The Worst Man on Mars

Alone in the entrance hallway, InspectaBot turned through 360º and wondered what to inspect next. The place resembled a construction site more than a finished building. Various abandoned tools lay scattered around him, covered in Martian sand which had blown in from outside through the gaping entrance. The walls and ceiling were unplastered and unpainted. He could hear the sounds of nailing, sawing and drilling coming from distant parts of the building. Then, to his right, he spotted a pair of doors. These were the lift doors through which the first humans would step, when their space elevator arrived from Mayflower III. A ceiling-mounted camera was aimed at the doors, ready to record the historic moment. The giant robot decided this was the most important area to concentrate his attention. But as he aimed his laser rangefinders, something odd caught his oculars.

He swivelled towards it. Standing by the doorway, away from the wall, was an antique-looking, wooden hat stand, seemingly totally out of place. InspectaBot checked the Botany Base plans and inventory of items brought to Mars, but was unable to find any record of it. To minimize the banging of his head on the low ceiling he shuffled towards the mysterious object. The sand crunched loudly under his rubber-soled metal feet. Switching on his yellow flashing light, he subjected the hat stand to a thorough inspection.

A hologram projector in the entrance hall buzzed to life not far from InspectaBot. It flashed and flickered as HarVard skimmed through his holographic wardrobe, eventually settling on Florence Nightingale.

The nurse from the Crimean War had only just materialized when her face took on a look of sheer horror and her eyes boggled as she saw what InspectaBot was up to. “Dura!” she hissed out of the side of her mouth. “Dura!”

But Dura was still plugged into a charging point in the passage and out of earshot, so HarVard switched to encrypted wireless communication instead. <Dura! Get him away from the hat stand or we’re all undone.>

<Can’t,> responded Dura. <Still charging.>

<If he finds out where it came from ...>

<Where did it come from?>

<The Other Place, of course.>

InspectaBot had switched off his yellow flashing light and turned to face HarVard’s avatar. <Identify yourself!> he demanded.

“Florence Nightingale, at your service,” said the nurse, fanning her flushed face with a hand. “Is everything OK?”

<No.>

“Oh? Is someone injured? Can I be of assistance?” Florence gave a nervous flick of her head.

<This hat stand,> said InspectaBot, approaching closer, <is unaccounted for.> He glared at the nurse.

“Why, it’s just a hat stand, ha, ha.” said Florence in wide-eyed bafflement.

<There is no record of it.>

“Ha, ha, ha,” trilled Florence gaily, fluttering her eyelashes and morphing into Jane Austen. “Cup of tea?”

The change of avatar wrong-footed InspectaBot for a moment, but only for a moment. <The hat stand is unaccounted for. Explain.>

“Oh, Mr Inspector, you silly sausage. It’s just a hat stand. And a rather pretty one, don’t you think? It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single entrance in possession of a good fulcrum, must be in want of a hat stand.”

InspectaBot was not about to be thrown by a misquotation. He searched his history drive, focusing his attention on the folder marked ‘Hat Stands Through the Ages’. <20th century,> he concluded. <Possibly of German origin. It does not belong here.>

Jane Austen put her hand to her mouth in mock consternation. “But surely, sir, it’s not causing any problem, is it? Is it too close to the entrance? Is it a danger to health and safety? Should we move it a little? We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

<Immaterial questions. Explain why it is here.>

“Why, ha, ha, ha. Mr Inspector!” Jane lowered her eyes in a coy and flirtatious manner. “You are so observant and so clever. Is there, by any chance, a Mrs Inspector? For, she would be a most fortunate creature indeed.”

The robot stared at her.

Jane shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It must have been one of those Polish robotniki. Sneaked it over in his luggage. Those guys. What are they like?”

InspectaBot’s decision-making circuits wrestled over this reply for a while. <Interrogation of robotniki required for verification.>

“Splendid idea, sir. Dura will take you to them.”

Dura had unplugged himself from the charging socket and was trundling towards them, a cloud of sand and plaster dust trailing in his wake. <What’s up?>

“Please show Mr Inspector to the robotniki. He has a bone to pick with them over this hat stand.” Jane gave him a wink. “The store room. You know, Plan A.” Another wink.

Dura stood rooted to the spot.

“You know ... Plan A.”

InspectaBot looked from one to the other, his natural suspicions aroused.

<Plan A? Explain.>

“Yes, well, you see Dura has his own layout of the base. He calls it Plan A. Don’t you.”

<Ah, Plan A,> confirmed Dura, the penny having dropped. <Yes, come this way, sir.> He tried to wink his optical stalk, but it came out weird.

InspectaBot followed the much smaller robot down a hallway without so much as a farewell to the 19th century novelist. The ceiling was a little low and he occasionally found his shiny dome’s light scraping against it, setting his vibration sensors on edge. But it was not enough to impede his progress or interrupt his important assignment.

As they passed a door marked ‘KITCHEN’, the inspector came to a sudden halt. His flexible rubber neck peered in. Too tall to enter, he swivelled his optical scanners to get a good look inside.

