d spend it on drugs. Why should I trust you to help me?”
The man shrugged. “I know Rot’n‘art like a native, and you don’t,” he said. “And I’m for hire. As for the trust, that’s part of the standard contract.”
Phule smiled. “Ah, contracts-now, that’s something I understand. What are your terms?”
The man turned and snapped his fingers. A clanking sound came from down the corridor, and after a moment a stenobot appeared, with a printout already emerging from its slot. “Got my boilerplate ready,” the man said, with a predatory grin.
“I’m sure you do,” said Phule, with a grimace of his own. “Of course, I’ll have to see whether I can agree to all your terms. For one thing, I never sign a ‘hold harmless’ clause…”
The negotiations took a little while, but after suitable modifications, Captain Jester and Perry Sodden-that was the name the man signed to the contract-had agreed to terms. “All right, let’s go find your missing man,” said Sodden.
9
Journal #811-
Being a tourist is at once a pleasure and a burden. One is liberated from the routines of work and daily business, to be sure. One can arise late, dawdle over breakfast, add a bottle of wine to luncheon, and spend all one’s time being unproductive, without anyone thinking ill of it. On the other hand, one feels a certain obligation to “do” the area one is vacationing in. Is there an ancient ruin, a famous battlefield, or a dramatic sunset to be seen? All one’s friends will assuredly inquire about it upon one’s return, and one will learn that the missed attraction was the high point of everyone else’s visit to the world in question. So instead of enjoying a few weeks’ leisure, one dutifully exhausts oneself visiting all the various museums, ruins, battlefields, scenic vistas, theaters, stadiums, beaches, cemeteries, jails, and other noted attractions. In the end, one might as well have stayed home and gone to work every day.
The two men stepped off the star liner into the long, empty corridors of Rot’n‘art and looked around. “Wow, some place,” said Sushi, looking around at the dilapidated terminal.
“Yeah, the joint gives me the creeps,” said Do-Wop. “Just like home…”
“I believe you,” said Sushi. He looked at the corridor stretching off in both directions. “I don’t see any sign of activity. Which way do you think we ought to go?”