Molly settled back in the pilot seat of her skycar, glancing over at Gilby. “Something?” she inquired.
He was sitting uneasily in the passenger seat. “I’ve never been that fond of your stunt flying, Molly.”
“That wasn’t stunt flying just now,” she said. “It isn’t a stunt when you swoop to avoid a collision.”
“Swooping maybe, but the three loops afterwards were—”
“You’re even stodgier now than you were during our unfortunate marriage.”
He turned his attention to the bright afternoon they were traveling through at an altitude of 5,000 feet. “You’re certain Clunky is down here in Florida?”
“Absolutely.”
“You haven’t,” he reminded her, “given me all the details on how you found him.”
“When I questioned Sven Nordling’s Chief Therapist at the Golden Years Chateau Complex—You ought to take a look at that place, by the way. The residents all have marvelous tans and—”
“I’m only forty-three.”
“Really? I thought you were twenty years my senior.”
“Ten. What did Nordling have to say?”
“Never talked to him directly. Easier, and cheaper, to get the information from a staff person,” said Molly. “Turns out Sven sold the robot dog to Greasy Thumb Johnsen down in the Tijuana Sector of GLA.”
“Greasy Thumb Johnsen has an unsavory ring to it.”
“It’s one of those gangster franchises. When the previous Greasy Thumb Johnsen was gunned down in a robobarber shop in the Caliente Sector, the current Greasy Thumb Johnsen bought the role,” continued the redheaded investigator. “He was formerly Mr. Soynut in the Pasadena Sector.”
“They make second-rate donuts. What does being Greasy Thumb Johnsen entail?”
They were nearing their Florida destination and the skycar began a slow descent.
“He manages the Casa Grande Casino & Bordello in Tijuana.”
“He kept my dog in a bordello?”
She nodded. “Actually, Clunky played the piano there and was, according to my sources, extremely popular with the patrons.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “No, Clunky can’t play the piano. I didn’t build that ability into him.”
“He can play the piano now, trust me,” she told him. “One of my informants raved about his boogie-woogie repertoire especially, and praised his ‘wicked left paw.’ ”
“I don’t see how he can—”
“Five months ago a fellow named Prentice Barham from here in the St. Pete Redoubt showed up for a vacation in the Tijuana Sector. He subsequently broke the bank and then, since he’d taken a fancy to Clunky, bought him from Greasy7 Thumb Johnsen.”
“Clunky’s still in his possession?”
“That’s what Barham’s butler tells me, yes.”
“If Barham is living off a gambling fortune, he’s not likely to sell me back my robot dog for anything like a reasonable price, Molly.”
“Let me worry about the business details,” she suggested. “I did some research on Barham and I think I’ll be able to persuade him to sell cheaply.”
The voxbox on the dash panel of the descending skycar announced, “We’ll be arriving at the villa in two minutes eleven sections.”
Gilby asked, “Villa?”
“Barham bought that soon after he bought your dog.”
The cyborg butler bowed, then gestured with his coppery right hand. “If you’ll step into the music room, please,” he invited Molly and Gilby.
The villa consisted of a linked series of five huge plazglass domes, each tinted a different pastel shade. There were holographic tropical plants and trees lining every passway and the aircirc system was pumping in a steamy scent reminiscent of damp greenhouses.
The music room was in the dome that was tinted a pale turquoise and someone within it was playing the Goldberg Variations on an electric harpsichord.
The butler halted at the entry way, stood aside and said, “In there, if you will.”
“Hi, kiddo,” called the small silver-plated robot dog who was sitting on the harpsichord bench. He remained in an awkward, vaguely human position until he’d concluded the seventeenth variation. “Long time no see, Ridge old boy.”
“You can’t play the piano.” Gilby moved nearer his creation.
“This happens to be a harpsichord, chump.” The dog hopped free of the bench, went trotting over to Molly. “Hi, toots, you’re still gorgeous. Which is more than I can say for Young Tom Edison yonder. You’ve got a complexion like unbaked sourdough, chief.”
“So I keep hearing.” Gilby scanned the room.
There were two pianos, one traditional and the other electric, a harp, two dozen or more simulated potted palms, Victorian-style furniture and, on a low pedestal, a neomarble statue of Clunky up on his hind legs with one paw to his brow and apparently looking far off.
“Pipe the sculpture, folks,” Clunky invited. “Me in a heroic pose. Nifty, huh?” He circled Molly once before jumping up onto a candy-stripe loveseat and stretching out.
“Why would Prentice Barham want such a godawful artifact in his music room?” asked Gilby, frowning at the statue.
The robot dog snickered. “Dumb as ever, I note,” he said to Molly.
“Meaning,” she said, “there is no Prentice Barham?”
“Bingo,” said the dog. “Park it, folks, and we’ll chat for a spell.”
Gilby sat on the edge of a Morris chair. “But Prentice Barham is the guy who broke the bank and bought you from Greasy Thumb Johnsen.”
“Yeah, sure, and Snow White shacked up with Prince Charming and lived happily ever after.” Clunky sighed. “Barham was actually a down and out vidwall actor I hired for the part. He strolled into the casino and I rigged the wheel so he’d keep winning. Then he bought me my freedom and I gave the poor gink his 10 percent of the take.” The robot dog sat up, rolling his plaz eyes. “I own this joint and, since I’ve invested wisely, I’m set for life.”
“A dog can’t own property’ or—”
“I’m no ordinary mutt, remember? Besides everything was done in the name of Prentice Barham.” Chuckling, Clunky rolled over on his silver-plated back. “I’ve been thinking about giving you a jingle on the vidphone, boss. It’s just about time for a tune-up and you might—”
“Don’t you miss acting, Clunky?” asked Molly from another loveseat.
“Do you miss slipping between the sheets with the human pudding yonder?”
“Well, no, but acting on a vidwall show is exciting.”
Gilby scowled. “How come every discussion tends to involve insulting me in—”
“Ah, I get it. Sure, you dimwits invaded my privacy in order to try to persuade me to jaunt up to the Show Biz satellite with you next week.” Clunky chuckled again.
“They’re offering $2,000,000 per show,” said Gilby.
“And my cut will be?”
“You never got a cut on the old show and—”
“Nix, old boy,” cut in the robot dog. “I’m no longer the same naive little mechanism you cooked up years back. Nope, I’ve improved myself immeasurably, boss, made additions, modifications and—”
“You couldn’t have done that, Clunky. It would be a violation of the basic laws of robotics.”
“Nertz to the basic laws of robotics.” He dropped to the real tile floor and trotted over to where Gilby was sitting. “Fifty-fifty.”
“Hum?”
“I have to get 50 percent of the gross take.”
“Why’s a dog need $1,000,000 a week?”
“Same reason you need it, boss.” Clunky looked up at him with narrowed plaz eyes. “Well?”
After a moment Gilby said, “OK, it’s a deal. But it hurts me deeply to realize that the very creature I labored over for endless trying months could now—”