“You wouldn’t let me go,” Excelsior says.
“You’re damn right. Because it’s not your job to be smart. It’s not my job to be smart. That’s what we got smart people for!” Gus is yelling. His words sound like they have been played on a barbed wire fiddle with a bastard file bow. His yell degenerates into a barely controllable cough. Excelsior feels pity.
“Gus, I screwed up.”
Gus might be old, but his will is steel. He shuts off the cough and says, “Yeah kid, it happens. Happens all the time. World’s an imperfect place.”
“It’s been happening to me a lot.”
“What can I tell you? You got streaks just like baseball players.”
“But I don’t like screwing up. I don’t like looking bad.”
“Well, nobody saw this one, so you’re not going to look bad.”
“Yeah but I know. I know what I did.”
“Then be A MAN! Tough it out. We all make choices. We all got regrets.” There is another coughing fit. Gus fights it down and continues, “But you live with it. You patch it up and move on.”
“But what about the next plane?”
Gus softens his tone. “Son, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t build the plane, you didn’t fly the plane. And when it started to go down, you were the chance that came after their last chance. Now I can see you’re feeling mighty low about this, and I am sorry, but if you never tried, they’d be just as dead.”
“Maybe I should just stop trying.” Alarm bells go off in Gus’ head. This isn’t working. Gus’s whole job is to handle the big guy. Make sure he keeps trying. To this end, Gus is authorized to use whatever methods he see fit. Flattery, bribery, football metaphors, even appeals to reason – anything, just so long as it keeps the big guy in the game.
“You can’t stop trying.” Gus says, playing for time.
“Yeah, well what good does it do?”
“What good does it do? Son, you’re a symbol. A shining beacon of hope for all those ordinary people out there. Look up at that hill.” Gus gestures at the thousands of houses that dot landscape. “You’re a symbol to all of those people. You make them feel safe at night. And around the world, you’re a symbol of America’s greatness. You can’t quit boy. You can’t let all those people down, because, you’re, you’re…” Gus waits for it.
“Excelsior?” says Excelsior.
“Who?” Gus shouts.
“Excelsior!”
“That’s right. You’re the big man. Bigger than this. Hell, you’re the big man so those little people don’t have to be. Because they can’t be. So what are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna walk it off?”
“You’re gonna suck it up!”
“I’m gonna take one for the team.”
“All of that. You’re gonna get right back on that horse. That big white horse. And you’re gonna ride off into the sunset. So that when the little people need you again, you’ll be there for them.”
“Yeah!”
“Hell yeah,” says Gus. Excelsior stands up. The breeze catches his cape. It floats free, exposing the logo on his chest, that strange device of heraldry from a bygone age. Excelsior is a hero again.
Mission accomplished, thinks Gus. “Now get your sorry ass off this beach so I can go home. This cold is killin’ my arthritis.”
“Sorry Gus. I really am. You you mean the –”
“Don’t be sorry.” Gus doesn’t want to listen to this sensitive guy bullshit. “Just, just get outta here. And,” Gus flicks his cigarette butt at the severed arm, “throw that thing into the middle of the ocean will ya?”
“But it’s somebody’s arm.”
“Not anymore, it’s an ex-somebody’s arm.”
Excelsior picks up the arm and flies out to sea with it. Gus watches him go. When he’s far enough away, Gus shakes his head. That freak is held together with spit and bailing wire, he thinks.
As Gus walks off the beach, he prays that he doesn’t live long enough to see Excelsior crack.
Chapter Eight. A Giant Laser in Space
Dr. Loeb is wrong about a lot of things. For example, Dr. Loeb believes that he sounds like an Austrian mastermind. He believes that, through hard work, he has eradicated all trace of the Lower Alabama Cracker he was born with. He believes the long hours he has spent watching Arnold Schwarzenegger movies has paid off. Dr. Loeb is wrong about a lot of things.
Right now, Dr. Loeb is meeting Topper. When he says “I ham pleased to meet you,” his accent wanders back and forth in the linguistic no man’s land that lies along the Alabamo-Austrian border.
As always, Topper says what’s on his mind, “What gives? What’s with the accent?”
Edwin’s not comfortable with this exchange. People either love Topper or hate him. There is no middle of the road. This could go badly.
“Vaht do you mean?” Dr. Loeb asks, losing control of his accent in his misguided attempt to cross the deep chasms of the vowel sounds.
Topper juts his chin out aggressively. This is not a good sign. “Why are you talking like that? Aren’t you just some kind of Lowland Alabama Redneck?” Edwin holds his breath.
“Aw sheet man, I ain’t gonna skeer nobody talkin like dis. Least-wise not trying to take over the world. Like, man, when you’re dropping a guy in a shark tank, you cain’t say, ‘Hey man, feed ‘at bitch ‘em sharks over ere.’ You gotta say something cool like -- Difpose off him.” Dr. Loeb looks to Edwin for confirmation. “Right man?”
“Yes-s-s-s,” says Edwin. “Topper if you’ll excuse us? “
Topper does not move. He stares at Dr. Loeb. Dr. Loeb is not sure why, but he is uncomfortable under the little man’s gaze.
“Dispose of him?” Topper asks. “Dispose of him?”
“Yeah man. Y’know. ‘Dispos hof hem! Ziss infstant!’”
Topper’s face broadens into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. You’re gonna be alright.” He slaps Dr. Loeb on the arm and heads for the door.
“Thank you Topper. We have plans to make,” Edwin says, as he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Dr. Loeb perks right up. “Awww man! A plottin’ and schemin’!”
Now both Edwin and Topper stare at Dr. Loeb as if a plant is growing out of his head. As Topper leaves the room he mutters under his breath, “Holy crap, he’s as crazy as fruit bat in a badminton net.”
“Would it be okay if’n I talked in the evil accent some more?” Dr. Loeb asks.
Edwin forces a smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“So, you haf come to realize ze vizdom of my plank?”
“Yes, your, p-lan. The giant laser in space. There are difficulties, but the idea is not completely without merit.” Edwin struggles to get it out. He detests lying in all forms.
“Vat? You just put ze lazar into space?”
“Yes, yes, right there. You’ve touched on an interesting point. For the moment, we’ll ignore the expense, and near impossibility of constructing a laser in the megawatt range and focus on the transport issues. How, exactly, would you put it into space?”
“Vee vould put it on ze rocket.”
“It’s very expensive to put something on a rocket. And something as heavy as your death laser – you were planning on calling it a death laser or something like that? Weren’t you?”
“Lazeradicator.”
