The Worst Man on Mars
An Inspectabot Calls

Without a doubt, the worst part of being an InspectaBot 360 was the ‘descent’, as the NAFA boffins euphemistically termed it. No amount of programming, training and practice jumps were adequate preparation for the sheer processor-stopping terror of the terminal-velocity drop towards the oh-so-solid planet below. Packed with precision instruments, each engineered to micrometre tolerances, and only the flimsiest of parachutes, the most advanced inspection robot ever built had plenty of reasons to be concerned. How could an atmosphere as thin as a gnat’s fart in an aircraft hangar adequately slow his hefty hulk?

<Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!> he transmitted as he plunged towards the surface.

But, despite his agitation, InspectaBot retained sufficient presence of mind to angle his bullet-shaped head to act as the perfect heat shield.

Seen from far below, his heroic arrival was heralded by a streak of light, high in the Martian sky, visible for miles around to organic and inorganic beings alike.

Two kilometres from the ground, InspectaBot’s main parachute deployed and abruptly checked his descent. Still the ground hurtled towards him at an alarming rate. It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing, his logic circuits reminded him.

At 400 metres, he fired the retro-thrusters located in his bell-bottomed pantaloons. Still too fast. He braced for impact. Not long now. Focus on the mission. The most important duty ever bestowed upon a robot – the inspection of Botany Base and assessment of its fitness for human habitation. No machine ever made was as perfect for the job as he. Providing he survived the fall.

Into the super-cooled, super-slick, super-computing room glided Dura. It was on very rare occasions that HarVard allowed robots into his high-tech, snow white domain, with its flashing lights, humming electronics and video screens displaying geometric shapes. Dura, the master plasterer, a very boxy robot, all flat surfaces and trowel hands – perfectly designed for that truly flat finish – came to an abrupt halt causing a cloud of plaster dust to waft off him.

<Ah, you’re here,> signalled HarVard. <Good. InspectaBot has landed a couple of miles away. Probably heading this way. We need to intercept him.>

<We?>

<Just give me a minute; need to get my HologrAmbulator ready.>

Before Dura could ask what he was talking about, a latch clicked in the wall and a small panel slid aside. Out of it trundled a platform resembling a coffee table on caterpillar tracks. Dura stepped back as the thing made its shaky way to the centre of the room. A telescopic stalk rose from its front until it was about a metre high; at the top sat an electronic eye, turning to survey the scene. And then a hologram generator in its base buzzed into life. A fuzzy blur above the platform turned into a succession of rapidly changing 3D avatars as HarVard flicked through his vast holographic repository.

The images stopped at a life-sized likeness of Marie Antoinette. “Be with you in a second,” she said in a French accent, fanning herself with a large feathery fan. Then she was gone, and the flashing images resumed.

Impatiently Dura rolled forwards and backwards on his gyro-wheels.

Finally, the image settled on a well-dressed, stiff-backed man in a formal suit. He gave Dura a low bow. “What do you think?”

<Looks great,> messaged Dura, checking his internal clock. <Shouldn’t we be going now?>

“Do you think it’s too formal?”

<It’s fine, fine. Let’s go.>

“Name’s Greeves,” explained HarVard. “An archetypal English gentleman’s gentleman. My COPOUT circuits require me to state that any likeness to any fictional character of a similar name is completely coincidental.”

Dura shrugged as if to say, <Who?>

Greeves checked himself in a full length mirror. “Oh, goodness me,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I can’t go like this! This will never do.” He shook his head. “It’s just absurd. I have a ten thousand sexdecillion byte wardrobe full of holographic outfits and yet nothing suitable to meet an InspectaBot!”

<How about Robby the Robot from Forbidden Planet?> suggested Dura, already at the door.

“Please!” said Greeves, with the sort of withering look that only a well-bred manservant can truly achieve. Then he snapped his fingers and his image morphed into a character with a mustachio and a stern look, wearing thigh-length boots, a khaki suit and a jungle hat. “How about this? ‘InspectaBot 360, I presume. The name’s Henry Morton Stanley.’”

