Posted by PK on February 09, 2002 at 16:27:14:
The hustle and bustle, the chatter, the gossip of people half a galaxy away from anywhere rose above the
crowded bar room. A group of Scatterlings in the corner chirruped away amongst themselves as they
caught up with the news from home. They competed to deliver the tastiest morsels of scandal, and tried
their utmost to ignore the two Octogoids at the next table, who loudly poked fun as they sucked on their pleb
pipes and filled the air with a heady, damp fog.
A Divellian Mudswirller dragged itself past them as it made its way to the toilets, crackling and hissing as it
puffed out waves of noxious fumes into its immediate vicinity. The conversation was momentarily reduced
to a murmur, as people held their breaths. Then, once the creature had passed, there was a communal gasp
for air and the chatter resumed.
Sam Neutron ignored the smell, and tried to shut out the babbling and blubbering around him. He sat alone at
the bar, hunched over his Malarian brandy, cupping the bulbous glass in his hands to warm it. He came here
a lot. So did everyone else - not because they liked the place, but because it was just a stone’s throw from
Praxis spaceport; and Praxis Spaceport was just about the nearest thing to civilisation this side of the
Horseshoe Nebula.
Not that Praxis bore a particularly close resemblance to civilisation in the accepted sense of the word. It
was a God-forsaken planet, whose only export was sand, and whose only claim to fame was the Praxis
Dragon - a large, lizard like creature, about four foot long, which would ingest its prey by grasping it in its
huge jaws and then literally turn itself inside out, enveloping its victim completely. The Dragon’s thick hide
made it impervious to any form of attack, except when caught in the act of feeding. At such times, its major
organs were outside its body, thus rendering it vulnerable.
Or at least, that’s what they said. Much of it was hearsay, since no one had ever studied the animal in any
great detail. The only people who came here were just passing through - traders, Space Rangers and long
haul freight-drivers like Sam himself. There were plenty of them, but they only ever stopped long enough to
take on supplies, and maybe kill a little time in the bar while their ships were refuelled.
Sam took another gulp of brandy and sighed. Down by the video box there was a group of Droog Minders,
shouting and jeering at one another as they took it in turns to rack up a score on the Cosmic Blaster
machine. Sam scowled at them. Everyone hated Droog Minders. They were all the same - noisy, arrogant,
thick-skinned slobs. No doubt someone would be waiting outside to give them a good kicking when they left.
Sam smiled at the thought, and then nodded at Titalia, the barmaid. One of her heads smiled back at him and
promised to serve him in a moment. Then some kind of seventh sense warned him of an imminent arrival,
and he twisted around to look at the door. It was Marty Pound - he was standing there in the doorway,
looking around. Sam hunched over and tried to look small, but it was too late. Marty had seen him and he
came over.
"Quart of freezel juice, please Titalia," Marty yapped. He slapped his briefcase onto the bar and jumped up
onto a stool beside Sam. "So how’s it hanging, buddy?" he asked.
Sam groaned inwardly. Marty’s stock greeting, all grins and ‘buddy’ stuff. Predictable to the end. "I feel like
shit," Sam answered truthfully.
"Good one," Marty replied, without listening. "Blazing, absolutely blazing!"
Marty was one of the worst sorts of people you could meet out here. He was a Vacumatix agent - he
travelled the outer rim planets selling suckers to suckers, living on his commission and whatever kudos he
could gain from being a frontiersman for the household cleaning products retail trade.
"I’ve just cracked a big one up on the western spiral," he boasted, so full of himself that he looked like he
might burst. "Shifted four dozen units to the salt miners."
"I’m very pleased for you," Sam said, with little enthusiasm.
"Deluxe models, too," Marty added. "Suckmaster 500s - the ones with the revolving nozzles and detachable
heads." His drink arrived. Marty looked up. "And whatever Sam’s having, Titalia," he said. "I can afford to
be generous, what with the commission I’ll get from this lot."
Sam accepted the drink with as much grace as he could muster. A crowd of Jambleboks tussled them on
their way to the exit. Sam waited until they had passed by. "Sometimes I don’t know how you can live with
yourself, Marty."
"What do you mean?"
"I know those salt miners," Sam explained. "Most of them have hardly two credits to rub together. Then
along you come to sell them expensive gadgets that they don’t need and can ill afford. Don’t you feel
guilty?"
