Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“Are you a robot, too?”

“Right. I’m going to get Mr. Mooney to give me a night watchman job at the warehouses. So the son has to disappear. The Little Kidders were going to handle it but . . . never mind. The main thing is that you take him to the Moon.”

“But how . . . “

“Here’s more money. To cover his ticket. I’ve got to run.” The lithe skinny figure pressed a wad of bills into Cobb’s hand and stepped past him, leaving by the garage’s back door. For an instant Cobb could see his face. Long lips, shift y eyes.

There was a sudden rush of noise. Cobb turned, stuffing the extra money into his pants pocket. A police cruiser was in the driveway. Cobb stood there, rooted to the spot. One cop, and some kind of prisoner in back.

“Howdy, Grandpaw,” the cop called, getting out of the car. He seemed to take Cobb for a pheezer hired hand. “Is Mister Mooney here?”

Cobb realized that the shaky guy in back must be the son. Probably the kid wanted to get out of here as bad as he did. A plan hatched in his mind.

“I’m afraid Stan had to go help out at one of the neighbor’s,” Cobb said, walking out of the garage. An image of Mooney and his wife locked in sexual intercourse on the living-room floor flashed before his eyes. “He’s installing a hose-system.”

The policeman looked at the old man a little suspiciously. The chief had told him Mooney would be here for sure. The old guy looked like a bum. “Who are you, anyway? You got any ID?”

“In the house,” Cobb said with a negligent laugh. “I’m Mister Mooney’s Dad. He told me you were coming.” He stooped and chuckled chidingly at the face in the back of the cruiser. The same face he’d just seen in the garage.

“Are you in dutch again, Stan Junior? You look out or you’ll grow up like your grandfather! Now come on inside and I’ll fix you some lunch. Grilled ham and cheese just the way you like it.”

Before the cop could say anything, Cobb had opened the cruiser’s back door. Sta-Hi got out, trying to figure where the pheezer had come from. But anything that put off seeing his parents was fine with him.

“That sounds swell, Gramps,” Sta-Hi said with a weary smile. “I could eat a whore.”

“Thank the officer for driving you, Stanny.”

“Thank you, officer.”

The policeman gave a curt nod, got in his car and drove off. Cobb and Sta-Hi stood in the driveway while the clucking of the hydrogen engine faded away. Down at the corner, a Mister Frostee truck sped past.

“Where are my parents?” Sta-Hi said finally.

“They’re in there fucking. One of them thinks you’re dead. It’s hard to hear when you’re excited.”

“It’s hard when you’re stupid, too,” Sta-Hi said with a slow smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

The two walked out of the housing development together. The houses were government-built for the spaceport personnel. There was plenty of irrigation water, and the lawns were lush and green. Many people had orange trees in their yards.

Cobb looked Mooney’s son over as they walked. The boy was lean and agile, tall. His lips were long and expressive, never quite still. The shift y eyes occasionally froze in introspection. He looked bright, mercurial, unreliable.

“That’s where my girlfriend lived,” Mooney’s son said, with a sudden gesture at a stucco house topped by a bank of solar power-cells. “The bitch. She went to college and now I hear she’s going to study medicine. Squeezing prostates and sucking boils. You ever had a rim-job?”

Cobb was taken aback. “Well, Stanny . . .”

“Don’t call me that. My name’s Sta-Hi. And I’m coming down. You holding anything besides your truss?”

The sun was bright on the asphalt street, and Cobb was feeling a little faint. This young man seemed like a real trouble-maker. A good person to have on your side.

“I have to get to the spaceport,” Cobb said, feeling the money in his pocket. “Do you know where I can get a cab?”

“I’m a cab-driver, so maybe you’re in one. Who are you anyway?”

“My name is Cobb Anderson. Your father was investigating me. He thought I might have stolen two cases of kidneys.”

“Wiggly! Do it again! Steak and kidney pie!”

Cobb smiled tightly. “I have to fly to the Moon this afternoon. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Sure, old man. We’ll drink some Kill-Koff and cut out cardboard wings.” Sta-Hi capered around Cobb, staggering and flapping his arms. “I’m going to the mooooooooon,” he sang, wiggling his skinny rear.

“Look, Stanny . . . “

Mooney’s son straightened up and cupped his hands next to Cobb’s head. “ STAY HIGH ,” he bawled. “GET IT RIGHT!”

The noise hurt. Cobb struck out with a backhanded slap, but Sta-Hi danced away. He made fists and peeked over them, glowering and back­pedaling like a prizefighter.

Cobb began again. “Look, Sta-Hi, I don’t fully understand it, but the boppers have given me a lot of money to fly to the Moon. There’s some kind of immortality elixir there, and they’ll give it to me. And they said I should take you along to help me.” He decided to postpone telling Sta-Hi about his robot double.

The young man feinted a jab. “Let’s see the money.”

Cobb looked around nervously. Funny how dead this housing development was. No one was watching, which was good unless this crazy kid was going to . . .

“Let’s see the money,” Sta-Hi repeated.

Cobb pulled the sheaf of bills half-way out of his pocket. “I’ve got a gun in my other pocket,” he lied. “So don’t get any ideas. Are you in?”

“I’ll wave with it,” Sta-Hi said, not missing a beat. “Gimme one of those bills.”

They had come to the end of the housing development. Ahead of them stretched the parking lot of a shopping center, and beyond that was field of sun-collectors and the road to the JFK Space Center.

“What for?” Cobb asked, gripping the money tighter.

“I got an unfed head, old man. The Red Ball’s over there.”

Cobb smiled his tight old smile deep in his beard. “That’s sound thinking, Sta-Hi. Very sound.”

Sta-Hi bought himself some cola-bola and a hundred-dollar tin of state-rolled reefer, while Cobb blew another hundred on a half-liter flask of aged organic scotch. Then they walked across the parking-lot and bought themselves some traveling clothes. White suits and Hawaiian shirts. On the taxi-ride to the spaceport they shared some of their provisions.

Walking into the terminal, Cobb had a moment of disorientation. He took out his money and started counting it again, till Sta-Hi took it off him with a quick jostle and grab.

“Not here, Cobb. Conserve some energy, man. First we get the visas.”

Erect and big-chested, Cobb glided on his two shots of Scotch like a Dixie Day float of the last Southern gentleman. Sta-Hi towed him over to the Gimmie exit visa counter.

This part looked easy. The Gimmie didn’t care who went to the Moon. They just wanted their two thousand dollars. There were several people ahead of them, and the line moved slowly.

Sta-Hi sized up the blonde waiting in front of them. She wore lavender leg-wrappings, a silvery tutu and a zebra-striped vinyl chest-protector. Stuzzy chick. He eased himself forward enough to brush against her stiff skirtlet.

She turned and arched her plucked eyebrows. “ Yew again! Didn’t ah tell you to leave me alone ?” Her cheeks pinkened with anger.

“Is it true blondes shave more buns?” Sta-Hi asked, batting his eyes. He flashed a long smile. The chick’s mouth twisted impatiently. She wasn’t buying it.

“I’m an artist,” Sta-Hi said, shifting gears. “Without an art. I just move people’s heads around, baby. You see this cut?” He touched the spot over his eyebrow. “My head is so beautiful that some fools tried to eat my brain this morning.”