ODD JOB #213
Ron Goulart
THEIR new client arrived in a small neometal carrying case. Jake Pace had been in the large kitchen of their Redding Sector, Connecticut estate dictating a recipe for vegan curry to the database of the botstove. His wife Hildy was loafing in the solarium, idly playing new Goldberg Variations on the banjo.
The voxbox of the secsystem said, "Visitors."
"Be right back," Jake told the stove.
"I can carry on without you, sir," offered the stove.
"Not unless you wish to cease to be." A long, lanky man in his middle thirties, Jake went hurrying into the main living room.
Hildy, long-legged and auburn-haired, was already at one of the high, wide viewindows. Her electronic banjo dangled from her left hand. "It's merely John J. Pilgrim," she informed her approaching husband.
Out on the realgrass back acre a venerable skycar was in the process of executing a wobbly landing. "That souse," muttered Jake.
"John J. quit drinking over a year ago," Hildy reminded, leaning her banjo against a plazchair. "In the spring of 2032. He hasn't had a drink since."
"His previous lifetime of boozing has permanently affected him," observed Jake. "His sense of balance is shot for good and his sense of decorum is worse than it—"
"He's a brilliant attorney." Hildy watched the small rumpled lawyer come scrambling out of the landed blue skycar. "And, keep in mind, Jake, that he's brought Odd Jobs, Inc. some very lucrative cases."
We are, and I say this with all modesty and humility, one of the best private investigating outfits in the land," her husband mentioned. "Therefore, in point of fact, we really don't need a rumdum—an erstwhile rumdum shyster to hustle up jobs for us."
"What's that John J. brought along?"
Pilgrim had tugged a small silvery carrying case out of the rear of the battered skycar. He was squatting now on the grass, seemingly arguing with the neometal box.
"In the old days it would've been a suitcase full of plazflasks of Chateau Discount fortified wine," said Jake.
The silvery case did a backflip, somersaulting on the sward.
"You'd best go out and escort him in," suggested Hildy. "He appears to be having a squabble with his carrying case."
"... and won the plaudits of all fourteen judges of the Supreme Court, including the two androids, I'll have you know," the rumpled little attorney was hollering as Jake came loping up. "So, buster, I can sure as hell sum up your case so an overrated gumshoe like Jake Pace can comprehend it. You're, in my opinion, an extremely arrogant tin-plated piece of—"
"Special alloy, dopey, not tin," corrected a high-pitched little; voice from within the carrying case. "And, keep in mind, that it; is I who hired you to represent me. Therefore, I retain the privi-lege of instructing you, dimbulb, and—"
"You taking up ventriloquism, John?" inquired Jake, halting; nearby.
"You're looking extremely gaunt, Jake," observed the attor-ney, standing up. "Something fatal eating away at you, perhaps?"
"No such luck." Jake grinned one of his bleaker grins. "What's in the carrying case?"
"A fiendish device." Very gingerly, Pilgrim reached out and, after hesitating for a few seconds, grabbed the handle of the neo-metal case. "Were I better able to avoid the temptation of sub-stantial fees, I'd never have hired out to the enclosed gadget nor agreed to ferry it here to consult you and the fair Hildy."
"Hey, halfwit," complained the voice in the case, "I'm not an it. I'm a male, so refer to me as 'he' henceforth."
Frowning, Jake took a look through the grilled side of the car-rying case in Pilgrim's freckled hand. "Some sort of toy?"
"Toy, my ass," said the contents of the case. "I just happen to be, dumbbell, the most sophisticated robot cat in the world. I'm the latest, most advanced version of TomCat™."
"And also, at the present time, a fugitive," added the attorney. "From out on the Coast, in SoCal."
"Why, exactly, have you brought him here?"
"Tom wants to hire you," replied the lawyer.
"I wish to employ Odd Jobs, Inc.," Tom corrected. "Not just you, Pace. I understand that it's Hildy who's the brains of the setup."
After giving a brief sigh, Jake invited, somewhat reluctantly, "Come on in, both of you."
Slouched in a yellow hip-hugger chair, Jake urged, "Give us some details of the damn case."
The chrome-plated robot cat was reared up on the piano bench, whapping out Pinetop's Boogie Woogie on the white upright living room piano. "You were expressing doubts as to my versatility, dimwit," reminded Tom. "Therefore, this demo."
Hildy, sitting on the rubberoid sofa, said, "You have to admit he's got a great left paw, Jake."
"For a cat," he conceded. "Now explain what you want to hire us for—and how you intend to pay our fee."
From his orange hip-hugger chair Pilgrim said, "He's got the dough."
"How can a robot cat, and a runaway at that, have money?"
The attorney, his face taking on an even more sour look, answered, "He's done very well on the stock market. And he wins the National Numbers Game with suspicious frequency."