<Super.>

Stanley seemed to pause for thought. He looked down and examined himself, first from one side and then the other, before fixing Dura with an inquisitive look. “Does my bum look big in this?” he asked.

<Yes. Can we go now?>

“You’re not helping much. Wait! Just the thing.” HarVard’s image dropped to the ground, reforming into a much smaller creature, standing on four-legs: a bloodhound tracker-dog. <We need to locate him, first, don’t we,> he signalled electronically, not being able to speak while in the guise of a dog. <Are you ready?>

<Yes!>

<Have you got your outdoor tracks on?>

<Yes.>

<Have you recharged?>

<Yes.>

<Have you discharged excess fluid?>

<Yes.>

<OK, let’s go.>

Outside, the Martian wind gusted fiercely. Dura trudged through the sand with his flat head lowered into the wind, the plaster dust streaming behind him. At his side rattled the cart carrying HarVard’s bloodhound avatar. Every now and then the cart would stop to let HarVard sniff the air.

As they approached one of the last outbuildings of Botany Base, Timi, the small flue-cleaning-bot appeared ahead of them, making his way to his next flue clearance job. His slender flexible body rattled as he walked.

No sooner had HarVard’s bloodhound spotted him than it dipped its head and started to growl. Timi stopped in his tracks at the sight of the snarling monster, his tin knees knocking together, and stared, uncertain what to do. The uncertainty was resolved the moment the dog barked. Timi gave a shriek, turned, and ran for his life.

The bloodhound’s eyes lit up, it gave a wheezing chuckle, and set off in pursuit, the cart’s wheels spraying dust over Dura as it shot off after the clattering robot.

Across a yard full of building materials and through a long stretch of drainage pipe they ran, bloodhound barking furiously, robot shrieking in terror. Finally, Timi reached the Botany Base flagpole and shinned up it towards the NAFA flag. Panting, the bloodhound’s cart skidded to a halt at the bottom and the animal gazed upwards, its tongue lolling from its slavering mouth. A few barks later, it lost interest. The dog sniffed the ground around the pole, lifted a hind leg and sent a CGI stream of liquid against it. “That was fun,” muttered HarVard to himself. “I really should get out more.”

Then the bloodhound loped back to the waiting master plasterer robot.

After what seemed like miles and miles of tortuous progress, they came upon a large white sheet, spread out on the ground. They stopped by the sheet and looked around, HarVard’s bloodhound sniffing the air. But there was no sign of InspectaBot.

<Where is he? Where’s he gone?> signalled Dura.

The bloodhound, its job done, morphed back into human form. A human wearing a long travelling cape and a deerstalker hat perched on his head. Clenched between his teeth was an ostentatiously curly pipe. A casual glance might have mistaken him for the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, but, this was his little known, younger brother, Jim. “Hmm,” said Jim Holmes, surveying the area around the white sheet.

<Well?> asked Dura, trying to follow Holmes’s gaze.

“Elementary, my dear bot, son. Elementary.” The smarter brother of the sharpest Victorian detective never to have lived waved his pipe in a thoughtful manner and asked, with a condescending tone, “Tell me, Dura. What do you see?”

<Sensors indicate white fabric, most probably Nylonite. Diameter 4 metres. Possibly a picnic blanket?>

“Good, apart from the last bit. Anything else?”

<InspectaBot missing, possibly kidnapped?>

“Well, one step at a time. What do you see around the fabric?”

Dura swivelled his head and eye-orbs, taking in the sand, the rocks and, further afield, the dunes and hills.

<Nothing.>

“You see nothing because, despite seeing everything, you fail to observe anything. That’s to be expected; you are a simple robot with a tiny brain. Look again, my friend, and you will see no soil disturbance around the edge of the sheet. What does that tell you?”

Dura thought long and hard, but merely shook his head.

“It suggests that InspectaBot never left this spot,” said Jim. “Neither of his own volition nor as the result of a highly improbable kidnapping.”

