Free Lie of the Land by Michael F. Russell Page A

technical. We were only the subcontractor, but I got hold of the full spec for the SCOPE transmitters, and ran some harmonic modelling on the crystalline microwave filters, the new ones . . .’ He stopped, sat up, straight-backed. ‘Sorry for talking shop. The second file on this memory stick will tell you the rest . . . in plainer language. It is time-locked until twelve noon on Thursday, seventeenth of July.’ Brindley pursed his lips, looked intently at the camera. He then leaned over and switched it off.
    The video file stopped. The seventeenth was tomorrow.
    Carl tried the other file. Time-locked. Why would he put a time-lock on the rest of his story?
    The guy better not be another crank. But there was the plasmoid chipset to consider – no crank would have sent himthat. Carl checked the time. He was hungry and thirsty. Brindley wasn’t in the hotel – he could be anywhere in the area – and there were sixteen hours until the time-lock on the second file expired. Nothing to do except relax.

9
    The pool ball smacked off the baize and clacked along the bar room’s tiled floor. It thumped against the counter. A scruffy collie darted over, picked the ball up in its mouth, and spat it back out onto the floor where it bounced into a metal bowl. The dog looked expectantly at the drinkers, who chuckled and clapped at the trick. Cute Collie Dog picked the cue ball up and did it again. This time, a louder cheer went up and the dog was patted and praised by its owner. All the customers were middle-aged men, the dedicated early-evening crowd, happy enough with their price-capped product and a big screen showcasing some Reformed League football. Bellies and flushed faces in the bar, a dozen or so, and the only woman in the place was pulling the pints.
    Carl told her he would take his food in the dining area.
    It was a big enough room, breakfast bar and French windows. He reckoned it could sit about seventy; there was only him. Peak season and here he was, the one and only cover. What did people do around here? Maybe the Canadians or the Germans would come in, give the chef a real thrill-ride of a night.
    Half the dining room was a tip, with chairs and tables stacked any old how. Boxes of crockery, piles of bed linen and curtains, garden parasols standing in the corner – a bike half-buried under it all. The place was more storeroom than eating place. He supped his flat lager. It was hardly worth a second day off the wagon.
    The barmaid had become a waitress. She came through with Carl’s plate of food, and set it down in front of him. She was early thirties, bobbed black hair, pretty, but not exactly a customer service expert. There was no warm Highland welcome here.
    â€˜Do you want another drink?’
    â€˜Yeah, I might get lucky this time. Is it spot the bubble and win a prize?’
    The waitress/barmaid eyed him, not even attempting to see the humour in the remark. ‘That’s what we’re given up here, Mr Shewan. It’s take it or leave it, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜It’s the same in Glasgow. We don’t get special treatment – well, most places don’t.’ He took a long pull on the glass to show his acceptance. She nodded curtly, cracked the faintest smile, and left him to eat.
    Three hours later Carl was well on the way to being completely relaxed. In the hotel’s public bar he was being harangued by a pissed old local with a scruffy white beard. A jukebox thumped out some techno and a few lads were larking around at the pool table. The pissed local persisted with tales of the good old days at the oil fabrication yard down the coast. Most of the older men had worked there, including George Cutler as a backpacking young tourist, so the barfly had slurred. The good old days, so far as Carl could tell, lasted only a few years until production was moved to the east coast, and the yard closed. But that was several drinks ago, when the