Marty sat up straight. "Guilty?" he said, genuinely surprised by the accusation. "I have nothing to feel guilty
about."
"Oh come off it!" Sam responded.
"Listen here Sam," Marty said earnestly. "There is no one in the universe that would not benefit from the
unique cleaning properties of the Vacumatix Suckmaster 500. You know, I really do believe in this product.
I’m not into ripping people off."
"Yeah, well you’re bound to say that, aren’t you?"
Marty shook his head slowly and placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. "You really don’t understand, do you?"
he said, and he sighed. "The Suckmaster 500 is much more than a mere labour saving device, albeit an
extraordinarily efficient one. It’s a status symbol. No, it’s more than that - it’s a symbol of hope in an
uncertain universe."
Sam frowned at him. "What are you talking about?" he responded.
"Everyone needs hope, Sam," Marty said. "Those salt miners spend sixteen hours at a time toiling in the
baking heat underground. The sweat stings their eyes, the air is so thick and cloying that they can hardly
manage to breathe it. They can’t even tell day from night down there. And what do they get in return?"
"Well they -"
"Let’s be honest, they get a whole load of nothing," Marty continued. "They are paid a pittance - subsistence
wages, that’s all. If they have a full belly at the end of the week, then that’s a bonus. You can’t live like
that, Sam. You just can’t."
"I’m sorry," said Sam. "Are we still talking about vacuum cleaners?"
"Sure we are!" Marty replied. "See, this is where I come in. I’m their light at the end of the tunnel. Thanks
to me they can come home, look at their brand spanking new Suckmaster and feel good about themselves. I
have given them something to live for."
"You have a seriously warped view of the world, do you know that Marty?"
"Listen, everybody’s happy," Marty reasoned. "They’re happy, ‘cos they’ve got their vacuum cleaner; I’m
happy because I’m earning myself a major wad. Blazing! It’s smiles all round."
"But they’re gonna be paying for it for the next ten years," Sam pointed out. "I shouldn’t think they’ll be
smiling about that."
Marty shrugged. "Hey, I never said I was a miracle worker, now did I?" he grumbled. "Is it my fault that
these schmucks wanna get themselves into a whole loada debt over a vacuum cleaner? No, I don’t think it
is. All I’m saying is that I sleep easy in my bed at night."
Sam drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar. "I’m sure you do," he muttered.
"You don’t understand, Sam," Marty told him. "Drive, ambition, the hunger for success - you just don’t get it.
Now, don’t take offence at this Sam, but you’re just a freighter skipper. You can’t possibly know what it's
like to operate in the high pressure world of executive marketing and retail sales."
"Maybe I understand it too well?" Sam replied. "Maybe I can see it a little clearer than you can?"
"No, no, no, no," Marty said languidly, shaking his head condescendingly. "I can see that you’re a bright sort
of guy. You’re trying very hard to appreciate the ins and outs of it all, but in the end its useless. It’s in the
blood, see. In the genes. I was born to be a high flying sales bandit, and you Sam -" He paused and looked
apologetically at him. "Well," he said, "you weren’t."
"Crap!" Sam blurted out.
"You see?" Marty replied casually. "That’s just the sort of reaction I would expect from someone like you."
"Someone like me?" Sam snapped back at him. "What do you mean ‘someone like me’?"
"Now don’t take offence, Sam," Marty said.
"I’m not taking offence," Sam replied.
"Well, you sound like you have taken offence," Marty insisted.
"I have not taken offence!" Sam repeated deliberately, then went on to contradict himself. "And anyway,
why shouldn’t I take offence, when you come out with a bunch of crap like that?"
"Well maybe I didn’t explain myself too well," Marty admitted, attempting to placate him. "It’s just that some
people were meant to be great, to do great things; and other people - through no fault of their own - are
destined to just keep bumming along, barely keeping their heads above the water, so to speak. It’s, like,
built-in."
"And you believe this?" Sam said. "Nature over nurture, and there’s no help for the poor bastards who’ve
been dealt a raw hand?"
Marty shrugged. "The evidence is all there," he said simply.
"What evidence?" Sam responded quickly. "There is no evidence."
Marty thought about this. "Well no, maybe not," he conceded. "But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Think about it
Sam - have you ever wondered why some people just never seem to get the breaks? Destiny, Sam. That’s
what it is."
