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7

The flymobile stood in the shed that Solomon Leppo and his buddy, Casey Phibb, rented as a garage and workshop in the tangle of commercial and industrial premises lying along Gorky Avenue toward the terminal domes at Wuhan. It had previously belonged to the son of a wealthy agricultural grower who operated one of the roofed-crater farms. The son hadn't been able to decide whether he wanted a racing machine or a party wagon for his friends. As a consequence, after commissioning a series of unusual and expensive modifications, he had ended up with a curious combination of both that featured a six-seat basic layout with fan-ram hybrid supercompressors, stressed double bubble mainframe, stall-sensing geometry modifiers, and twist-wing aerodynamics. Then he had crashed it, expensively and spectacularly, and as a result of his being either scared off from further sporting ambitions by the experience, or prevailed upon to settle for a lifestyle more agreeable to friends, relatives, and insurance companies, the wreck found its way to the rear yard of Alazahad Machine.

There, it posed Mahom with something of a problem: too heavy and commodious to interest serious racing enthusiasts, yet unconventional enough to dissuade the practical buyers—was its incongruous mix of specifications worth the investment of refurbishing in the hope of an unlikely sale? Mahom had just about written it off for parts, when Solomon Leppo announced that it would be ideal for a project he had been conceiving and offered to take it off Mahom's hands in return for a weekend's overtime. Shrugging, mystified, but never surprised by anything that the human animal might do or desire, Mahom had agreed, happy to cross the liability off his books.

"Not a flymo, Casey. A protection machine! Your flying bodyguard. Five years from now, nobody who really is somebody will be going anywhere in anything else, anymore than they'd leave home without their muscle escort." Leppo spoke while he put tools back in the rack above the bench, brushed chaff and drillings from the past three hours' work into a pan, and emptied it into the trash bin underneath. "Ya gotta think new things—innovation. That's the way to break into where the big money is. Create a demand—a new market. It's no use busting your ass for the crumbs left over from what everyone else has already cleaned out."

Casey worked as an engine and flight systems technician in the transportation depot at Stony Flats. He surveyed the modified flymobile from an oily steel stool, where he sat munching a microwaved roast-beef sandwich held in a paper napkin by a casually wiped oily hand. They had christened it the Guardian Angel. Painted blue and white with silver sidelines, it was to be their demonstration model. Adding space-grade lightweight armor cladding around the cabin and at critical points had been fairly straightforward, as was duplicating the flight and security electronics in a hidden compartment—deactivating the locator call-back was always the first precaution when stealing or hijacking vehicles. The center-mounted, forward-firing automatic cannon would be trickier, involving another deal with Mahom and some advice, but fortunately he was the kind who tended to let the world be and didn't ask questions. The current project was a pair of rear-mounted tubes for passive infrared and electronic, or laser/radar designated infantry-class homing missiles. Leppo also had plans for target-acquisition and incoming-tracking radar, along with a sophisticated countermeasures package, but they would need parts he was still trying to locate among Mahom's various sources. In the meantime, they had something that was at least flying again.

"This is all good experience we're clocking up, Sol," Casey agreed. "It'll double the ticket I can go hawking around. But do you really think we're going to get big packers with wads lining up for them? I mean, it's not just a question of the iron and the specs. You have to know names, and they have to know you. It's as much a social thing too, know what I mean? You have to have the contacts."

"There's ways," Leppo insisted. "Maybe we don't even have to look further than Mahom. He knows political people, military people, lots with money, some you don't wanna talk about, others you never imagined. They talk to each other. See how it works? All you have to do is get a toe in the door here and there, do a good job and show 'em something that'll make their eyes open, and before you know it they'll be coming to you." He pressed a button to dispense a coffee from the battered autochef on its shelf by the laser needle-drill. "Especially when some of them are rivals like the pirate narc and med dealers, or maybe the security agencies' big-name clients. When one decides to upgrade on equipment"—he gestured in the direction of the Angel—"then pretty soon all the rest will have to too, right?"

Casey regarded the rear body section as he chewed. It was opened to expose the just-installed six-shot reloading mechanism. "The tail baffles need adjusting for more clearance," he commented.

Leppo went on, "I mean, do you think I plan on crawling about in grease traps like this place for the rest of time? That's not what gets the classy chicks interested, Case. The secret is living with style. . . ." Leppo paused to sip from his mug, then added absently, "Some guys like that showed up at the lot the other day."

"Guys like what?"

"With style—you know, living a cool act, man. Looked like they hang out in the best places, probably with chicks everywhere just itchin' to be a part of the scene. They showed up in a big shiny Metro—suits, manicures, clips and rings loaded with ice. One of them stopped by the shop."

"What did they want?" Casey asked.

"They were looking for some guy—said it was business, but I think something heavier was going on. He'd been in Wuhan a couple of days before with a big black dog, driving a rented Kodiak from the firm. That was why they came there."

Casey thought back, then turned his eyes toward Leppo curiously. "Big guy? Lean, tough-looking. Friendly smile, but could probably tear you apart if he had to?"

Leppo looked surprised. "That'd fit. Why?"

"I saw him. He came out to Stony Flats, it must have been, aw . . . about a week ago. Had a dog like that with him. Dark-colored Kodiak—kind of a funny purpley blue?"

"That's it." Leppo was interested. "What was he doing out there?"

"He came out to see some scientists who were fitting out a rig for a surface trip somewhere. I don't know what it was about. Then he showed up again just before they were due to go, and left with them—didn't have the dog that time, though. Somebody said he was some kind of doctor."

Leppo blinked. Life didn't come up with breaks like this every day. "A surface trip?" he repeated. "You don't know where they were going, do you?"

"No. But I could probably find out by making a call. Why the big interest?"

"Oh . . . I just promised the guy I'd let him know if anything turned up," Leppo replied vaguely. "And yeah, Case. I'd appreciate it if you would make that call."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, as Casey began preparing brackets to mount the firing circuit control, Leppo said there was something he needed from his car parked in the alleyway outside. He went out to it, got in and closed the door, and used his comset to call the number on the calling card that he retrieved from his wallet. A man's voice replied unilluminatingly, "Enterprises." Leppo recognized it.

"Mr. Mullen?"

"Who wants him?"

"This is Sol Leppo. I talked to you when you were at Alazahad Machine out on Beacon Way. You were asking about a man with a dog. I said I'd get back if I heard anything. Okay, I think I can tell you where he went. . . ."

 

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