Lurk poked despondently at his bowl of pasta, stirring it idly with his fork. He stabbed at a chunk of blue vegetable, speared it, and shoved it into his mouth. He washed it down with a swallow of warm blue hephelump milk.
He sighed loudly.
"What's on your mind, boy?" asked Uncle Rowan around a mouthful of partly chewed pasta.
"I was just... That is, I..."
"Well, come on boy, spit it out," snapped Rowan impatiently, spraying the table with chunks of pasta. "We don't have all day!"
"I think those 'bots we bought might be stolen," said Lurk.
"Of course they're stolen. Those Yahoos are the biggest bunch of thieves this side of the galactic centre. They sure as hell didn't acquire any of their stock legally."
"Oh, yes, I know that," said Lurk defensively. "But I found a recording while I was cleaning..." He paused a moment. He had almost said the astrobot, but he felt it probably wasn't wise to remind his uncle of exactly how they had come to buy an entirely useless 'bot. "... one of them," he continued. "Something about an Obeah Bum K'nobby. I thought perhaps it might mean old Bent K'nobby?"
Aunt Beryl looked up. "Wasn't his name something like Obi Wanker Nobby or Obi Bun Kimono or something?" She subsided as Rowan glared at her.
"That old wizard is just a crazy old man," he lectured Lurk sternly. "He's dangerous, and he smells funny. You stay well away from him!"
"I heard he used to have a thing for young boys," added Beryl meekly.
"There, you see!" Rowan shook his head. "No, boy, you stay well away from him. Take those 'bots down to Angkor Het tomorrow and get their memories wiped; that'll be the end of it."
"Yes, Uncle." Lurk continued toying with his dinner. He twirled a ribbon of pasta onto his fork with exaggerated care, then placed it slowly into his mouth and chewed on it for a while before swallowing it down.
"Uncle Rowan?"
"I mean it! Stay away from him!"
"Yes, Uncle Rowan, I will," said Lurk. "I was just thinking. If these 'bots work out, perhaps I could go to the Imperial Academy this year?"
"But Lurk," sighed his uncle, "you know the harvest is when I need you the most!"
"That's what I'm saying, though, Uncle Rowan!" Lurk pressed. "Now that you've got these 'bots you won't need my help any more."
"Exactly what use do you think a translator 'bot and an astrobot will be?" demanded Rowan. "Do you think either of them can drive the harvesting tankers out to the collectors?"
"No, Uncle," said Lurk quietly.
"Do you think either of them can clamber up the ladder onto the tanker roof and hook up the suction hose?"
"No, Uncle," said Lurk quietly.
"Do you think either of them is capable of hooking up the discharge hose to our storage tanks? Or ferrying the full tanks to market? Or defending the convoy against marauders?"
"No, Uncle," said Lurk quietly, despairingly.
"Well then! The only reason we got the translator 'bot was to keep those damn Blotchy merchants honest! And I'm really not sure that an astrobot is of any use at all around here, except perhaps as a mobile dustbin." Rowan paused, a confused expression crossing his face. "Why did we get that stupid thing, anyway? Damn Yahoos must've pulled some fast talking to slip that by me!"
"Yes, Uncle."
"So you see, Lurk? I need you for the harvest." Rowan thought a moment. "If we have a good year this year, I'll be able to afford to hire some help for next year. You can go off to the Academy then."
"But it's a whole 'nother year!" whined Lurk petulantly.
"It's only one more season!" snapped Rowan. "Now eat your vegetables or you won't get any dessert."
"Yeah, that's what you said last year when Bates left," muttered Lurk. "Uh, the bit about only one more season, anyway..." Lurk glared down at his plate. Suddenly he could stand it no more. He jumped to his feet and headed out of the kitchen.
"Where are you going, Lurk?" said Rowan.
"Looks like I'm going nowhere, doesn't it?" Lurk stormed out.
Where he actually went was his bedroom, where he flung himself heavily down on his bed and began to sob...
Beryl looked across at Rowan. "You can't keep him here forever, Rowan. All of his friends have already gone to the Academy."
Rowan shrugged.
"He's just not a farmer," Beryl persisted. "He has too much of his father in him."
"That's what worries me," said Rowan. "Look at what a crazy psychopath he turned out to be. Do you remember what he did the last time he was here?"
"Of course I do." Beryl closed her eyes for a moment.
The first (and only) time they had met Mannequin Splitwhisker, he had gone on a killing rampage, leaving a trail of death and destruction through the local native villagers. And then he had left, leaving Rowan and his father, and young Rowan's future wife, to face the months of reprisals from the furious survivors. Rowan's own father had been killed during that horrific time, and only the intervention of the local Republican representative had brought the conflict to an uneasy end. Reparations had been paid, leaving the farm all but bankrupt. It had been years before they managed to recover financially.
Then, in the midst of trying to get their farm back on its feet and forget the worst of the nightmare, that crazy old Obeah man, Bum K'nobby, had had the gall to bring Mannequin's son, Lurk Splitwhisker, and asked them to look after the child. Rowan had refused at first, and only given in reluctantly to Beryl's pleas: after she had been wounded in one of the many native attacks she had been left barren, unable to conceive, and she felt that adopting the infant Lurk was possibly her last chance to have a family of her own. Against his better judgement, Rowan had bowed to his wife's wishes. But he had warned Obeah Bum K'nobby in the strongest possible terms that he never wanted to see him again. They would raise the child in their own way, and wanted no interference from the old wizard.
"Lurk won't turn out like him, though," said Beryl, dragging her thoughts back to the present. "We've brought him up well. But he just doesn't have the patience for this life."
"That much is true," nodded Rowan. "I've tried to teach him, but he is too easily distracted. Too easily bored."
"We cannot protect him forever, my love," said Beryl. "Maybe he has a destiny, maybe not. But we have to let him live his own life."