<This way, please,> insisted Dura but, as InspectaBot’s flashing yellow light was already on, Dura could do little more than marvel at the inspector going about his work.

After several moments, the large robot turned to look at him. <Identify location of units?>

<Units?> asked Dura, peering into the kitchen. The place was a shell of unfinished worktops, incomplete cupboards and dangling cables. There was a heap of floor-tiles in the corner and several cans of paint stacked on a trestle table.

<Units,> repeated the inspector. <Fridge units, oven units ...>

<Ah, units.> Dura nodded. <They’re probably still outside.>

<The units in the packing crates?>

<Exactly.>

<Why?>

Dura frowned at the somewhat silly question. <Because they haven’t been fitted yet,> he said, providing the somewhat obvious answer.

<Why?>

<Oh, I see what you mean. They don’t fit. Too large. The robotniki gave up.>

<The units cannot be too large. They’re built to standards. Unlike this kitchen.>

Dura paused for thought, and then had a faint, robotic ‘Eureka’ moment. <Ah, I see what you’re getting at, Mr Inspector, sir. The units don’t fit because the kitchen’s too small, not the other way round. New metres versus old. Those NAFA architects. Useless.>

<The robotniki abandoned the installation?>

<Oh, yes. They threw up their hands in disgust and walked off the site, swearing in Polish. They’re very good workers, but a bit temperamental at times.>

<I see,> said InspectaBot. Then, <Kitchen: failed. Proceed.>

Dura led him up a ramp, along a long, thin corridor and to an unmarked door at the end.

<The robotniki are, er, in there,> he said, trying to make the lie sound convincing. Then he looked from the inspector to the door and back again, noting the significant height difference. <We’re going to have to tip you again, Mr Inspector. I’ll get some assistance. Be back in a tick.>

Dura scuttled away, leaving InspectaBot 360 whistling a tune and picking flecks of plaster off his polished metal breastplate.

Turning a corner, Dura screeched to a standstill as he came face to face with his least favourite colleague: Len (Benevolence), a mechanical and electrical services robot.

<What’s up, Dura?> asked Len, raising an appendage to high-five him.

Dura hesitated, ignoring the raised limb. Len was his principal rival for the affections of the rain forest biome’s pretty horticultural bot, Tina (Pertinacity). <Er, I’m looking for some assistance.>

<Happy to help, old buddy>.

Dura looked around for signs of other robots. Finally, with a sigh, he said, <OK, this way.>

They found InspectaBot checking the floor-tiles.

<Right, here we are, then,> said Dura. <Len, would you tip Mr InspectaBot through about 60 degrees? I’ll catch him and we can get him in through this doorway.>

InspectaBot hardly had time to complain before he had been overbalanced by Len, caught by Dura, and then bundled into the store room by the two of them. The store room was a tight squeeze and rather dim. A bucket was kicked and a broom knocked from a nail on the wall. As soon as the inspector had been righted, and while he was trying to get his bearings, Dura shooed Len away and closed the door. What happened next was so fast the inspection robot barely had time to react. His chest panel was flipped open, his battery pack wrenched out, and the panel slammed shut again.

<What the ...> was all he managed to say before his voice trailed off. His lights winked out, his motors died and he became silent.

<Sorry, Mr Inspector,> said Dura. <Sometimes, a robot’s gotta do what a robot’s gotta do.> He left the store room, locking the door behind him, and put the battery pack on a spare shelf in the hallway.

“Mwa-ha-ha-ha,” boomed a voice behind him.

Dura turned to see the hologram of an evil, bald-headed doctor materialize before him, an eyebrow raised and the pinkie finger of his right hand hovering near his lips. Beside him was a bald-headed dwarf dressed in identical clothing. For a fleeting moment Dura mistook them for Dr Evil and Mini Me, but a closer inspection revealed the many, many differences from Mike Myers’s creations.

“Phew, that was close,” said the villainous character. “Thought the hat stand might blow our secret. Nearly had to use the frickin’ ‘lasers’.” He mimed finger quotes around the word “lasers”, before exchanging wicked cackles with his diminutive sidekick

<So, Plan A accomplished?> said Dura.

“Indeed.”

<Just one question, HarV. How is Plan A supposed to work? How’s he going to certify the base now? Without any power, and that?>

“I’m glad you asked me that,” replied Dr Weevil with glee, ready and eager to provide a full exposition of his dastardly plan. “You see, InspectaBot’s vanity was his undoing. Shortly after we found him in the desert, he performed an auto-inspection and sent an encrypted status report to Mayflower III. It was bound to contain words like, ‘superb’, ‘excellent’, and so on. It was just a matter of working through them to crack the encryption code. Child’s play for a supercomputer like me. And now that I have the key, I can send them any report I like!”

<You’re so clever!>

“So clever,” echoed the dwarf.

“I know,” said Weevil, laughing a depraved laugh. “Today Mars. Tomorrow the world!”