L. Neil Smith - North American Confederacy 02 (15 page)

“You’d better,” Win suggested. “Bernie, this is Will Sanders. Will, meet Captain Bernard M. Gruenblum and the Ganymedian delegates.”

“Sounds like a rock-band.” Sanders offered a firm good-natured handclasp. “Hope you like barbecued unicorn— we’ve enough of it for my militia company. Beth, we’re too late with the corkscrew, honey. Want some Burgundy?”

The only thing
not
neighborly and expansive about Will Sanders was his
eyes.
They were haunted. Found m’self wonderin’ what they’d been like
before
he’d spent five years in his personal idea of Paradise.

I noticed with surprise that insteada the ubiquitous gun, he wore a slim, deadly-lookin’ eighteen-inch blade gleamin’ on each hip, with a hand-fillin’ grip an’ double guards. As he sat, he laid ’em on the table. Tryin’ not t’think
too
psychoanalytically, I asked about the weapons.

“These?” The gunsmith musta read m’mind; he glanced at both his women an’ winked. “As Sigmund Freud once observed, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Actually, I’ve a number of pet handguns—hazard of the profession—but occasionally I like carrying raw steel to remind myself of an important lesson.”

“So?” Win seemed interested, too.

“Sure. The blade’s an extension of the hand, the agent— no pun intended—of my
will.
Most people understand this immediately of edged weapons, granting them—not altogether inappropriately—a mystique which properly is due the man behind them.

“The trick—and few are subtle or sophisticated enough to master it—is to see that this is equally true of the gun. By implication, of
all
machines.”

“Don’t seem that mysterious t’me, Cap’n.”

“Then you’re an exception, friend. And fortunate, because inherent in this iesson’ is the end, not only to common pistolphobia, but to neo-Luddism and every other idiot yearning for the good old days—in short, to
savagery.
It’s the beginning of civilization.”

I shook my head. “I’d hate t’trust m’life to a paira shish-kebab skewers. Gimme a roscoe any time—th’ pen ain’t the only thing mightier’n the sword.”

Win laughed. “You haven’t seen him work out with these things—inside of five yards, you’re better off surrendering, roscoe or not!”

With a little alien “help” I eventually explained my current predicament to Sanders, on the theory—Win’s—that Will’s volunteer hooligans mighta seen somethin’ of
Georgie
on one of their outings.

“I’ve already put out several other lines of inquiry,” the detective added. “Olongo’s office; Nahuatl in Cheyenne; I thought you—”

“Sorry, Win.” Dinner finished, an’ the dishes cleared into a table-slot leadin’ god-knows-where; the ’smith had my .45 in little pieces, his junior wife kibitzin’ over his shoulder. Mary-Beth poured coffee, not excludin’ the Freenies, an’ joined the investigator an’ me in a little nicotine poisonin’.

“
Today’s
militia business,” Will growled, “was all indoors. Some goddamned fool from Baltimore’s traveling from company to company soliciting for an aircraft carrier.
Submersible!”

“The aircraft or the carrier?” Win asked.

“Both. Which reminds me, are you still shuttling back and forth to Pentagonland, playing James Bond?”

Win drew on his cigar. “Someday our homeworld’s going to be liberated.”

“It’s a Free System,” the gunsmith replied. “I don’t know why you bother. The right wing’s only interested in making people miserable—for their own good! You take a little guy in a raincoat whose only touch of human warmth is pornography or prostitution: what kind of creep would deny him even
that?

“And the left? How they love to be losers, as long as it’s
romantically.
Win, you can’t sell laissez-faire on the basis of its successes—there’s no
romance
in that. Nor can you defeat collectivism on its record of failures, numerous though they may be. Hell, by listing them, you just make it all that much more attractive! You’re wasting your time.” He looked at Fran an’ Mary-Beth; the temperature seemed t’rise ten degrees.
“I’m
happy here, and I don’t give a microscopic damn whether I
ever
see the United States of America-with-a-K again, or anybody in it!”

He looked down, brooding into his pipe, and that haunted look came over him.

Which is where we’d started comparin’ Presidents an’ found out life’s more complicated than any of us’d imagined.

“Politicians!’’
Mary-Beth said with sudden vehemence. She’d turned out t’be a consulting ethicist, somewhere halfway between a judge an’ a pshrink, with a little rabbi thrown in for good measure. Shrewd, calm, an’ deep, she had a quick wit an’ a subtle sense of humor. This outburst seemed uncharacteristic.