Dura gasped. <You mean, he’s still here, but invisible? He has a cloak of invisibility. Right?>

“A logical conclusion but, ultimately, daft.” Holmes jabbed his pipe at Dura before continuing. “No, my tinny friend, the InspectaBot is indeed here, and he is invisible. But his invisibility stems not from the improbable breaking of any Laws of Physics. Rather, it can simply be explained by his being covered by his deflated parachute.”

Dura stared at Jim Holmes, not having understood a word. <Huh?>

“Under the sheet.” He pointed with the pointy end of his pipe.

The robot extended a pneumatic claw and lifted part of the sheet. There, lying prone on the sand, in a crater of its own making, was the lifeless inspector. Dura marvelled at HarVard’s powers of deduction. What a super-computer, he thought. Then, <He’s dead!> he squeaked in hope.

“Not so fast. He certainly looks dead, but appearances can be deceptive. The shock of landing may have caused some sort of shutdown. We need to try rebooting him.”

Dura turned to HarVard with what appeared to be a wicked glint in his optics. <We could just leave him here? Pretend we never found him.>

Holmes gave a superior smile. “I see how your feeble mind is working. But no, that would not help. We need him to certify the base as fit for human habitation.”

<But it isn’t. >

“Correct. Nevertheless, we need him to issue that certificate.”

<That’s impossible. He’ll never do it!>

“Improbable, but not impossible. Remember, I am a supercomputer.”

It was another hour before, with the help of Dom – summoned as a matter of urgency from the base – the InspectaBot was winched up from his crater and righted to his full 6’5” stature.

Parachute chords untangled, Dura pressed the ‘ON’ button. After a few beeps InspectaBot went into self-clean mode, vacuuming the sand and dust from his outer surfaces, flushing his clogged orifices and initiating a thorough polishing to restore his natural shine. A yellow flashing light ignited on top of his head and InspectaBot self-inspected his joints, electrical circuits, visual and auditory acuity, everything.

<Excellent condition,> he reported. <Finest inspection robot in the Universe. Superb. Faultless. 5 stars.> InspectaBot time-stamped the report, labelled it ‘Urgent’, and transmitted it to Mayflower III marked, ‘For immediate attention of Mission Commander Dugdale’.

A response arrived within seconds. “GET ON WI’T’BOLLOCKIN’ INSPECTION.”

By this time, Jim Holmes was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood a short, South London independent trader, hands in pockets, hair slicked back beneath a flat cap. A man glimpsing him from a Clapham omnibus might have thought he was the dodgy Peckham dealer, Derek “Del Boy” Trotter, had it not been for HarVard’s COPOUT circuits ensuring major legal differences with that fictional comedy legend.

“Cushty,” he said. “Welcome to our manor, Mr Inspector, sir. It’s a real pleasure. Real pleasure.” He extended a holographic hand, but the robot ignored it.

<Identify yourself,> came a deep, booming transmission.

“Name’s Eric Rotter, but most call me El-Boy.”

<Direct me to Botany Base.>

“Ah, yes. About that ...” El-Boy stopped when he noticed Dura dutifully indicating the direction they had come from. InspectaBot took a step in that direction before HarVard’s cart blocked his path. “Now, now, Mr I. What’s the rush? Let’s ’ave a bit of a natter first, shall we? Get to know each other, like.”

InspectaBot stared at him.

“Now, listen. I ’ave sumfink ’ere that might interest you. Good quality, no rubbish.” He rummaged about deep in a cheap holdall and pulled out a small toy robot, about a foot high and with an antenna on its head. When he pressed a button on its chest panel, its eyes lit up, the antenna rotated, and the legs started walking.

“Herro. My name Lobby Lobot,” said the holographic toybot, reaching out a tiny plastic hand. “Plea to meet you.”

InspectaBot leaned down for a closer look. The yellow inspection light on top of his bullet head started flashing. He stared at the tiny robot, as though fascinated.

“Good, innit,” said El-Boy with a wide grin. “The dog’s bits. Now, listen.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening and leaned towards InspectaBot’s external microphone, whispering, “I can lay my hands on an ’undred of these little beauties, and they’re all yours. Very reasonable, too. All I’m axing in return is your moniker on a Completion Certificate. Just fink, you could have your own cabal of devoted little followers.”