Smacking out a final chord, the cat ceased playing and settled into a comfortable sprawl on the tufted piano bench. "I didn't rig anything, peckerwood. It's simply that I'm a bit psychic and the winning numbers come to me in dreams."
"Robots don't have dreams," said Jake.
"Sez you," said Tom, glancing over at Hildy. "How'd you come to hook up with such a nebbish?"
"I was just out of the convent school at the time and didn't know any better," she replied, crossing her long legs.
"Geeze," remarked the cat, "living with this goof has turned you into a wiseass."
After coughing into his hand, Pilgrim said, "What it ... what he wants to consult you about is a missing dame who—"
"I'm capable of giving a coherent account of the situation," cut in the robot cat.
"Do so," suggested Jake.
Tom's silver tail switched back and forth twice. "As you probably know, the TomCat™ brand of robot felines is designed and created by BotPets International. Run by Ward McKey, a fughead if there ever was one, and based in the Laguna Sector of Greater Los Angeles in the state of SoCal, BotPets grosses just shy of a billion smackers per year. The majority of this impressive sum comes from the sale of the incredibly popular TomCat™ house pets for the well off and a few—"
"The Fido™ dogbots net over $400,000,000," put in the attorney.
"Dogs. Fooey," observed the cat. "Okay, we're getting close to the nub of the problem. The head of Research & Development/ Cat Division is a lovely, intelligent young woman named Mari-jane Kraft. She—"
"The little dickens has got a terrific crush on this dame," supplied the attorney.
"Hush, John," advised Hildy, frowning at him and shaking her head. "Let Tom talk."
Rising up on his hind legs, the cat bowed toward her. "You are a rose among thorns, dear lady," he said, settling down again. "For over a year the most expensive model cat has been able to talk. That was an innovation that Marijane came up with and—"
"I thought," said Jake, "you mentioned that she was intelligent."
Looking over at Hildy, the robot cat inquired, "How long have you been married to this gink?"
"Eleven years."
"Oy, such fortitude," said Tom. "I happen to be the working model of the latest and most advanced robot cat. Marijane fin-ished me just three months ago and has been refining my—"
"You became independently wealthy in just three months?' asked Jake.
"Listen, bozo, I did that in three weeks," answered the cat. "The point is, I look upon Marijane with considerable fondness."
Hildy said, "Something's happened to her?"
"Exactly. Six days ago she disappeared."
Pilgrim added, "It's his belief that she disappeared. BotPets maintains that she sent in her resignation while visiting friends."
"Friends?" Tom arched his metallic back. "Who in the heck would have friends in the People's Republic of Ohio?"
Hildy said, "Ohio seceded from the Union back in 2027 and elected that fat guy Dictator."
Nodding, Jake said, "Vincent Eagleman, yeah, founder of the Homegrown Fascist Party. Why'd your friend Marijane journey to the People's Republic of Ohio?"
Tom gave a shake of his silvery head. "All she told me before she took off was that something seriously wrong was going on and she wanted to investigate."
Hildy asked, "Something wrong in Ohio? Something wrong at BotPets?"
"I suspect a conspiracy twixt the two, a conspiracy that involves both Vincent Eagleman and Ward McKey. They're quite probably in cahoots and up to no good."
"What are they conspiring about?" Jake sat up.
"I don't know for sure," answered the cat. "I'm assuming, though, it involves one of the BotPets products."
"Whereabouts in Ohio did she go?"
"Youngstown, the capital of the republic."
"Did she contact you at all after she got there?"
"The first two days, yep."
"How?"
The robot cat scratched his silvery side with a hind paw. "Marijane installed a voxphone in my interior. That's not standard equipment, but she and I were pals, and she used to phone most nights after she got home and—-"
She stopped communicating with you from Youngstown?" asked Hildy.
Exactly, ma'am. She ceased calling after the second day, and the Ritz Mussolini Hotel in Youngstown claims she checked out." "Going where?"
No forwarding address. She never came back to Greater Los Angeles, though," said Tom forlornly. "Two days after she disappeared, McKey voxed all the BotPets staff to announce that
Marijane had resigned for personal reasons. He knew everyone would join with him in wishing her well wherever she decided to go."
"Which was where?"
"He didn't mention that."
Jake rose up out of his chair. "And she hasn't called you or contacted you since?"
"If she had would I have furtively arranged my escape from the R&D facility in GLA, given this bedraggled ambulance chaser an outrageous retainer and hired him to convey me to Odd Jobs, Inc. as secretively as possible?"
"Probably not," conceded Jake, starting to pace on the thermal rug. "What do you think, Hildy?"
"She found out something, they shut her down."
"She's not dead," insisted the cat.
