Angry Lead Skies (37 page)

The Dead Man once told me that monsters aren’t born, they’re made. That they are memorials which take years of cruelty to sculpt. And that while we should weep for the tortured child who served as raw material, we should permit no sentiment to impede us while we rid the world of the terror strewn by the finished work. It took me a while to figure out what he meant but I do understand him now.

You just need one intimate look at what a fully mature monster can do to achieve enlightenment.

He may have been the most wonderful pup you’ve ever known but you don’t hesitate to strike the dog if he goes rabid.

What is it?

“Belinda found the flying ship that got away out in the wine country.”

Dean said, “It took that much paper just to tell you that?” No wondering on his part about why she’d even been looking.

“There’s some cry-on-the-shoulder stuff, too.” Almost like a confession. Which made me wonder if I shouldn’t be more pessimistic about my personal longevity. I might be scheduled to share her funeral pyre. “And her people have found the stable where Casey keeps his donkey.” That for the Dead Man’s benefit, not Dean’s. Dean didn’t care. “Things he told the people there led Belinda’s agents to another apartment. It doesn’t sound as fancy as Casey’s Bic Gonlit place but the stuff she says they found there makes me wonder if half of TunFaire’s population isn’t our pal Casey in disguise.”

Excellent. Will you want to relay any of this to Colonel Block?

“Not today. Because he’d pass it on.” And the people he’d pass it to don’t really need more power than they already have. “You think we can use this as leverage to work on Casey?” I wished we’d find something. I was way tired of having the Visitor underfoot. “Can we make him think we have him over a barrel, now?” He’d been around too long just to hand over to the Guard, now. Block and Relway would want to know why I hadn’t bothered to mention him earlier.

Probably. And the point to doing that would be what?

“Oh. Yeah. He’s on a mission.”

I will discuss it with him. Meanwhile, it is time you stopped lollygagging and went back to work.

I’d begun to loathe the captain of industry gig.

All right. Yes. Everybody did warn me. But... I guess it’s mostly because my partners don’t have any patience with my relaxed attitude toward work. They’re worse than tribe of dwarves trained by Dean.

There is supposed to be a lot of humorless, from under the roots of mountains, all work and no play, dwarfish blood up one of the branches of the Tate family tree. I can’t provide any arguments against the allegation, of my own knowledge. Tinnie definitely finds it hard to step away from work for any extended length of time.

I was the only key member of the new company not having great fun with our venture. Kip haunted his vast new workshop twenty hours a day, and usually fell asleep there. Fawning Tate nephews and cousins rushed hither and yon, making sure Kip’s genius remained unencumbered by scutwork. Experts from the discontinued military leather goods operations now stayed busy trying to determine the most efficient means of three-wheel production.

My own three-wheel, the only pay I’d yet received for any of my trouble, had been spirited in from Playmate’s stable. It now resided in the Tate compound inner courtyard, where there were always folks lined up to take a short ride. The managers didn’t want
their
several completed prototypes defiled by the unwashed. Even brother, sister, and cousin unwashed.

Though two-thirds of the shoe factory floor had been turned over to new manufacture, the Tales weren’t abandoning their traditional business base. They were just scaling back to the peacetime levels known by their great-grandfathers.

Shoes become a luxury when you have to pay for them yourself.

The Tates would remain the leading producers of fashionable women’s footwear. They’d held that distinction since imperial times.

Though I was a rabid fan of the three-wheel and wasn’t interested in much else, less than half the reassigned production space was intended for the manufacture of my vehicle. My associates were equally taken with several other Kip Prose inventions. His writing sticks were in production already, in three different colors. And orders were piling up.

The Guard and the Hill folk hadn’t taken notice, perhaps because writing sticks don’t fly.

Kip was having the time of his life. He was the center of everything. Everyone else was having a great time, meeting the challenges. Everyone but poor Garrett. There wasn’t that much for him to do.

I’d used up my ration of genius.