"I guess you're right," said Rowan. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I never could argue with you, my love. I do wish the lad would get dressed, though!"
With a tender smile, and a twinkle in her eye, Beryl leaned forward and pressed her lips to his hand. "How about you and I get undressed?" she suggested.
Lurk sat up on his bed and wiped his face with his pyjama sleeve. The home had gone quiet; Rowan and Beryl had finally gone to bed. This was possibly his last chance to retrieve that message before the 'bot got its memory flushed. Quietly, stealthily, he slipped out of his bedroom and headed down the hallway.
He paused at the kitchen, which was lit only by a couple of ankle-level night lights embedded in the wall. Carefully he eased the door of the refrigerator open and took out the carton of hephelump milk. He glanced around and then, exulting at this petty act of rebellion, he drank several large gulps, straight from the carton. As a final act of defiance he ran his tongue around the outside edge of the carton, catching any stray droplets. That will show them! Then he folded the container closed and returned it to its position in the refrigerator door. Easing the door closed as he wiped away the incriminating blue moustache, he left the kitchen and continued up the steps and out of the front door of the dwelling.
The planet's two suns had long since set, and the night was cooling rapidly. One of the moons was rising majestically over the distant rocky ridge, and it shed more than enough illumination to light Lurk's way to the garage. He entered the small access door beside the larger vehicle panel, and trotted down the ramp into the dimly lit room below.
The 'bots were nowhere to be seen.
"Hello," called Lurk. "Where are you? Seepy? Arty?"
There was no response.
"Hello," he called again.
Looking around, he spotted the remote which activated the 'bots' inhibitor nuts. He picked it up and, after squinting at it in the near darkness for a few seconds, he tentatively pressed his finger against one of the buttons. There was a loud clatter, followed by a crash, as Seepy Weepy jumped into life in the far corner, behind the hover truck, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.
Lurk winced. He trotted over to where the 'bot lay, struggling to sit up.
"What are you doing hiding back there?" asked Lurk.
"Please don't deactivate me," begged Seepy pathetically. "I tried to stop her, but she kept babbling on about her mission."
"What? Arty?" Lurk looked around the room, pressing frantically on the remote button and totally foiling Seepy's attempts to get up off the floor. "Where is she?"
Seepy looked at him for a moment. How he longed for the days when you could give a human bad news without having to spell it out. "She left," he said at last.
"Oh crap!" said Lurk. "Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap! That's just great! I am gonna be in deep shit when Uncle Rowan finds out about this. 'Why did you remove its nuts?' he'll want to know. 'Because I wanted to see more of the message,' I'll say. 'What message? Didn't I tell you to stay away from that wizard?' he'll say. 'But she had such nice boobies...'" Lurk trailed off, his panicked babbling momentarily silenced as he pondered how his uncle would take that response. Worse still, how would Aunt Beryl take it?
By this time Seepy Weepy had managed to clamber to his feet. "Perhaps, Master Lurk, we might still be able to catch her?" he suggested.
"What?" said Lurk. "Oh. Of course, she can't have gone too far. She's only a little astrobot, after all!"
He ran out of the garage and up the ramp, and Seepy followed at his regular walking pace. Halfway up the ramp, he was passed by Lurk heading quickly back down the ramp. As he reached the door at the top of the ramp, Lurk caught up with him again, gasping and puffing, binoculars in hand.
Once he had recovered his breath, Lurk stepped out into the moonlit night. Seepy followed. Lurk raised the binoculars to his eyes, fiddled with the controls, and then began to turn slowly, scanning for any signs of the wayward astrobot. Nothing.
"No sign of her," he said.
"Should we go after her?" asked Seepy.
"Didn't you hear me?" demanded Lurk. "There's no sign of her. How can we follow her if we don't know which way to even start looking?"
Once again, Seepy wished he had purchased that 'sigh' upgrade. Wordlessly he pointed to the ground. In the sand, the distinctive tracks of a small wheeled astrobot came out of the garage and turned due East; they ran in that direction for as far as the eye could see.
"Oh," said Lurk. "Right. Sorry." He raised the binoculars again and peered down the path the 'bot had taken. He fiddled with the controls again, increasing magnification, trying various other modes, but there was still no sign of the astrobot.
"Should we follow her?" asked Seepy again.
"No," said Lurk. "Not at night, it's too dangerous, what with the desert dwellers and all. She's gone too far. We'll have to chase her down in the morning, and hope that nothing hungry gets to her before we do."
"Oh," said Seepy. "Oh dear."
"That little 'bot is going to get me into a lot of trouble," muttered Lurk.
"Oh yes, Master Lurk," agreed Seepy. "I'm afraid she excels at that."
"What?" said Lurk. He turned angrily to face the translator 'bot. "What did you just say?"
"Uh," said Seepy uncertainly. "I said 'she excels at that'. She is always causing trouble." He felt a little guilty saying such things about Arty behind her back, but it was too late now.
"Always causing trouble? But it was you who said she would give us years of trouble-free service. It was you who convinced me to talk Uncle Rowan into buying..." his voice trailed off as the memory of that afternoon's confusing events came to mind.
"Actually, Master Lurk, what I said..."
Lurk interrupted. "I think," he said coldly, "that it might be safer if you went back to calling me 'sir' for a while!"
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Seepy felt much more comfortable with this arrangement. There was something vaguely disturbing about being on a first-name basis with one's owner. "What I said, sir, was that she would give you many hours of trouble free service. And you got almost four out of her, sir. Which is, if it helps, almost a record. Sir."
Seepy subsided. He was picking up a vibe which suggested that, no, it didn't help.
"Fine," said Lurk. "Well, we shall have to go out first thing in the morning and pick her up."
"Yes sir," said Seepy.