Analog SFF, April 2010 (18 page)

Some professions enjoy little public trust. But how sleazy can they be, really?

Ten minutes to closing on a cold, rainy Thursday night, and Kent Green was thinking it wouldn't be the end of the world if no other customers came in before he closed the sales office and locked up. It had been so dead since late afternoon he'd sent the other salesmen home to their families. Divorced and owner of the place, he stayed.

Dreading the arrival of possible customers was not a standard powertrain of thought for the owner of a used car lot. But it had been a long miserable day, and Kent was willing to pass on the chance to go get soaking wet once again only to hear someone tell him they were “just looking."

Some tin had moved during the day, in spite of the foul weather: a four-year-old hybrid and a three-year-old pure electric, both reasonably clean units with average miles on them; stock in trade for Blue Sky Motors. When his father started the lot in the Sixties he'd chosen that name because of a conviction he'd soon be selling the flying cars he saw touted in magazines like
Popular Science
and
Popular Mechanics
. The name ended up working as the place came to specialize in eco-friendly used vehicles. Fate, maybe.

Eight minutes to closing. Kent closed down his computer and hauled his feet off the desk. Drained the tepid dregs of his coffee, no more eager for a long drive home to an empty house than more waiting for nothing to happen.

That was when the short guy in the long gray robe came through the door.

Kent's welcoming smile was automatic, if not entirely heartfelt. Smiling was a reflex so deeply wired into him that he'd once smiled all the way through a holdup. Hey, you never knew, the guy might come back looking for a getaway car.

The robe's hood hid the customer's face, which could be a warning sign of bad intent, but this part of town saw all sorts of strange types. Then there was that New Age monastery up in the hills. Twice now he'd sold heaps to monks from the place.

"Welcome to Blue Sky Motors,” he called. “I'm Kent Green. Can I help you?"

The hood moved so it was pointed at him. “Perhaps."

The more specific that first answer, the more serious the buyer tended to be. Perhaps was something a be-back might say.

But the smile stayed, and Kent came out from behind his desk. “I bet we can help. What's your name?"

"Moto."

"So, Moto, are you looking for a good, clean used car? One that's kind to the environment—and the wallet?"

"We may be able to enter a business relationship. If we can work out certain details regarding trade-in."

The guy—he was pretty sure it was a guy—had an odd, hard-to-place accent. Usually he could peg accents. He heard a lot of them in this part of the state. This one, no idea.

"What have you got? I can give better terms on eco-cars for trade.” Not strictly true—there was a substantial government buy-back bounty on certain gas-guzzlers—but no sense bringing up confusing details until he knew what the guy was driving.

"My trade-in is rather unusual."

That usually meant a retrofit or a home-brew. Tricky market. Most people wanted pure stock. But there was a certain segment of the car-buying public that cherished the one-off because of the air of individuality it imparted.

"Is it outside?” He hadn't seen anyone pull into the lot, but playing a few hands of computer solitaire when he should have been stapling himself to some overdue paperwork might have kept him from noticing.

"Yes, it is."

Kent peered past the guy in the robe, and out through the plate glass window. Pouring harder now, and a wind had kicked up. Lovely.

But his smile never faltered as he reached for his jacket and hat, both emblazoned with the Blue Sky Motors logo.

"Well, let's go take a look."

A lot of tin merchants fall into the habit of playing mental games because those games could sometimes give an edge. Trying to guess what a customer might be driving, or be inclined to drive away. Picking the decision maker in a couple, spotting hagglers.

Kent was figuring that the monk would have something practical, maybe a pickup or a sedan. A van. With luck an old Mercedes, but more likely an old gas-sucking station wagon.

The good news was that the car was parked out under one part of the lot covered with a canopy. The bad news was that the car was a—

—Corvair. A bright banana-yellow Corvair.

Kent kept his smile as he walked toward it. A used car dealer has to be able to make lemonade out of lemons. Corvairs were somewhat collectible. At least it wasn't a Yugo or a Gremlin.

