A Fistful of Trouble (Outlaws of the Galaxy Book 2) by Paul Tomlinson (books on motivation TXT) 📗

but that didn’t mean it was empty. The trailer looked like something from a carnival show – the whole side of it could drop down to make a sort of stage. It was covered in filth and rust but there was a sign painted across it. It was too dirty and faded to make out.

“That’s me,” the man said proudly. “Joseph Hawkins, Robot Salesman.”

I’d been right, he was a scavenger. I opened the door of the Trekker and stepped out. The old salesman scurried toward me, hand outstretched.

“Joe Hawkins,” he said. “But most folks call me Happy.”

Folks can be ironic like that. His face looked like it hadn’t cracked a smile since before the War. The wrinkles in his face were filled with road dust and his lips looked dry and chapped. His bushy grey beard might have been made from wire wool and his eyebrows were the same. He wanted people to see him as some sort of road-punk Santa Claus, but his real character was revealed by his dark beady eyes. Not a man to be trusted.

“Quin Randall,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Travelling alone?” Happy Hawkins asked, peering over my shoulder to see if there was anyone else in the Trekker. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see Floyd. When I didn’t answer him, he carried on talking as if I had. “Ain’t safe to ride the highway alone. You should get yourself a robot travelling companion. I’ve prob’ly got just the thing you need. Got all kinds in my trailer.”

Behind me, the springs of the Trekker creaked. Happy’s eyes narrowed as Floyd came around and stood behind me.

“I see you’ve got that covered,” Happy said. “Haven’t seen one of those since the War. And it’s got the original accessories.”

He was referring to the canon Floyd was carrying in place of his left arm. There was a glint of avarice in the old man’s eyes. Floyd was the kind of hardware scavengers dreamed of finding and I bet Happy had to stop himself licking those chapped lips.

“I’ve got fresh water, if you need some,” I said.

“Thank you kindly, but I have a supply in my cooler. Water is not what I have need of.” He was talking to me but his eyes were on Floyd the whole time.

“You said you’d lost a tyre?”

“Losing one wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the fact is I’ve now lost two on that side and my trailer has taken to leaning something alarming. I’m afraid she’ll topple right over and spill my livelihood across the highway.”

I nodded my understanding. That would be a lot more debris for drivers to swerve around.

“Trailer has a jack built-in but the darned thing’s busted,” Happy said. “I’m a little past due on the servicing, I’m afraid to say. You don’t carry a heavy-duty jack in that vee-hickle of yours, do you?”

I shook my head. “Nope. But I’ve got the next best thing.” I nodded back towards Floyd.

“You reckon that robot of yours can lift the trailer so my robots can put a tyre on?” Happy asked.

“I reckon he could lift it and throw it down to the next town, if you wanted him to.”

Old Happy cackled at that and I saw why he didn’t smile too often. I’m guessing he couldn’t decide whether to have his teeth taken out or not so he had them pull every other one. Those he had left were a mottled green-brown like snail shells.

“I guess I’m not going to be stuck here all night after all,” he said. “I’ll get the robots to bring out the fresh tyres.” He stomped off towards the trailer.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Floyd asked.

“Definitely not,” I said.

“I’m going to need two hands,” he said.

“I know. I’ll keep your canon close-by.”

Floyd disengaged the big gun and handed it to me. He went around the back of the Trekker and re-fitted his other arm.

“Is this thing charged?” I asked, holding up the cannon. It got its power from him.

“You’ll get one shot out of it,” Floyd said.

“One shot’s all I ever need,” I said, grinning.

The sound Floyd made as he walked away was something like pffft!

“Hey!” I called after him. “Keep an eye on the old man. I think he wants to add you to his doll’s house.”

“In his dreams,” Floyd said. “Let’s get this done.”

Happy Joe Hawkins had the little side door of his trailer open and a couple of skinny robots were trying to get the replacement wheels out through it. They looked like clowns from a rodeo and their casings were stained and patched. I was tempted to stick my head into the trailer to see what other antique automata he had in there, but the smell wafting out made me keep my distance. Could be that Happy was a serial killer who kept his victims hanging in there. I backed away, keeping one hand close to the gun in my holster. The zap gun was stowed back in the Trekker and I was carrying the pistol with the explosive cartridges. Just in case. The other hand I kept behind my back, holding Floyd’s cannon.

The robot clowns used a power-wrench to undo the nuts on the wheel with the damaged tyre. They chattered to each other in a high-pitched language that only they could understand. Floyd then stood with his back to the trailer and lifted it so they could get the old wheel off the hub and put the new wheel in place. As the trailer rose something inside was dislodged and fell. The sound had my fingers darting towards my gun.

“Just the cargo shifting,” Happy said dismissively. He’d seen me make my move for the pistol.

The power wrench made brrrp noises again as the nuts were tightened to hold the new wheel in place. When Happy had said ‘fresh’ tyres, he’d meant ones that weren’t quite as cracked and shiny as the ones that had been shredded.

“Your guy’s better for this kind of thing than mine,” Happy