A Fistful of Trouble (Outlaws of the Galaxy Book 2) by Paul Tomlinson (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📕

all took one look at the big blue robot thundering towards them and ducked back to watch from safe hiding places.

I closed the gap and was almost on top of the robot when we passed the sign that said Welcome to Vulture’s End. A few more seconds and the robot would be running down the main street.

I stomped on the brake and the Trekker skidded to a stop. I drew the big gun from its holster behind the seat and threw open the door. Learning on top of the door frame, I took aim at the centre of the fleeing robot’s back.

It was a zap gun and it had quite a kick to it. Electricity streamed from the barrel and snaked towards the robot, fizzing loudly and making that ozone smell. The blast hit the robot between the shoulder blades and for a moment the two of us were joined by that umbilical of lightning. Then the light show ended and the robot pitched forward onto its face.

I kept the zap gun ready as the Trekker crunched towards the knocked-out robot, but the big blue meanie didn’t even twitch. I looped a chain around its ankles and dragged it into town behind the Trekker, scratching its paintwork some more.

People came out of hiding as I rolled down the main street. I was expecting at least a smattering of applause, but I was disappointed. The townsfolk just gawked at the fallen robot. I guess they’d never seen one quite that ugly.

Sheriff Henry T. Maddox had an impressive set of side-whiskers that he must have cultivated to draw attention away from his characterless face and weak chin. I’m sure he envisioned himself as a big, tough-talking sheriff and he was working on a paunch so he could look the part. But his genes had made him tall and pale and skinny. With those whiskers and no clothes, he probably looked like a toilet brush. It was not an attractive mental image. He was the local scrap merchant as well as the sheriff. It was a small town.

He was staring into a cash box. “I can offer you two hundred Alliance dollars,” he said, putting emphasis on ‘Alliance’ like most of the folk on the planet Saphira did.

I’d been offered less, but only once. A kid had offered me all of his savings. A whole five dollars. Sheriff Maddox could tell I was disappointed with his offer.

“You’re pretty handy with that thing,” the sheriff said. He was pointing to the zap gun slung over my shoulder. “There’s some local outlaws you might want to go after. You get more for them than you do for scrap metal.”

There was a display of wanted posters pinned to the wall behind his desk. The faces were smudgy blow-ups from bank surveillance cameras or sketches that looked like they’d been drawn left-handed by a right-handed child.

“I don’t hunt people,” I said. “Two hundred’s your best offer?”

“I won’t make much more than that selling it for parts,” he said. “It’ll be dismantled in the morning as soon as Scooter gets here,” the sheriff said.

“Now let’s not be too hasty about that,” said a voice from outside. “It’d be a shame to break up such a splendid machine.” The doorway was then filled with a big, greasy pork roast of a man in a wrinkled white suit. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a paisley silk band and was mopping his face with a matching handkerchief.

“Who’s the balloon man?” I whispered, turning to the sheriff.

“That’s the mayor. You should be nice to him. He’s a big man in this county.”

He’d be a big man in any county.

“He’s the boss?” I asked. Sheriff Maddox nodded. “Then why am I talking to you?” I turned my back on him and walked towards the hog in the linen suit.

“You’re the robot hunter?” the mayor asked.

“Quin Randall,” I said, extending my hand.

“Beauregard S. Bacon,” he said. I heard his middle initial as ‘eff’ but I think he’d said ‘eth’. He had a slight lisp and a tendency to thpit when he thpoke. “I don’t like to brag,” he said, “but I’m...”

“A big thing in Vulture’s End,” I said. His hand was plump and damp when I shook it.

A smile spread across his face. It took a while for it to cover the whole distance.

“You’ve heard of me already? That’s flatterin’. Mighty flatterin’.”

“Sheriff Maddox speaks very highly of you.”

“Well, of course he does. Of course he does.” He mopped his face with the handkerchief. “It’s hot in here – lets you and me step outside, shall we?”

I indicated that he should lead the way. I had no choice, he was blocking the exit. He had to come into the office so he could turn round and go out again. The sheriff followed us outside.

In the unpaved street, a small crowd of rubberneckers had gathered around the fallen robot. Sheriff Henry T. Maddox shooed them back so he could examine the metal monster more closely himself.

“You were expressing an interest in the robot,” I said.

“Yes, indeed,” Mayor Bacon-Burger said. “A fine specimen. Very fine. I’m what you might call a private collector. Of militaria.”

“What might a collector of militaria pay for a robot like this?” I asked.

“I might go as high as a thousand dollars,” he said. “If it’s in working order.”

“Boot him up and he’ll be fine,” I said. “And he’s worth at least three thousand.”

“I’ll meet you half way,” he said. “Fifteen hundred.”

“That’s half, not halfway,” I said.

“It is?”

“Two thousand dollars,” I said. “Alliance dollars.”

He had the look of a man who would agree on a price and then try to pay in local currency. I could see that the price pained him, but I could also tell from his face that he really wanted the robot.

“Perhaps I’ll have better luck in the next town,” I said.

“Sold!” Mayor Bacon said, seizing my hand and shaking it. “Two thousand dollars.”

He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a stack of worn banknotes.