“Nae wunner his name’s C-CON. C-CON, is it! It’s enough tae seeken onybody. Ah’m telling ye, Andy ...”
“His name’s D-CON,” Andy said, “Like Deacon Blue.”
“Ah’m tellin ye, Andy,” Davie continued, “Folk’ve just aboot had enough o this. D’ye have any idea how much it’s costing us tae keep him?”
“Well, he’s solar-powered, Davie, so ...”
“Solar power!” Davie spat, “In Hawick? That’s a joke! He’s suckin this toon dry. An as for ...”
“IF I FLEW INTO THE SUN,” the robot interrupted, “I COULD RECHARGE TO FULL CAPACITY WITHOUT ...”
“Aye, that’ll be shining bright!” Davie veered slowly round, lifting up his eyes rather than his head. “Efter aw the money we’ve spent, we’re just gonnae let ye fly away! D’ye think ma heid buttons up the back or sowt? Fly away, he says!”
Davie shook his head again, as if it was the only point of articulation his body had. His arms were folded so high across his chest that his chin was almost resting on them, and he was breathing heavily. Andy cleared his throat.
“Look, Davie,” he said, “We cannae have it both ways. If we want tae keep him to ourselves, that’s fair enough, but somebody’s got to foot the bill. That’s just economics.”
“Oh aye?” Davie said without looking at him, “Get that aff your da, did ye? Dead smart, your da. Dunno how he’s only working in a chippy.”
With one last glower at D-CON, Davie turned on his heel and walked back across the road. Andy, whose cheeks had become a lipstick pink, looked up at the robot and smiled awkwardly. He always forgot that D-CON did not have emotive facial expressions or, for that matter, emotions.
The provost’s car coughed and spluttered back into life. Like the provost himself, it had been serving in its official capacity for as long as Andy could remember. With much uncomfortable to-ing and fro-ing, Davie squeezed an arm between his bulk and the door and jerkily rolled down the window.
“Oh, aye, and while ah remember,” he said, “Where are we at wae they comet things?”
The robot stared up into the sky.
“REPORT. NEAR-EARTH OBJECTS OBSERVED. QUANTITY: THREE. VELOCITY: 110 KILOMETRES PER SECOND. TIME OF IMPACT: 4.2 DAYS. CURRENT VISIBILITY FROM EARTH: ZERO. EXPECTED SURVIVAL RATE WITHIN IMPACT ZONE: ZERO. EXPECTED IMPACT ZONE: GALASHIELS.”
Davie nodded in satisfaction.
“Right, that’s a Wednesday then, eh? Ah’ll let the bus drivers ken.”
“Davie, d’ye no think ...”
“Not a chance! Forget it!” Davie said, “Where were they when we were the wans aboot tae get smashed intae bits? Couldnae look the other way quick enough then! For aw they kent oor goose was cooked, an they never even lifted a finger. They didnae ken it wisnae a comet.” He stared at D-CON bitterly, and shook his head. “Ah’ll tell ye whit, though, ah wish it had’ve been.”
After a few growls, the provost’s car lurched off into the beginnings of the morning. Wisps of red had started to gather round the edges of the rooftops, and the unfathomable dark of the sky was about to break. As D-CON stood there, still gazing into the remnants of the night, Andy stared up at him.
“A hunner an ten kilometres a second? That’s gey fast even for a comet, is it no?”
“IT IS.”
Andy puffed his cheeks out thoughtfully.
“Jeez oh. Ah could see the point if it wis heading the ither wey. Ah’ve broke the sound barrier masel gittin oot o Galashiels.” He smiled for a moment at the robot’s unreflecting face, then let it drop. “Ach, no that Hawick’s much better. But it’s hame, eh? Ye ken everybody.”
He paused as if conscious of having said the wrong thing, but D-CON showed no sign of having noticed. Andy let his hand rest on the monument’s pedestal, tracing its inscription. It was too dark to read, and written in Latin, but he knew it off by heart. From out of the depths it emerges, beautiful.
“Do ... do ye never get hamesick yersel, sometimes?”
“NO. ALL THINGS MUST FIND A PURPOSE, AND I HAVE FOUND MINE ON EARTH. I SHALL BE AT HOME HERE, BEFORE LONG.”
Andy instinctively patted the robot on its leg, somewhere about its knee. The metal was light and soft to the touch, like aluminium, and strangely warm.
“Ah went tae New York, wance,” he said, “Thought aboot Hawick the hale time. Couple o hours on a plane an it felt like the ends o the earth. Ach, but the sights, man! Ken the Statue of Liberty?”
D-CON lifted up its arm, and its hand was blue with light.
“FROM HER BEACON-HAND GLOWS WORLD-WIDE WELCOME ...”
Andy smiled up into the lantern. Its beam was bright enough to shine the stars, but no-one else had chosen to see it. He shook his head.
“Never you mind, pal. You’re daein alright. It’s them buggers just need tae get used tae ye. But they’ll get there, D-CON.”
“B-CON.”
“Eh?”
“MY NAME IS B-CON.”
As Andy followed the robot’s stare into the now starlit sky, a bat, suddenly visible against the gleam, fluttered past, and the air took on the pungent taste of lead. Never before had he witnessed skies so full of life, a horizon that brimmed with anything but streetlights and the cracks between curtains. Now, above the spire, three dots of light were developing slowly against the black, a perfect triangle that shimmered in the sky and hung there. He watched them coming, as if a fresh constellation was jostling into the order of things, a spearhead advancing through the aging cosmos.
He understood.
Beneath his palm, Andy felt the robot humming gently—happily, even. The stars were dying, and the news of some unfamiliar galaxy was finally reaching Earth.
Thomas Clark is a Glaswegian writer now based in the Scottish Borders. He is poet-in-residence at Selkirk FC. His work has been published in The Scotsman, The Sunday Mail and Bella Caledonia, and broadcast on ITV, BBC and Sky Sports. He writes about writing at www.thomasjclark.co.uk