Sam let out a long, deep sigh and ordered up another drink.
Marty carried on talking. "Do you know," he said, "that there are tribes on the ice worlds of Detrosc who
believe that a man’s destiny is etched onto the inside of his skull?"
"So you’re trying to back up your claim with some primitive superstition?" Sam muttered, rubbing his neck
and suddenly feeling tired. "You’re on shaky ground, Marty."
"Is it just a superstition, though?" Marty countered. "There could be something in it. It’s a fascinating idea,
nevertheless. Think of it: all those people wondering what fate has in store for them - and all the time the
answer is within them, etched inside their heads."
"And you believe this?" Sam asked.
"I know what it says in my head," Marty replied, nodding slowly. "It says that I was born to be the best
damn salesman this side of Hydrox-Beta."
"So you really do believe it?"
Marty was gazing off into space. "Yeah," he said after a moment’s thought. "Yeah, sure I do."
"Okay," said Sam, standing up. "Let’s put it to the test."
Sam suddenly reached out and grabbed Marty by the ears, dragging him towards him. Marty screamed and
tried to pull away, but Sam had a firm grip. He started to rock the salesman’s head from side to side, tugging
all the while.
"What the hell are you doing?" Marty screamed.
"Testing a theory," Sam grunted.
"But you’re hurting me!" shouted Marty. "Let me go!"
Sam held on tight. "Hell, it’s your theory," he said. "You’ve gotta expect to make a few sacrifices in the
name of truth."
Conversation throughout the room was rapidly dying to a whisper as people turned to watch the
extraordinary scene unfolding at the bar. Sam twisted round and locked Marty’s head beneath his arm.
"Let go of me, you maniac!" Marty screamed as he was dragged from his stool.
"Come on Marty, don’t you want to find out what’s written inside your head?" said Sam, as he struggled to
get a tighter grip around the other man’s neck. "If your damn head hadn’t been screwed on so tight in the
first place, we wouldn’t have to go through all this."
"Tight is okay with me," said Marty, struggling to speak as the arm closed around his windpipe. "I like tight.
There is nothing worse, in this world or the next, than having a loose head."
"Whatever," said Sam. "I think it’s freeing up a little now. Brace yourself."
Sam wrenched the head sharply to the left. There was a horrible crunching noise and Marty went limp, his
head hanging at an unhealthy angle.
"Nearly there," Sam said beneath his breath. He gave one final tug, and Marty’s head came away
completely. There was a bang, a flash and then a huge shower of sparks burst from Marty’s gaping neck.
Bare wires buzzed and crackled and a puff of black smoke emerged from Marty’s headless body as it
slumped back onto the stool.
Sam whooped triumphantly and grinned at the crowd, holding up the head like a trophy. They rewarded him
with a huge burst of applause. He bowed graciously, then jumped up onto his stool and rested the upturned
head on his knee.
"Now what have we here?" he muttered to himself as he looked into the gaping, blackened neck socket.
Inside was layer after layer of circuit boards, power relays and processors. Some of the components were
still giving off feeble sparks, and there was a horrible smell of smouldering. There was a metal plate
screwed to the inside of the skull. It was dirty and black, and Sam tried to rub it clean with his thumb.
"Well?" demanded the severed head impatiently, rolling its eyes. "Can you see anything?"
"Oh, are you still with us?" Sam asked.
"Well of course I am," said the head, and then repeated the question more urgently. "Can you see anything?"
"There’s something here," said Sam. "Can’t quite make it out."
"I knew it! I knew it!" the head said excitedly. "Come on, what does it say?"
"I’m trying to read it," Sam told him. "Oh hell, it’s filthy in here. Don’t you ever clean yourself out?"
"Get on with it, Sam," said the head.
"Bits of fluff, and grease, and dirt," Sam muttered. "There’s even a chocolate bar wrapper in here."
"Can you see anything?"
Sam squinted into the dark cavity to read the faint lettering. "Yeah, he said. I can just make it out."
"Well, out with it!" demanded the head.
"It’s very faint," said Sam.
"Read it! Read it!"
Sam drew a breath. "It says ..."
"Yes! Yes!" said the head.
"It says," Sam repeated, making a meal of it.
"Come on, stop jerking about!"
"It says Made in Taiwan," said Sam, and he dropped the head onto the bar, settled his tab, and left.