“No refunds,” it said. Bill snarled impatiently.
“Shut up. All I want to know is where the nearest police station is.”
“I am a cashier robot, not an information robot. That information is not in my memory. I suggest you consult your floor plan.”
“But it’s my floor plan that has been stolen!”
“I suggest you talk to the police.”
“But …” Bill turned red and kicked the cashier’s box angrily. “No refunds,” it said as he stalked away.
“Drinky, drinky, make you stinky,” a robot bar said, rolling up and whispering in his ear. It made the sound of ice cubes rattling in a frosty glass.
“A damn good idea. Beer. A large one.” He pushed coins into its money slot and clutched at the disposa-stein that rattled down the chute and almost bounced to the ground. It cooled and refreshed him and calmed his anger. He looked at the sign that said To THE JEWELED PALACE. “I’ll go to the palace, have a look-see, then find someone there who can direct me to the police station. Ouchl” The robot bar had pulled the disposa-stein from his hand, almost taking his forefinger with it, and with unerring robotic aim hurled it thirty-two feet into the open mouth of a rubbish shaft that projected from a wall.
The Jeweled Palace appeared to be about as accessible as the Hanging Gardens, and he decided to report the theft before paying his way into the grilled enclosure that circled the palace at an awesome distance. There was a policeman hanging out his belly and idly spinning his club near the entrance who should know where the police station was.
“Where’s the police station?” Bill asked.
“I ain’t no information booth-use your floor plan.”
“lout”-through teeth tightly clamped together-“I cannot. My floor plan has been stolen and that is why I want to find Yipe!”
Bill said Yipe! because the policeman, with a practiced motion, had jammed the end of his club up into Bill’s armpit and pushed him around the comer with it.
“I used to be a trooper myself before I bought my way out,” the officer said.
“I would enjoy your reminiscences more if you took the club out of my armpit,” Bill moaned, then sighed gratefully as the club vanished.
“Since I used to be a trooper I don’t want to see a buddy with the Purple Dart with Coalsack Nebula Cluster get into trouble. I am also an honest cop and don’t take bribes, but if a buddy was to loan me twenty-five bucks until payday I would be much obliged.”
Bill had been born stupid, but he was learning. The money appeared and vanished swiftly, and the cop relaxed, clacking the end of his club against his yellow teeth.
“Let me tell you something, pal, before you make any official statements to me in my official capacity, since up to now we have just been talking buddy-buddy. There are a lot of ways to get into trouble here on Helior, but the easiest is to lose your floor plan. It is a hanging offense on Helior. I know a guy what went into the station to report that someone got his plan and they slapped the cuffs on him inside ten seconds, maybe five. Now what was it you wanted to say to me?”
“You got a match?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Good-by.”
“Take it easy, pal.”
Bill scuttled around another corner and leaned against the wall breathing deeply. Now what? He could barely find his way around this place with the plan-how could he do it without one? There was a leaden weight pulling at his insides that he tried to ignore. He forced away the feeling of terror and tried to think. But thinking made him lightheaded. It seemed like years since he had had a good meal, and thinking of food he began to pump saliva at such a great rate that he almost drowned. Food, that’s what he needed, food for thought; he had to relax over a nice, juicy steak, and when the inner man was satisfied he would be able to think clearly and find a way out of this mess. There must be a way out. He had almost a full day left before he was due back from leave; there was plenty of time. Staggering around a sharp bend he came out into a high tunnel brilliant with lights, the most brilliant of which was a sign that said THE GOLD SPACE SUIT.