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NEXT > >
"Hullo there, mate," said a bald-headed man
carrying a large metal rod. "What's in them crates, then, on yer backside?"
"Good morning, human. Do you happen to know where a delivery of twenty crates of Just Peachy is expected?
For that is what I am carrying."
The man's optical receptors grew wide, and several of his companions gave high-fives and leered at one another.
"Well, mate, you've come to the right place, cos we'll take 'em off yer hands."
"Oh, fantastic!"
So there was something to that aimless wandering after all. A section of Zeep's chest flipped forward like an airline
tray. An interface screen displayed the electronic consignment form, and a light-pen attached to a springy cord
popped out of a cubby-hole.
"Just sign here, please."
The gathered company gasped. Zeep understood this was what was known as an awkward situation.
"The Illiterati don't sign nuffink, son!" said the leader.
"Yeah," said another, whose hair appeared to be made of plastic.
"No pamphlets, no graffiti, and definitely no writing-things-down, understand?"
"'Ere, are you a Scribe trying to muscle in on our territory?" said a third.
Zeep was most confused. This kind of reaction was not in his experience roster. The customer signs the form, then
the Packagerunner unloads; that's how it works. Perhaps this wasn't his destination after all.
"I'd better check back to the depot," he said. "Can anyone tell me the way?"
"Hey, look, this thing's connection is down!" said one of the smarter Illiterati.
This one, thought Zeep, probably read books in secret, and was capable of doing simple crosswords.
"Score!" said the leader. "You're off the grid, son. Now hold still and we won't have to hurt ya
too much."
With that, Zeep found himself surrounded by the motley assortment.
Each of the twelve men was armed with something that used to be part of something else. Instinctively, he put up
his stop sign, and began to back up. Some of the gang-members clambered onto his cargo, while others damaged his
bodywork with their crude weapons.
Zeep, discovering what panic was all about, swerved this way and that until he'd broken away from the group. He
made a violent U-turn which dislodged the two men that had climbed aboard, along with three crates of Just Peachy.
The gang converged on the crates, beating and pummeling each other to get at the contents, and Zeep accelerated
down the street.
The strange surroundings were no longer a curiosity; they only heightened his confusion. He turned a corner, then
another, and narrowly avoided a group of people crossing the street. Then he heard sirens, and turned to see a
police cruiser chasing him. Zeep knew about police. They could help him find his way back to the depot. But something
in his mind now told him to run. To run like `fuck.' So he realigned his wheels and skidded off down a side street.
The police cruiser continued pursuit.
Zeep lost track of how long he'd weaved through the streets evading capture. In truth it was being recorded by
his internal clock, but that was just one distraction in a head full of others. Soon he was in the strangest part
of the city he'd yet seen. Humans were few and far between here, and buildings were large and empty. Huge machines
skulked in the wide avenues, while others meandered about with great thumping and growling sounds. Smoke issued
from pipes here and there, and wind whipped up dust and loose garbage.
He could still hear the cruiser, but it was some way behind him now. He scurried off down an alleyway, which was
deserted except for a structure built of cardboard and rag.
"What the...?" said a husky, muffled voice.
Zeep watched in amazement as a human crawled from the pile of debris, stood, with considerable effort, and regarded
him with squinting bleary eyes.
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