"Don't see many of those anymore,” he said with a bemused chuckle.

"Not like this one,” Moto agreed. “It is a most exceptional vehicle."

"What year is it?” He was no expert, but there seemed to be something subtly off about the car. The lines weren't quite right, the overall shape slightly distorted in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

"2018."

Kent gave the monk the eye. “Can't be. They quit making these back in the ‘60s or ‘70s. Or is it a reproduction?” He reached the side of the car, and did have to admit that it looked either showroom-new or cherry-rebuilt. That would also explain the sense of oddness about it.

"Reproduction. Yes, in a sense. Of one of the most beautiful vehicles ever produced."

"Huh.” You might call it cute, but beautiful? Putting a value on it was going to be a bitch. Usually he had Julio take potential trades out for a drive. Five minutes behind the wheel and his service manager could give chapter and verse about everything from the front end to the tranny to the condition of the batteries or exhaust, and nail down the value to within a hundred bucks.

"You must take this vehicle for a drive,” Moto said.

"I'm not sure that's necessary.” It was late. It would take both Julio and net-searching to evaluate it. His driving it would count for little.

"Please. Only in this way can you understand what an exceptional trade this vehicle would be."

Kent glanced at his watch. After nine now. No way there was going to be a sale tonight. But maybe if he agreed to a quick spin the guy would come back in the morning. He wanted Julio to see it, if for no reason other than the novelty of the thing.

He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?"

As he opened the driver's side door and slid into the seat, the monk went around and got in the passenger seat.

The first thing he had to do was fumble for the lever under the seat so he could shove it back, not surprising since he was a foot taller than Moto. He left the door open so the dome light stayed on, helping him see what he was doing.

The dash wasn't like any he'd ever seen before, blank black plates where the gauges should have been. Maybe it had looked like that on the original, but he doubted it. No seat belt. But the shift lever was easily enough located, as were the steering wheel, brake, and gas pedal. After a bit of searching he found the key, turned it.

"Sure runs quiet,” he observed. The car only made a soft hum. That suggested some form of electric or hybrid drive system. The original Corvairs had, if he recalled correctly, a noisy rear engine.

"Yes, this vehicle is very quiet. If you would please pick a destination for the test drive."

"I was just going to take a quick ride around the lot. My service manager would be the one to take it for a real test drive."

The hood moved from side to side. “That is not sufficient. Please pick a destination. A place five miles away would serve our purposes."

"Really, I don't need to drive it that far.” Nor did he want to go out on the highway without seat belts.

"Please, I must insist. Pick a destination."

Kent was too much of a pro to sigh. “Okay, there's a truck stop at the intersection of this highway and Route 215. Mack's.” That was a drive-to spot he and his sales force gave test drivers fairly often.

"Excellent. Please put the car in drive so we may commence the test drive."

Kent did as he was asked. The car rolled forward, out from under the canopy. Rain immediately lashed the windshield. Before he could ask where the switch for the wipers were, they came on automatically.

"Nice touch. The lights came on by themselves, too."

"This is, as you will see, an exceptional vehicle. Now please put your foot more robustly on the accelerator pedal so we may proceed."

"Sure.” He fed it only a little gas. Corvairs were reputedly one of the least safe, least road-worthy vehicles Detroit had ever churned out. He didn't know if they—or this reproduction—would live up to that reputation, but he was willing to bet it wouldn't handle like a Porsche.

"What the—” he shouted as the car shot not forward, but straight up, acceleration shoving him into the seat. In a second the lot was a small bright square far below him, and the car was still blasting skyward like there were rocket engines bolted to all four wheels.

Actually they weren't going straight up, but following the sort of curve made by a mortar shell, a curve that was already topping out, and sending the car plummeting down as only a couple thousand pounds of wingless steel can plummet from a height of over a mile, the ground rushing up in a blur—

There was a slight jarring sensation, and they were parked in a slot in the back corner of Mack's Truck Stop.