She slapped the plain, no-nonsense .4I Whitney automatic at her waist. “Who cares, anyway? The only reason I know who’s President
here
is that he’s a friend of Win’s!” Fran grinned an’ nodded vigorously. Will smiled an’ turned his attention back to the Colt, the invisible bands of
family
so strong between the three of them it could be felt. Guess I’d hafta do m’poachin’ elsewhere.

“It’s important to everyone, in some ways,” Win answered a bit defensively. “Look at Gallatin: here, he was a President, leader of the Whiskey Rebellion. Where Will and Bernie and I come from, he was only Thomas Jefferson's Secretary of—”

“What?"
I quacked.

“—the Treasury.”

“MuSta held their Cabinet meetin’s with little tin horns an’ floatin’—”

Mary-Beth blinked. “What are you trying to say, Captain Gruenblum?”

“That’s
Bernie
—an’ I’m
try in’
t’say that my Rebellion wound up in a duel b’tween Washington an’ Gallatin. Albert lost, which is why they’d need a seance—you know, where ‘she who levitates is host’?”

“In
my
Whiskey Rebellion,” supplied Sanders, “Gallatin didn’t figure at all, except to calm down the rebellious Pennsylvanians.”

“Same here,” said Win.

“It’s a
weird
universe,” Fran added. “What’s that little spring right there for, sweetheart?”

“You can say
that
again,” I mumbled.

“Okay—what’s that little spring right there for, sweetWe were late gettin’ back. Will’d taken us downstairs. I’d expected t’do a lotta standin’ around while he “sputter-lathed” metal back
onto
my pitted firin’ pin. In fact, it took a whole three minutes.
Then
he insisted on impregnatin’ the surface of every part with chromium, imply in’ nastily that it might make up for my slovenly habits regardin’ corrosion. When he’d finished, the old Colt looked like stainless.

He test-fired it through a porthole into a tunnel under the patio. A camera at the other end showed a neat cloverleaf of bullet-holes in the plastic target.

“Okay, Doc, whaddo I owe ya?” I reached into my pocket. “For a friend of the guy who grub-staked me?” He fingered one of the empty hulls lyin’ on the bench beside the firin’ aperture. “Tell you what: these aren’t normal .45 cartridges, are they? I’d like a live one for my collection.” I polished battered nails on m’uniform shoulder. “.45I Detonics Magnum, a late twentieth-century retrofit. ’Bout three times the power of the original. Notice the custom eight-shot magazines? You’re welcome to as many rounds as pleases you.”

“One’ll do fine, thanks—you’re going to need the rest, the way it sounds.”

More
Confederate glad-handery. I pondered that an’ lotsa other things as Win an’ I trudged home: Fran’s energetic enthusiasm
—and
her satiny skin. Mary-Beth’s well-oiled intelligence
—and
her willowy body. The philosophical absolutism
—and
whatever else—they shared with their husband. Musta been thinkin’ out loud by the time I got to: “Wonder what they do in the sack?”

Win chuckled. “You’ll never know, Bemie, nor will anyone else. They lead a very private life, those three. That’s the Confederacy in a nutshell: outgoing and introverted all at once. There’s a Tibetan lady in Clarissa’s bridge club with five
husbands.”

“Sure,” I answered absently, “one too many for pinochle.”

In the Underground he showed me how t’send Olongo’s .375 back via a pneumatic “Bellamy Tube,” suggestin’ I include a .45 Magnum cartridge for the
President
's collection. I popped a round into the padded capsule, startin’ t’feel like the Lone Ranger. On the way out, we passed a drugstore advertisin’ heroin, LSD-25, cocaine, an’ Laetrile, two for the price of one—in platinum, gold, silver, an’ copper coinage... an’ plutonium certificates. I could see this freedom jazz was gonna take more gettin’ used to than I likely had in me.

At Win’s house, there were shadows waitin’ for us in the dark. The detective’s hand went casually to his S&W; I found the grip of my .45.

“Good evening, sir. You’re the owner?”

“What can I do for you?” Win answered neutrally. There were four of ’em, a chimp, two gorillas, an’ a human. They stepped out into the moonlight wearin’ severe black uniforms an’ more hardware than I’d seen in one place since the Normandy Landing. The chimp spoke again: “We’re from Griswold’s Security-—”

“Griswold’s..."
Win sounded impressed. I was impressed that
he
was impressed.

“We’re looking for a.. .a ‘Bernard M. Gruenblum’?”

I felt m’Yamaguchians pull into tight formation—right
behind
me.

“How come?” I demanded.

“We have orders to arrest him. For murder.”