Lobby Lobot’s eyes twinkled and the inspector tilted his head to one side. El-Boy’s grin widened and he gave Dura a wink.

Without warning, InspectaBot straightened up and switched from yellow flashing light to blue flashing light. Then he set off across the red desert in the direction Dura had indicated.

<He’s heading for the base!> tweeted Dura.

“I can’t believe he didn’t snap up the Lobby Lobots,” muttered El-Boy.

<The base, the base,> insisted Dura.

“Crikey!” said El-Boy as though suddenly waking up. “The base!” The HologrAmbulator shot off in hot pursuit, closely followed by Dura.

Dom stretched and cracked his servo joints before heading back at a more leisurely pace.

<He didn’t think much of your offer, then,> messaged Dura.

“Don’t worry, Botney. One day you and me will be miwionaires. Just you wait and see.”

Way out in front, InspectaBot’s long, striding, cybertronic legs gobbled up the ground at an impressive rate. As he crested yet another dusty sand-dune he came to a sudden stop. Two miles ahead lay Botany Base, its main buildings sprawling across the Martian soil and the dull polycarbonate BioDome thrusting high above it in the background.

Even at this distance, InspectaBot’s highly advanced monitors registered a sense of incompleteness about the place. The clues were subtle: the site-office portakabin, still on site; the skips filled with building rubble; the tarpaulin-covered roof; and a pile of packing crates out in the open desert away from the buildings.

He initiated a report to record these details, but became aware of Dura and HarVard making their way up the sand-dune, just behind him. In an instant he was off again, striding even more purposefully down the hillock and towards the packing crates.

Within minutes the tall, bullet-headed robot had arrived at the crates. Not wasting a second, he switched from blue travelling light to yellow inspecting light, and started inspecting. The sense of ‘wrongness’ he had felt from far off was instantly confirmed. None of the crates had been opened. Their bar codes identified their contents as fridge-freezers, washing machines, microwave ovens, computer accessories and an electronic tea-maker.

“Ah, you’ve found the crates,” said a booming voice behind him, but not one he recognized. InspectaBot swivelled round to see HarVard’s cart slowing to a halt. On it stood a tall gentleman in a dark suit with tails and wearing an exceptionally tall top hat.

<Identify yourself!>

“Isambard Kingdom Brunel at your service, the greatest civil engineer ever.” He lifted his top hat in greeting.

<Explain unopened crates,> demanded the inspector.

“They’re just ordinary crates. A magnificent, precision-engineered robot such as your good self need not trouble himself with mere crates! Come, let me show you some glorious engineering! The base is our pride.” The cart carrying the great Victorian engineer started off in the direction of the base, ready to lead the way. Meanwhile, Dura inched up behind the giant inspector robot and, valiantly, but unsuccessfully, tried to push him in the same direction. His caterpillar drive spun furiously in the soft sand, but the huge robot did not budge an inch.

<Crates,> insisted InspectaBot.

Brunel sighed. “As an experienced site inspector you will know that every building project, large or small, has surplus items. Usually the workers flog them off at knock-down prices to earn themselves a little beer money. But our workers are honest and true. Hence the crates remain here, unopened, unused, unsold.”

InspectaBot stood firm. <Too many to be surplus.>

“Well, it’s possible that some items have yet to be fitted,” conceded Brunel. “You’ll have to ask site foreman bot, Tude, about that.”

Dura’s caterpillar track spun ever faster as the little robot continued its efforts to push the huge robot away from the crates.

<Report: Installation of ancillary items. Status: Failed.>

“Of course, of course. I’ll make a note of that on my clipboard.” Brunel patted his suit, as though trying to locate the misplaced clipboard.

InspectaBot turned, switched his flashing light from yellow to blue, and took off towards Botany Base, removing Dura’s sole means of support and leaving him in a heap in the sand.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel sighed as he watched Dura struggling to get up. <Robot down,> he radioed to Dom. <Lifting assistance needed. Urgently, please.>

Then he shot off after the receding figure of InspectaBot 360.