"—hell?"
Kent whispered, looking around and surprised to still be alive.

"Ten seconds,” Moto said. “Greater performance is available, certainly for longer trips, but it is always prudent to exercise caution when in control of an unfamiliar vehicle."

Kent pried his fingers loose from the steering wheel. Turned to stare at the monk. “What,” he whispered hoarsely,
"is
this thing?” In the back of his head numbers were running. Car sales run on numbers: book and trade values, APR, payments; a good salesman can reflexively crunch numbers quickly. He was thinking five miles—okay, call it three miles as the Corvair flies—in ten seconds comes out to somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand miles per hour.

"We call it the Turble."

Which sounded like a supercharged turtle. Detroit had done worse, though not lately. At least in the name game.

"And you want to trade this car for one of mine?"

"That is the desired arrangement."

"Any one in particular?"

"Let us return to your place of business so that I may determine which vehicle would be desired. Is that acceptable?"

"Sure.” He gingerly took hold of the steering wheel. “So what do I do?"

"Simply step on the gas."

Ten seconds later they were back at Blue Sky Motors. Kent cautiously guided the Turble back under the canopy, then with a peculiar mixture of relief and regret, turned off the key.

They had barely stopped when Moto hopped out of the car and started toward the nearest line of cars. He watched in growing bewilderment as the monk opened the driver's side door of each car, leaned inside, and sniffed the seats.

Moto lingered over an ‘08 Escape hybrid, finally closing the door carefully, almost reverentially.

Kent couldn't see Moto's face, but didn't need to.

He knew he'd just made a sale.

It was only when they were back inside that Kent realized that, in spite of his time in the lot seat-sniffing, Moto wasn't wet. That wasn't true for him, when he hung up his soggy coat and hat both began to drip.

Kent went back behind his desk and sat down, ready to do some serious business. “So what kind of deal are you looking for?” He had to work at keeping any trace of eagerness out of his voice and off his face. Having had some time to think about it, he knew he wanted that Turble, and wanted it badly. If only for himself.

"I seek a direct trade, vehicle for vehicle,” Moto answered. “There would be some minor restrictions, but none that should preclude agreeable commerce."

"We can probably work something out, sure. You have a title for the Turble?"

"I have the creator's certificate."

"So who built it?"

"We did."

"Who's we?"

"Us."

Kent decided to let that detail remain unresolved for the moment, knowing he'd circle back to it later. “So what does your Turble run on?"

"Water."

"Fuel cell?"

"Not precisely.” The monk sat slightly forward. “There are deeper implications to this deal than I have yet mentioned. I am proposing an ongoing business relationship. More Turbles in trade for selected vehicles from your lot."

It hurt to keep a poker face, hurt like biting back any reaction to being offered a Rolls Royce in trade for a tricycle.

"That . . . might be possible,” Kent allowed, sounding reluctant to move too fast on such an idea.

"We would hope so. For each vehicle we select we would provide a Turble, subject to contractual limitations pursuant to our forged agreement."

Warning flags went up in Kent's head. The monk was talking like a lawyer, and it was a truism that selling a car to a lawyer was riskier than buying ones whose paperwork was done in crayon or riding a gassed-up Pinto through a car crusher.

He steepled his fingers, face solemn. “What kind of limitations are we talking here?"

Moto was silent a moment, as if considering which cards to lay on the table.

"I am what you would call a sales representative,” he said at last. “The interests I speak for have an appetite for certain vehicles. As a medium of exchange we have created a vehicle of our own, the Turble. If over time transactions prove satisfactory, we may provide other models—other vehicles—to widen the base of exchange. Our contacting you is a means of testing the market since we have reason to believe we could not successfully enter into direct commerce with potential customers for the Turble."

"So who do you represent?” Moto's confession that he was a sales rep meant that the gloves could come off. Customers had to be treated carefully. Sales reps were made to be squeezed and abused. “Is it some place like North Korea? Libya? Some place we would normally refuse to do business with?"