There were no crooks here, trying to steal from the boss. I didn’t have any other assets to kick in, except for knowing a lot of different people I can bring to bear on a difficulty. But the only bringing together I was getting done these days took place back at the house, nights. Woderact was proving to be a researcher every bit as dedicated as Evas had been. A tad more shy, initially, but Fasfir kept egging her on. And climbed right in there with us when the adventure called her.

TunFaire gets weirder by the hour. And my life marches in the van.

There wasn’t much I could do but all my business associates seemed determined to have me right there at the factory not doing it.

I’m an old hand at skating out of the boring stuff. I acquired that skill in the harsh realm of war. I ducked out of the Tate compound. I recouped my spirit and recovered from my difficult nights by undertaking the promised visits to the troubled Weider satellite breweries.

That killed three days but didn’t demand much genius. Like so many TunFairen villains, the various crooks were completely inept. They betrayed themselves immediately. My report named several managerial types who had to go when the thieves went because bad guys as incompetent as the ones I’d caught couldn’t possibly have operated without their superiors turning a blind eye while extending a palm for a share of the proceeds.

74

Fasfir decided she had to try her luck in person, one more time. No man could’ve faulted her enthusiasm. But something was missing from her makeup. She just wasn’t a Katie. Inevitably, direct participation left her disappointed. But she didn’t have problems enjoying what Evas or Woderact shared with her, mind to mind.

Weirder by the minute.

This latest time Fasfir had a different motive for joining me.

Of late we had been refining our communication skills until, using gestures, grunts, a few spoken words, some writing, and what I could pull out of thin air, she could get ideas across. She had a big something on her mind this time.

“You want to get your whole crew back together?” I tried to appear distraught, though that very notion had been worming around in my head for two days. As things stood, my having sicced Evas on Morley hadn’t changed anything for me. Except that I didn’t have to listen to the Goddamn Parrot anymore. “Could I count on you three to stay out of mischief?”

Absolutely.

That came through almost as clearly as one of the Dead Man’s messages. I didn’t swallow it whole. The ladies hadn’t lost their interest in going home.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Fasfir became quite excited and grateful.

Moments later an equally excited and grateful Woderact joined us.

Weirder and weirder.

I hired a coach, grumbled about the expense the whole time, put the lady Visitors inside it. I let them reclaim some of the fetishes Woderact had brought along to the house. They would appear to be human if they were seen on the street.

Casey got aggravated because he wasn’t allowed to come along. Neither of the ladies believed him when he told them that he’d help them get home.

“Lookit dis,” Puddle enthused as I pushed inside The Palms. “Somebody done fergot ta lock da goddamn door again.” Puddle wasn’t doing anything but loafing in a chair. His was the only body in sight. I’d timed my visit perfectly.

“Morley around?”

“What was dat?”

“Huh?”

“T’ought I heard somet’in’.” A huge grin drove suspicion off his face. “We ain’t seen much a Morley da past few days, Garrett. What wit’ him spendin’ so much time takin’ care a dat bird.”

Sarge shoved out of the kitchen, clearly having been eavesdropping. “Poor boy is gettin’ kinda pale, Garrett. I’m t’inkin’ he mought oughta get out in the sunshine more. What da hell was dat?”

“What was what?” I asked, as innocent as the dawn itself.

“I fought I heared da stair creak.” Sarge scratched his drought-stricken, failing crop of hair. He and Puddle both eyed me suspiciously.

“What?” I inquired.

Puddle demanded, “Whatcha up to, Garrett?”

“Actually, I just wanted to drop in to see if I had any good reason to gloat.”

Both men nodded and smiled. They could understand that. Sarge told me, “I don’ know where ya found dat little gel, Garrett, but I sure do wish dey was one or two like her aroun’ back when I was’bout sixteen.”

Puddle nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Gloat yer heart out.”

“I will,” I said. “Well, if the man can’t come down, then things are going just wonderfully. If you do see Morley, tell him I stopped by. And that I’m thinking of him. But don’t let him know I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face when I do.”

