the citizens of the greatest country in the world. The United States of ‘Mercia. Let’s hear it for the big fella. Excelsior!” And Gus starts applauding. Such a cheap trick, but it works. Out of habit, everyone in the room joins in the applause.
Gus leans close to Rick Apedis and says, “Why don’t you step into the back and we’ll finish this conversation.” Before Rick can answer, he is flanked by two large men in suits.
In the back Rick is still angry. “Look, your little speech session doesn’t change anything. I still don’t think you can stop him.”
“I can too stop him,” says Excelsior, “if they’d let me.”
Rick looks at Excelsior. Then he turns to Gus. “It’s obvious I should be talking to you.”
“Hey,” says Excelsior.
“What do you want from us, Mr. Apedis? I told you, he’s not going after the Cromoglodon.”
“I think I have some say in that,” says Excelsior.
Gus whirls on Excelsior. “I told you, it’s not your job to think. That’s what we have smart people for. Now be quiet and let me handle this.”
“The problem is not the Cromoglodon,” says Apedis.
“What do you think the problem is?” says Gus.
“A man named Edwin Windsor.”
“Who’s he,” blurts Excelsior, “What’s his superpower?”
“He’s very, very smart. You see, he’s using the Cromoglodon to—”
“Blackmail you?” asks Gus.
“So to speak. He approached the head of Psyche and I for sponsorship rights to the Cromoglodon.”
“But you said you didn’t sponsor the Cromoglodon,” says Gus.
“I didn’t. Psyche did. Psyche sponsored the Cromoglodon with my logo.”
“Oh,” says Gus. “That is smart. And evil. Really, really evil.”
“It’s worse, it’s a monthly contract, to the highest bidder. So next month—”
“– the price is going to be bid even higher.”
“We can’t afford to have any more damage to our image, so we must outbid. Whatever it takes. And this will go back and forth until both companies are broke. And then he will move on to the next industry.”
Excelsior still doesn’t get it. “Gus, we have to stop the Cromoglodon! You have to give me another shot. You gotta.”
Gus shakes his head, “No. This rich bastard’s right. The Cromoglodon’s not our problem. Our problem is the guy who’s calling the shots.”
Rick Apedis taps Excelsior in the middle of the odd logo emblazoned on his chest. “You should never blame the puppet,” he points to Gus, “when you can blame the man who pulls the strings.”
“Yeah, yeah, you made your point. We’ll look into it.”
“I’ll expect you do significantly better than that. I have a standing tee time with Jim Buchanan. Senator Jim Buchanan.”
Gus scowls. Excelsior looks confused.
“Such an innocent. In addition to a terrible slice, Jim has oversight of your little agency here. Including the old man’s pension and salary. He pulls both your strings. So FIX THIS.”
Apedis walks off, feeling full of himself.
Excelsior decides he’s had just about enough. He looks at Gus and says, “You know, you guys can’t stop me either. What could you do, if I just decided to beat that jerk within an inch of his life?”
“Never happen. You don’t have the stomach for it. Besides, I’d get to him first,” Gus growls, searching through his pockets for a bottle of aspirin.
“No Gus, seriously, you can’t stop me from going after the Cromoglodon. Do you have a contingency plan for that? For stopping me?”
Gus hooks his thumbs in his belt. He looks Excelsior right in the eye. “Somewhere, somebody’s got a plan. There’s probably a bunch of real smart assholes with soft hands thinking on it day and night. I bet you it’s real complicated and expensive as well. Me, I don’t like to think so much. So you get outta line and I’m just gonna whup you silly.”
Excelsior smiles at the cocksure man. But his laughter trickles off when he realized Gus isn’t laughing with him. There is no way on Earth that Gus could beat him in a fight. He’s old. Older than dirt. And he’s only human after all. Then why is Excelsior uncomfortable? Why does he look away first?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Giant Illusion in SPACE
The desert doesn’t care. There are many climates that seem to go out of their way to support and encourage life. But not the desert. If you can hack it, then fine, you can stay. Otherwise, out, out brief candle, this way to dusty death. The desert just doesn’t care.
Maybe that’s why mystics of all shape and size have sought out the barren places of the world. In the desert, there’s no place to hide from the light. A metaphor, there is no place to hide from the truth? But then why do madmen feel at home in the desert’s harsh environs? Maybe there is no truth? Maybe there is only predictably shifting deception. The creep of shadow across dry and rocky ground as the sun transits the sky.
But whatever the case, it is a fact that in this particular piece of desert, workmen are putting finishing touches on a very lovely house. It is white, two stories tall and gives the appearance of having plenty of room for Mom, Dad, Junior, Sis, Baby and Spot. More than enough room in fact. Because the entire family is out on the lawn. They are two-dimensional cut outs. Even the dog.
For this very special occasion, Dr. Loeb has adopted a costume of a lab coat and thick, elbow-length rubber gloves. He rushes about frantically, sweating and shouting orders that everyone ignores. In his mind, Dr. Loeb is the lynchpin which holds this entire enterprise together. Like the two-dimensional dog on the spray painted lawn, it is a poor fantasy. But then, a hint of power is all that Dr. Loeb needs to keep him going. His clock isn’t very accurate, but it’s easy to wind.
“What is ZISS!” he screams, pointing to a rock that has been spray painted green instead of being cleared from the Simulated Lawn Area (SLA). “Haf I not TOLD you! Wirklichkeitstreue! Realism! Realizm in everysing.”
The workmen ignore the tantrum. Like the heat and the dust, Dr. Loeb is just another inconvenience on this job site. A man in white overalls, gets sick of listening to Dr. Loeb. He walks over and removes the rock from the lawn. “Sorry, Doc,” he says.
Dr. Loeb yells after him, “And well you should be! Be thankful I do not haved killing you!” It is so hard finding quality henchmen these days, thinks Dr. Loeb. Then he stomps off to the blockhouse.
As Loeb enters the relative cool of the observation post, he snaps at one of the technicians. “Zou! Are zou monitorifing those clouds on the horifzon? Vill they intervere vith our test viring?”
The actor at the console turns around and looks at Dr. Loeb as if he’s insane. Which, of course, he is. But before the actor can say anything, Edwin emerges from the cool darkness. “High cirrus. Nothing more than ice crystals that have lost their way in the upper atmosphere, Dr. Loeb. They will not interfere with the test of your satellite.”
“Lazeradicator!”
“Lazeradicator, my mistake.”
Of course the clouds will not affect the “satellite” test. There is no satellite. Hidden within the target house is a compact array of pyrotechnics equipment. When the theatrically large red button on the command console is pressed a flash of light will erupt upward, followed by an explosive fireball. As light moves too fast for the naked eye to detect its progress, it will appear to all the world and, most importantly, to Dr. Loeb, that the test house has been vaporized by an impossibly powerful laser beam from space.
