Angry Lead Skies
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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.
Greve continued to pontificate. “Obviously, our ability to
produce three-wheels will be limited. Demand will exceed supply for
as long as the fad runs. We want to sustain and exploit that
situation. First, we’ll set a publicly announced fixed unit
price—exorbitant, of course—then we’ll place our
buyers’ names on a list. Then Lister and I, being cheesy
lawyers, will let those who want to do so bribe us to move their
names up the list.”
“Excellent thinking!” Lister Tate declared. He
actually rubbed his hands together in washing motions and chuckled
wickedly till he realized some of us were staring. He grinned, told
us, “Sorry I don’t have mustache ends to twirl. Here.
Let’s do this while we’re at it. Publish the list by
posting it outside the compound entrance. Update it daily. So the
buyers will know where they stand. In case they feel an urgent need
to move on up.”
“Oh, yes! Excellent idea! Here’s another idea.
We’ll put serial numbers on the three-wheels. The lower the
serial number, the more exalted the status of the
three-wheel.”
I said, “I can see people falsifying serial
numbers. . . . ” Oh.
Both men gave me looks that said they wondered how a grown man
could be so naive and still be here among the living.
More than one three-wheel would go out the door with the same
low serial number.
Pure, raging, unbridled capitalism. Now, if they could just find
ways to steal our raw materials, evade taxation, and not pay our
workers their wages, our profit margin might begin to approach what
those guys would consider minimally acceptable.
I was becoming increasingly certain that the best thing I could
do for the company I had invented would be to stay away. I should
just let them haul my share of the profits over to the house aboard
a beer wagon.
My mind just wouldn’t fall into a businesslike groove.
If I was building a business I’d do it as if everybody
involved was a partner. Kind of the way I had things already.
Enough of that.
I saw Kip’s family whenever I visited the Tate compound.
Kayne was bored. Prosperity was all right with her but she wanted
something to do. She was used to working, long and hard. I told
her, “There’s plenty of work around here. I’ll
pass the word. Cassie? Rhafi? How about you guys?”
Cassie was extremely adept at doing nothing useful and planned
to keep right on doing what she did best. Rhafi was content to
polish his loafing and consuming skills as well.
“So be it.”
I was in the Tate compound when the workers completed our first
presentation three-wheel, half of the pair of gaily painted
monsters meant for the King’s daughters. We drew lots to see
who would pedal it away. I didn’t win.
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