The Darkside Of The Sun

merging with the sand hills between the Joker Institute and the Minnesota Sea. It was one of many. The Institute had attracted a sizeable town, based on the Joker Industry, a limited amount of tourism and alien visitors. Most of the Earth tourists came to see the aliens and feel cosmospolitan, and the management of the Dark Side tried to cater for this. The walls were decorated with imaginative hologram murals – Creapii sun rafts drifting across Lutyen 789–6, a drosk eight-unit at a funeral feast, grim-faced gardeners fighting a rogue tree on Eggplant, Spooners doing nothing very comprehensible on an unknown ice world.
    There were sculptures, too. The phnobic display was unconvincing and probably a fake, although the snow sculpture by an unnamed Tka-peninsular drosk was almost certainly genuine, and so was the … thing, difficult to describe or even to comprehend, that spun slowly around the ceiling, occasionally bumping the walls. The floor covering was an alive and semi-sapient Bowdler, on the payroll, and the serving robots were genuine Laothans. The Dark Side was in fact well patronized by the more adaptable aliens, who appreciated its cooking and prized its uniquely Earth ambience.
    A copperplate motto on the menu read: ‘We Serve Anything.’
    ‘There’s the story about the drosk chieftain who walked in here and demanded her grandmother’s brains on toast,’ began Asman, as they sat down.
    ‘And they said sorry, we’ve run out of bread,’ said Ways. ‘That story gets around, I last heard it on ‘Nova. I’ll have what you have, if it’s starchy.’
    ‘We’ll eat Pineal, I think. Fast-Luck Couscous.’
    Behind Asman’s head was another mural, and since it was a special one it made the table rather special too, which was why Asman had been shown there with a great deal of ceremony. The Director of the Institute was a big attraction.
    The mural depicted a score or so of the more recognizable races grouped in an obviously subordinate position around a throne, on which sat a man. He was human, though attenuated like a Pineal, and wore a harlequin suit and a cap and bells. He was smiling. Behind him was a sun, one hemisphere in shadow and the other appearing from this angle only as a thin crescent.
    ‘Any special reason why the Joker is human?’ Ways asked. He took a handful from the steaming pot, kneaded it expertly and swallowed it whole.
    ‘Not really. “Joker” is a purely human translation. If you are going to portray one in representational terms, he’s got to be human or humanoid,’ said Asman. He grinned sidelong at Ways. ‘Do you agree with the rest of the symbology?’
    ‘The Joker as Lord of Creation? It chimes in with the idea that they gave life a hand in these parts. There’s something about the expression that suggests it wasn’t from altruistic motives. Slave races?’
    ‘Possibly. Humanity – and I mean real humanity, the sort that ends at Lunar – cannot afford to meet the Jokers whatever they may be. They’ve had at least five million years’ start on us. More important, they had the galaxy to themselves. They didn’t have to learn how to get along. That’s why we run the search. We can’t afford to let them find us first.’
    ‘You assume they’re still alive, then?’
    ‘What could have killed them? What sort of gods – or devils – have they become? I think they are hiding. And waiting.’
    ‘What will happen to me?’ asked Ways quietly. Asman looked startled, then assumed a blank expression just a moment too soon.
    ‘You want to leave the Institute?’
    ‘This,’ Ways fingered the gold collar, ‘is the only thing that binds me. Yes, I want to leave. I know how much I cost. That’s the advantage of being a robot, there are no big unanswered questions. I know my worth, I know why I was created. I’ll repay every pico-standard. But you can keep the humanoid trappings. I won’t need them.’
    He somersaulted backwards, smashing the chair and landing with his legs folding under him ready for the next leap. It took him across a table and towards a running man, who fell with Ways’ alloy hands gripping his wrists just hard enough to agonize. A small sonic gun bounced on the carpet, which writhed.
    The robot’s arm flicked out in a quicksilver motion and a finger stabbed at the man’s neck. He collapsed, neatly and without a sound. Ways bowed an apology to a diner from Whole Erse, who was gazing at his shattered meal, and strode back to Asman’s