12 Nor Iron Bars

WIN’S FIST CLAMPED FIRMLY OVER THE HAND I’d filled with Hartford steel.

“Relax, Bernie. This isn’t the States. Our friends here are
civilians,
businessmen, and they haven’t any rights on my property.”

Coulda fooled me. Who was it usta talk about guys “so tough y’could roller-skate on ’em”? At the moment, I was discoverin’ that there isn’t anything funny at all about gorillas wearin’ kilts—even the tartan was black-on-black— pistols, ammo-belts, an’, insteada the usual nightstick, bowie-knives with sixteen-inch blades. Made me wonder if they even
bothered
with handcuffs.

Brrrr.

“This isn’t your pidgin, Bear,” the leader warned. Like the others, he wore an ebony tunic, his cap tucked under an epaulet. “Just go inside and let us—”

“Lighten up, Li-Li
—I know you’re a hard ape, just don’t let that fancy monkey-suit go to your head.” The detective grinned at him, showing teeth.

The chimp took an angry step forward, peelin’ back his own lip. Win brushed eloquent fingertips over the rubber handle of his revolver an’ stood his ground.

“Remember, you’re in the property
-protecting
business, Li-Li, and this parcel happens to be mine! Since you overdressed Boy Scouts haven’t been hired to guard
my
plastic flamingos, maybe you’d better explain
—very politely
—why you’re trespassing!”

The security-agent’s fury evaporated gradually, leavin’ a residue of exasperation. “My apologies,
sir,"
he said stiffly—then shrugged. “Oh, for Albert’s sake, Win, I’ve got a hurry-order to take this Gruenblum nake on a double sapicide. Condemnation, I didn’t know he was a customer of yours!”

“And a friend.” Win relaxed visibly, as did the chimpanzee’s trio of back-ups. “That’s ‘naked ape,’ Bernie, about as insulting as ‘monkey’ going the other way. But the Captain here is young. He’ll learn.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Li-Li, let’s go get this idiot mistake ironed out over a glass of something toxic. You can use my Telecom to find out what your dispatcher’s been smoking. I vouch for Bernie; he isn’t going to rabbit.”

Seemed t’suit everybody better’n the
High Noon
reprise we’d been headed for.

“I’ll have to have his weapon,” the chimp said, lookin’ at me, then beside me to the slabba granite wearin’ white socks an’ brown shoes, then t’me again.

Win said, “That’s something I’d buy a ticket to watch. C’mon, Li-Li. You’re a bourbon drinker, as I recall.”

The Confederate slammer.

The fact they spell it “gaol” ain’t the only thing different about it. The bell-person ushered me in, turned back the bed, adjusted the window-dimmers, pointed out the Telecom where I could order room-service an’ the wet-bar. He hesitated, waitin’ by the door for a tip. I offered him the one at the end of my boot, an’ he dematerialized.

I still felt indecently exposed in the region of my waist. Win’d assured me it was a necessary ritual, for which Gris-wold’s’d hafta pay restitution eventually.

I hadn’t let ’em take the field-density frammis.

Again, I examined the lurid holos Captain Li-Li’d proffered in Confederate lieu of a warrant. There, carved up to a fare-thee-well in 3D an’ Yechnicolor, lay Professors “Marvin N. Hulbert” an’ “Hubert N. Merwin”, B.S., M.S., D.O.A. No wonder I’d never been able t’tell ’em apart.

Havin’ been duly certified as “murder weapons,” Charm, Spin, an’ Color were incarcerated with me. Which seemed a waste—there were five other “cells” goin’ empty in this six-room Big House. The proprietors’d greeted us like the new freeway had by-passed ’em. The
actual
beef was a civil one, there bein’ no criminal charges in the Confederacy, ’cept what I was payin’ t’stay the night: Negligently Importin’ Dangerous Animals Contributin’ Thereby to the Wrongful Demise of a Paira Sapient Inhabitants of North America.

The professors’d be thrilled t’know they’d been posthumously adopted.

This business of the Freenies’d been a compromise. The pseudocops were hardly accustomed t’hearin’ disputed property object t’bein’ impounded. What it’d come down to was that I’d take up residence with the Yamaguchii while Win hightailed it down t’what passes for Denver—coupla little burgs they call St. Charles an’ Auraria—t’verify the charges where they’d been preferred.

They’d been brought, interesting enough, by one Den-ward T. Kent, Confederate Inhabitant—this place was gonna hafta look to its immigration laws-—who’d pointed to his bandages an’ claimed t’be another victim of Gruenblumian heinosity.