"You can't be positive. And you have to be prepared for—"
"I told you, Marijane designed me to be a bit psychic. So I know she's alive."
"Be nice," said Jake, "if you were psychic enough to tell us where."
Hildy asked him, "Want to take the case? Sounds interesting."
Stopping near the piano bench, he frowned down at the robot cat. "Did Pilgrim explain our fee structure?"
"Sure. $100,000 in front—nonrefundable. Another hundred thou if you find her, no matter in what shape," answered Tom. "Plus a bonus of $100,000 should you also clear up whatever mess Marijane was looking into."
"Can you afford that?"
The cat made a brief metallic purring sound. "There's $100,000 in your Banx account as of now, Sherlock. So do we have a deal?" He held up his right forepaw.
Jake shook it. "Indeed we do."
As his skycar sped westward, the day ceased to wane and the sky outside commenced growing lighter. Pushing the Automatic Flight button on the dash panel, Jake leaned back in his seat and rubbed the palm of his hand across his forehead a few times.
The pixphone buzzed.
"Okay, yeah," he said.
The slightly chubby bald man who appeared on the rectangular screen was wearing a two-piece plaid bizsuit and sitting on an under-inflated neoprene airchair. He was surrounded by modified computer screens, databoxes, and a jumbled assortment of electronic tapping equipment. "Did I outline my new billing system thoroughly when you hired me a couple hours ago?"
"You did, Steranko."
Steranko the Siphoner said, "So my initial bill of $1,000 won't shock or stun—"
"$850 was the aforementioned quotation."
"Naw, it couldn't have been, Jacob, my boy, since my new fee list has been in effect since last Xmas."
"$850 is all that Odd Jobs, Inc. is going to pay, be that as it may."
The small informant sighed, and at the same time an exhalation of air came wheezing out of his inflated chair. "Were it not for the fact that I've been doing business with you and that scrawny missus of yours for untold aeons, Jake, I would never put up with your high-handed—"
"Before any more aeons unfold, Steranko, tell me what you've found out so far. Assuming you have found out anything."
"Hey, I happen to be, as you well know, chum, the best tapper on Earth," he said. "Or on the Moon for that matter. How about $900?"
"$850."
Sighing again, Steranko reluctantly said, "All right. Here's a one-minute animated ID pic of Ethan Greenway, the lad your client claims was the missing Marijane's dearest friend at BotPets."
A tanned, just barely handsome man of forty appeared on the screen. Smiling amiably, he displayed his full face and then his left and right profiles. "My name is Ethan Greenway. I'm the Associate Copychief in the Fido™ Division of BotPets International."
“You emphasized the word claims. You think this guy wasn't her beau?"
"Far be it from me to contradict a robot kitty gifted with speech," said the Siphoner. "Marijane and this boob did date now and then . . . However."
"However what?"
"I have to dig into this a bit further, Jake, but I'm already getting strong hints that friend Greenway was actually an Internal Affairs Agent for BotPets. A fellow who checked on employees who weren't trusted completely."
"Meaning he might have had something to do with her vanishing?"
The hairless Steranko shrugged one shoulder. "I'd seriously consider that possibility, yes."
"Where can I find him?"
"At the moment he's attending the West Coast Robotic Pets Trade Show in the Malibu Sector of Greater Los Angeles. It's being held at the Malibu Stilt Ritz Hotel now through Friday."
Jake nodded. "What about Marsha Roebeck?"
"You now see her before you."
A heavyset woman of about fifty, with short-cropped gray hair, appeared on the screen and went through a ritual similar to Greenway's. "I'm Marsha Roebeck, a Director Second Class of the TomCat™ Division R&D Department at BotPets International."
"Okay, she's the one Tom says helped smuggle him out of the joint," said Jake. "If I can talk to her, I can maybe—"
"That, old buddy, is going to be tough," cut in the plaid-suited informant. "Apparently the lady came down with a rare Moon Base virus and is in the Isolation Ward at the Thorpe Private Hospital in the Santa Monica Sector of Greater LA."
"No visitors, huh?"
"Only medics."
"I can impersonate one if need be."
"Be careful, since the lady is being very closely and belligerently guarded."
"All the more reason to have a talk with her," said Jake. "Did you come up with anything else?"
"You've already had more than $850 worth of pertinent infor-mation."
"Okay, dig us up another $850 batch, and I'll get in touch with you once I get to SoCal."
"How much is that pussycat paying you folks?"
"Sufficient."
Steranko said, "It's a pity you don't pass along a bit more of the outrageous fees you bilk out of gullible customers. Were this an equable society, my share would automatically—"
"Talk to you again in a few hours." Jake ended the call.
