Read Online Smallworld by Dominic Green - Free Book Online Page A

right?”

    The fly rose up and down in the air once more.

    Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus nodded.

    “Your concern for our welfare is much appreciated, Hermit,” he said to the fly. “I’ll be pleased to see you in the Ninety East Field at sunup.” He nodded to Shun-Company. “Wife: tell Beguiled-of-the-Serpent she is a good girl who tells truth and shall have a new dress when the next trader so equipped arrives. And tell all the others they are to stay indoors and not admit our visitor without permission. I shall sleep with my back to the door tonight equipped with a suitable agricultural implement.”

    The fly bounced up and down in the air, then vanished up into the chandelier in a myriad tinkling, twinkling emerald images.

    *

    “OPEN UP.”

    Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s sleep was interrupted by what felt like repeated blows to the head with a dinner gong. However, once he had pulled himself upright and taken stock of the situation, he could see that it was simply the metal alloy door being pummelled fit to rock on its hinges by someone titanically strong on the step outside—someone either too polite or too stupid to acknowledge that the door had no lock. There was also the sound of a siren loud enough to wake the whole South End.

    He opened the door, warily. It was not yet sunup.

    “OPEN UP,” said the person on the threshold redundantly. It was difficult for Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus to consider it a person, in fact, as it was not only artificial, but also not designed, as many artificial creatures were, to comfortingly resemble a human being in any way. Instead, it looked designed to fulfil its intended function with an efficiency as grim and terrible as possible. It was probably also, being a government automaton, designed to be safely stupid; the government liked to set a good example to its citizenry in this regard.

    “IT IS AN OFFENCE TO HARBOUR FUGITIVES,” said the machine—unsettlingly, in the same voice as Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s intelligent rotary goat-milking unit. Perhaps the same minor celebrity had allowed his voice to be sampled on two separate occasions. “THESE PREMISES WILL SUBMIT THEMSELVES TO SEARCH.”

    The machine was a squat cuboid of metal resting on three broad feet. A variety of ports, probes and weapons ringed the squat turret head that topped it off, giving it the appearance of a device that had been crowned King of Kitchen Appliances.

    “Are you a warder from the Penitentiary?” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus. “Show me your authorization to search.”

    The machine projected a facsimile of a signed paper document lousy with government insignia onto a nearby wall. Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus nodded and stood aside. The machine trundled into the house. A probe extended and sampled the air.

    “GENETIC MATERIAL OF MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISONER JOHANNES MARIA TRAPP DETECTED,” it announced. “IT IS AN OFFENCE TO HARBOUR FUGITIVES,” it repeated darkly.

    “You may take him with my blessing,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, trying to appear as if he just happened to be carrying the digging blade in his left hand by the sheerest coincidence. “He gave his real name to us. He is in the third house down the street.”

    “YOUR COOPERATION IS APPRECIATED,” said the machine, and wheeled on the ground effect pads in its feet to leave.

    Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus gripped the haft of his digging tool nervously.

    “What was Mr. Trapp’s crime?” he asked.

    “GRAND FRAUD,” said the machine, “FIVE COUNTS. GENETIC IDENTITY THEFT, NINE COUNTS. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO PRIVATE SYSTEMS, FIFTEEN COUNTS. ESCAPING FROM A GOVERNMENT PENAL ESTABLISHMENT, TWENTY-SEVEN COUNTS.”

    “And the number of convictions for crimes of violence, or against children?” said Shun-Company, who had noiselessly materialized behind her husband.

    “ZERO,” said the machine, and motored out into the dark, stars mirrored in its brightly polished chassis.

    “He is a thief,” comforted Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, patting his wife’s