“Yes — I can — hear — you.”
A great job of ham acting, scratchy and monotone like a cheap toy. At least it caught the attention of the lawmen.
“What are you?”
“I am — an industrial — robot. I follow — instructions.”
“If that is enough, Lieutenant, I will turn it off.”
“Just a moment, if you please. What is that?” He pointed to the hollow plastic head.
“To make the demonstration more interesting I occasionally mount that on the robot. It draws attention. If you don’t mind I’ll turn if off, the battery you know.” He pressed the latch again and closed the lid.
“What is this machine worth?” Fennelly asked.
Worth? The molecular memory alone had cost millions to build. “I would say about two thousand dollars,” Brian said innocently.
“Do you have an import license?”
“I am not importing it. It is a sample and not for sale.”
“You will have to talk to the customs officer about that.” He closed the book and stood up. “I am making a report on this matter. You will remain within the airport premises if you don’t mind.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“At the present moment, no.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“That decision is up to you.”
Shelly was sitting over a cold cup of tea, jumped to her feet when he came up.
“What happened? I was so worried—”
“Don’t be. It is all going to work out all right. Have another cup of tea while I make a phone call.”
The classified directory had a half page of solicitors in Limerick. The cashier sold him a phone card — this must be the only country in the world that still uses them. With his third call Brian talked to a Fergus Duffy, who would be happy to drive out to the airport at once and take on his case. But it was an Irish at-once, so it was afternoon, and a number of cups of tea and some very dry cheese sandwiches later, before his new solicitor managed to make any alteration in his status. Fergus Duffy was a cheerful young man with red tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose, which he tugged on from time to time when excited.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, sitting down and taking a file from his briefcase. “I must say that this is an unusual and interesting affair and no one seems to be able to work out that no crime has been committed, you have merely altered your own expired passport, which certainly can’t be considered a crime. In the end the powers that be have come to a decision to pass the problem on to a higher authority. You are free to go but you must give your address so you can be contacted. If needs be.”
“What about my baggage?”
“You can pick it up now. Your machine will be released as soon as you have a customs broker complete the forms and have paid duty and VAT and such. No problem there.”
“Then I am free to go?”
“Yes — but not far. I would suggest the airport hotel for the time being. I’ll push these papers through as fast as I can, but you must realize that fast in Ireland is a relative term. You know, like the story about the Irish linguist. You’ve heard it?”
“I don’t believe—”
“You’ll greatly enjoy it. You see it happens at a congress of international linguists and the Spanish linguist asks the Irish linguist if there is a word in Irish with the same meaning as the Spanish manana. Well your man thinks for a bit and says, why yes, sure enough there is — but it doesn’t have the same sense of terrible urgency.” Fergus slapped his knees and laughed enough for all three of them.
He helped them collect Brian’s bag and the sample robot now released from customs. On the short drive to the hotel they heard three more of what he referred to as Kerryman stories. They could all be clearly recognized as familiar Polish or Irish jokes. Brian wondered which minority or subhuman race might be named as the subject of these same jokes when they were told in Kerry.
Fergus Duffy dropped them in front of the hotel, promised to call in the morning. While they were talking Shelly checked them in, came back with two keys and an ancient porter with a trolley.
“You share with Sven,” she said as they followed the septuagenarian toward the elevator. “I have no desire at all to catch your cold. I’m going to unpack and freshen up. I’ll be over as soon as I feel a little more human.”
“Is there any reason for me to remain in this box?” Sven asked when Brian opened it. “I would enjoy a little mobility.”
“Enjoy.” Brian sneezed thunderously, then attached Sven’s right arm and unpacked his toilet kit.
“What is the electricity supply in Ireland?” Sven asked as it fitted the other arm into position.
“Two hundred and twenty volts, fifty cycles.”
“Easy enough to adjust for. I’m going to recharge my batteries. Use them until we can obtain more fuel for the cell.”
Brian found a tube of antihistamine tablets in his toilet kit and washed one down with a glass of water. Sat back in the chair and realized that, for the first time in what — two days? — he had finally stopped running. The telephone was on the table beside him and it reminded him of the mysterious number that Sven-2 had uncovered. Could it possibly be a phone number in Switzerland? Hidden there by the vanished Dr. Bociort? He still didn’t think much of the theory, but he ought to at least try to place the call before he started running all over Europe. There was only one way to find out if Sven-2’s theory made any sense. He reached out for the phone — and stopped.
Could the phone be tapped? Or was he just being paranoid after General Schorcht’s constant surveillance? He was the subject of a police investigation here so there might be a long chance that it was. He pulled his hand back, took the phone card from his pocket. Five pounds it said and he must have used only a small part of that. More than enough left to call Switzerland. He went and looked out of the window. The sun had come out but the streets were still wet from the rain. And down the block was a brown building with the name “Paddy Murphy” over the curtained windows. A pub — the perfect place. He could have a jar and make his call. He dozed in the chair until Shelly’s knock jumped him awake. She was wearing a sweater with a bold Aztec design.
“You look great,” he said.
“I’m glad one of us does. You look like you have been dragged through a knothole.”
“That’s exactly how I feel. I’ll have a wash and shave, then we’ll go out to the pub.”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping rather than drinking?”
“Probably,” he called back through the open door. “But I want to make that phone call first, to that number that Sven-2 thinks he discovered.”
“What number? What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s a long shot but one worth trying.”
“We’re being mysterious, aren’t we?”
“Not really. I’ll try to make the call first. Then there really might be something to talk about. Sven, I never wrote the number down. What was it?”
“41 336709.”
Brian scribbled it on the back of the stub from his boarding pass. “Great. I’ll be out in a minute.” He closed the door and began to undress.
The bartender was chatting with a solitary drinker at the far end of the bar, looked up and came over to mem when they entered and sat down at a table near the open fire.
“What will you have, Shelly?” Brian asked.
“Wine of the country, of course.”
“Right. Two pints of Guinness, if you please.”
“Going to rain again,” the barman said gloomily as he slowly and patiently filled the glasses, placed them on the bar to settle.
“Doesn’t it always. Good for the farmers and bad for the tourists.”
“Get away with you — the tourists love it. They wouldn’t recognize the country if it wasn’t raining stair rods.”
“There is that. You have a phone here?”