The robot security guard gave a long, low appreciative whistle. "Gosh all hemlock," he exclaimed out of his coppery voxgrid, "you surely are right pretty, Miss Beemis."
"I am that," agreed Hildy, holding out a packet of expertly forged IDs to the mechanical man at the entrance to the Bingo Heaven Multidome in the heart of Youngstown. She was a silvery blonde now, deeply tanned, wearing a short one-piece sinsilk skirtsuit. "I have an appointment with Mr. Leon Bismarck."
After ogling her again, the robot said, "I hope you'll forgive my overtly masculine reaction, Miss Beemis, but I used to be a doorman up in Orbiting Vegas II, and I was programmed to react positively to chorines."
"One wouldn't think such behavior would be considered acceptable in the more conservative Republic of Ohio."
The big coppery hot nodded in agreement. "I was rushed down here to fill in after some malcontents blew up my predecessor," he explained. "I haven't had my outlook modified." He held her fabricated credentials up to the scanner panel built into his wide coppery chest. "Ah, Miss Theresa Beemis, Contributing Editor of Militant Chic. Isn't that the multimedia mag with nearly 6,000,000 subscribers per week in fascist dictatorships worldwide?"
"Nearly 7,000,000," Hildy corrected as he returned her IDs.
"My statistics base hasn't been upgraded since they dumped me here either," the robot told her. "Well, you'll find Mr. Bismarck's office in Dome Three of Bingo Heaven. On the second level right above the Virtual Bingo pavilion."
Thanks, and good luck on your eventual overhaul."
"You sure are some looker," said the robot, standing aside to let her pass into the building.
"Orderly, get over here at once!" cried Jake.
He now had shaggy blond hair, spurious retinal patterns, altered fingerprints, and a small fuzzy mustache. He was wearing a two-piece off-white medsuit and standing at the reception desk of the Isolation Ward on the Second Below-Ground Floor of the Thorpe Private Hospital.
The middle-sized human orderly came trotting over. "May I be of service, Doctor ..." He leaned closer to read the name on Jake's counterfeit digital name tag. "Doctor Bushwanger."
Jake, a bit disdainfully, pointed at the android nurse sitting behind the aluminum reception counter. "This mechanism is obviously malfunctioning, which I must say does not speak highly of your facility."
Blankly staring, the white-clad android said, "Gulp gulp gulp," paused and then said it again.
Two minutes earlier Jake had felt compelled to use a disabler on the andy because she was asking questions he wasn't prepared to answer. That sometimes happened on rush impersonations.
"What the heck's wrong, Irma?" the curly-haired young man asked, going up on tiptoe and staring across the counter at her.
"Gulp gulp gulp."
"This is all very vexing," observed Jake in an annoyingly nasal voice. "I didn't fly in from the Tijuana Sector of Greater LA to be delayed by a mechanism that's obviously gone flooey."
"Why are you here, Dr. Bushwanger?"
"Hasn't your Chief of Staff, Dr. Erringer, notified the entire crew that he was brining me in to consult on the Marsha Roebeck case?"
"I thought Dr. Erringer was on a second honeymoon in the Safe Zone of Argentina."
"Be that as it may, he sent for me." Jake impatiently jiggled the medical bag he was carrying. "I happen to be the leading expert on lunar viruses in this hemisphere."
"Patient Roebeck is in an Extreme Isolation room, Doctor, and you can't—"
"I'd hate to have to file a Negative Performance Report on you, Gribble."
"My name is Gibbons."
"Have your ID tag refonted then, Gibbons," suggested Jake, even more impatiently. "But first, take me to my patient immediately."
Gibbons glanced at the still gulping android nurse. "Very well, Doctor," he said resignedly. "I can't afford to have another black mark on my record. Come along."
Using the compact needle gun on the plump woman's upper arm, Jake said, "This stuff ought to counteract the control drugs they've been shooting into you, Miss Roebeck."
"I am completely happy here. I will make no trouble for anyone," she droned. Wearing a polka dot hospital gown, she was sitting up in a gray floating bed at the center of the small gray room. "I will forget all that . . . What the hell is this?" Marsha blinked, scowled at Jake. "Are you one of those bastards who want to hurt Marijane?"
"On the contrary," Jake assured her. "I've disabled the monitoring gear in your room, but they'll tumble to that fairly soon. So tell me what you know about—"
"And who the Billy Jesus might you be, jocko?" "Jake Pace from Odd Jobs, Inc.," he told her. "What we—" "So Tom did get to you."
"That he did. Now what do you know about what's happened to Marijane?"
"After I smuggled that little dingus out of there, I did some nosing around on my own," she said. "That wasn't, as it turned out, so very smart. They grabbed me, dumped me in this hole, and diddled with my coco so that I was about three steps away from being a vegetable." "Who put you here?"
...
widez2