A feeble groan limped, stumbling, downstairs.

Everybody snickered.

Before
Sarge and Puddle discovered my latest maneuver seemed like a good time to move myself along somewhere else. “Later, guys.”

Both henchmen observed my retreat with abiding suspicion.

I set course for home, making plans for indulging in some serious rest and brew tasting. I kept breaking out in giggles, which inclined the streets to clear away around me.

75

My opinion of the legal profession seldom soars above ankle height. I believe that most troubles would settle out faster without lawyers stirring the pot. So it irks me to have to admit that Lister Tate and Congo Greve really did turn out to be useful.

Tate was a good idea man. Greve seemed to know everybody who was anybody. Well, he did know the legal beagles that everyone who was anyone paid to put words in their mouths. And he knew how to work them when they were just hanging around.

Tate told the rest of us, “We’ll create a demand for three-wheels by having them seen underneath the most important people.”

I didn’t get it. I protested, “You’re talking about giving them away! You don’t make money giving things away.”

“You have to consider promotion as a part of the investment process, Mr. Garrett. It’s an investment in public exposure paralleling our investments in tools and materials. We’ll only comp ten units, total. And those will be prototype and pilot units we put together while we’re figuring out the most efficient way to build the three-wheels.”

Congo Greve said, “I’ve placed all ten already, too.
Two
with the royal household! One with the Metropolitan. Thousands of the best people will see that old goof and his two acres of beard pedaling around the Dream Quarter. Every Orthodox heretic in town will want one to ride to church. Plus I got one placed in Westenrache House, with the imperial family. How about that? Just those four units should give us exposure enough to generate thousands of orders.”

I never got a protest in because I couldn’t get my jaw moving. Greve knew people inside Westenrache House? The remnants of the imperial family, with hangers-on, had been forted up, or under household arrest, there, for centuries. Ever since the ineptitude of generations of ancestors let the empire crumble into kingdoms and principalities and tiny quasi states, each of which paid lip service to the imperial crown while ignoring its wishes completely.

The sole function of the empire these days, insofar as Karenta is concerned, is to furnish somebody who can crown the king whenever a new monarch ascends Karenta’s throne. Which occurs with some frequency, though we haven’t had a coronation recently. Our present monarch is particularly adept at sidestepping assassins. With Deal Relway covering his back he’ll probably live forever.

I croaked, “I think I understand.” If the King’s daughters happened to be seen larking around on our three-wheels, every young woman of substance would demand she be provided one of her own. And the herd instincts of their fathers would ensure that the girls remained indistinguishable from the princesses.

“Good, Mr. Garrett,” Mr. Greve said. “Once we establish a list, and the social primacy of our product to the exclusion of all imitators, we’ll have written ourselves a letter of marque allowing us to plunder the aristocracy.”

I gave brother Greve the fish-eye. That sounded a whole lot like the true lawyer coming through.

Greve sighed, explained, “We
must
ensure that our three-wheel is the only three-wheel the elite find acceptable once the fad gets started. Imitations are certain to appear as soon as someone capable of building them lays hands on one he can tear apart. We have to make sure that anybody who actually buys a competing three-wheel is considered a second-rater. Or worse.” His expression suggested that he had begun to rank me with the dimmer of the dimwit Tate cousins.

Lister said, “It’s possible that I can work my royal household connections to wangle a decree of patent.”

If the Crown so ordered, nobody would be allowed to build three-wheels but us. Until somebody able to offer a big enough bribe got the King to change his mind. Or got the people who made up the King’s mind for him to do so. Likely, the King himself would never know about the decree of patent.

“I’m glad you guys are on our side.” I thought I could see how Weider beers had become the choice of beer drinkers, now. Snob appeal, backed by suggestions that any tavern brewing its own beverages on premises was an outdated second-stringer, its product likely fit only for the meanest classes.

Which is true. In many cases. The uniformity and consistent quality of Weider brews exceeds anything produced by corner taverns. And I can claim a certain expertise in judging the quality of beers.