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

“Have them both, if you want,” Happy said.

The two skinny droids might have been fun to have around for a while, but eventually I’d probably want to shoot them and that would just be a waste – of two good bullets.

“Go inside and fetch that barrel of dead skin,” I said to the clowns. “Take it out there and bury it.”

The robots went off to work, chittering merrily.

“Mr. Hawkins,” I said, “it’s been nice visiting with you. I wish you happy trails.”

Floyd let go of him and the two of us started walking away.

“I’m not going to forget this!” Happy yelled after us. “If I ever see you two again I’ll...”

“You’ll what?” I turned, pointing Floyd’s cannon at Happy’s truck. He didn’t know it was juiced out.

Happy put his head down, muttering something at his shoes.

“I don’t think you made a new friend today,” Floyd said when we got back to the Trekker.

There was a roaring sound behind us and a long insulting blast on an air horn. Happy’s truck pulled back onto the highway and rumbled away, belching thick black smoke into the air. I hated to think what he was burning. One of the skinny clowns leaned out of the side door and flipped us the bird.

“Just one more reason to get off this stinking planet,” I said. I was still trying to get the smell of rotting android out of my nostrils. “We’ll stop at the next town we come to. I need a bath.”

“I was wondering how to broach that subject.” The rear suspension of the Trekker dipped as Floyd climbed on board.

“Please don’t do that thing with your head,” I said.

He rotated his head to face me. “What thing?”

“Never mind.”

Chapter Three

“What’s wrong?” Floyd asked. I had slowed and was staring at the wing-mirror.

“I thought I saw something.” It had been a flash of light, like the sun reflecting on glass or polished metal.

Floyd scanned the area behind us, employing whatever array of sensors military robots were equipped with forty years ago. Chances were he could see things I couldn’t. “I’m not registering anything – apart from the robot seller. He’s pulled off the road again.”

We’d passed the raggedy robot trader’s truck about half an hour ago. Floyd had given him the finger which made me smile.

“Probably shredded another tyre,” I said.

“Do you think people really buy robots from him?” Floyd asked.

“Some people can’t afford anything better,” I said. Saphira wasn’t a wealthy planet. Aside from rare mineral mining, it had nothing going for it. If anyone here came into money the first thing they bought was a ticket for somewhere else. I’d been on the planet for almost two years and during all that time I had wanted to leave. Floyd had been on the planet longer than I’d been alive, but he was a robot so it didn’t really count. Robots view time differently.

“I’m going to need to recharge soon,” Floyd said. “There’s a turn-off up ahead.”

He had big batteries, but the juice didn’t last forever. Especially when he poured it into the cannon. The turn-off was a narrow dirt road and a hand-painted wooden sign pointed the way to ‘Cootersville’. Cootersville didn’t even appear on the map on my dashboard screen.

“Let’s press on and see if we can find a place that actually has electricity,” I said, pressing down on the ‘go’ pedal. “It’s only twenty miles to the next town.”

For the whole twenty miles, I kept glancing in the wing-mirror but there was nothing to see. I was probably just being paranoid. Probably.

“Did we drive backwards?” I asked. The town we had driven into looked very much like Vulture’s End. This shouldn’t have surprised me because every desert town we’d been to looked like this. It made me feel like I was living the same day of my life over and over again. If I’d been travelling alone, I would have worried about pulling my scams in a town that I’d already targeted – but with Floyd at my side I was safe. He remembered everything. Even the stuff I’d prefer he forgot.

You are now entering Cicada City the sign had said. The ‘city’ part of the name only indicated that the locals had delusions of grandeur. If its whole population turned out for a football game they’d have enough players for two teams. But no referee and no hotdog seller. I might be exaggerating. The ‘cicada’ part probably meant bugs would keep you awake all night and locals would say things like ‘try one, they taste like popcorn when you toast them.’

I wanted a hotel that could provide a hot bath and my preference was for windows with glass in them. I’m getting soft, I know. When I saw one that advertised ‘air conditioning and real whiskey’, I thought I’d died and gone to paradise. It also had ‘parking at rear’ so I turned down the side street and went around the back. There was space for half a dozen vehicles and a covered area where you could park your donkey. Hay was fifty cents a bag. When I parked the Trekker the total number of cars in the lot was one. Slow week.

“I’d like a room with a bath,” I said.

The man at the hotel desk looked up, smiling. His face clouded when he saw Floyd standing behind me. “We don’t allow his kind in the rooms,” the man said. He had a face like a greyhound and his front teeth looked like they were doing a can-can. There was a sign on the wall behind the desk that said ‘No pets or robots.’ We’d seen this anti-robot sentiment a lot, so I wasn’t surprised by it. Disappointed but not surprised.

“Is there a repair station nearby,” I asked, “I need to take him in for a service.” A decent engineer might keep Floyd overnight – that way I wouldn’t have to put him out back with a bag of