"What about the cantina, eh?"
Again the shrug, but this time, as Hernando was watching like a hawk, there was a shift in the other's eyes, as if being questioned like this was not to the other's liking.
"It's a different business, my friend. Besides, I know how thirsty you all are.” He grinned showing five beautifully gold-capped teeth.
"My cousin, Jose, disappeared in a rock fall last month. You sent word to the manager, didn't you?"
"Of course, amigo."
"They didn't find his body?"
Paco looked sympathetic. “I'm afraid not. They looked, but there was nothing found. I'm sorry."
"That's the first time you told me there was nothing found, Paco. I thank you for that. You just told me the truth. I found him. And he wasn't where he was expected. He's not doing well, Paco. I'm told he looks like he's starving."
Little Juanita Lopez, smiling like the impish vixen she was, slipped up behind him and drove a knife into the back of his fat neck. With a gurgling cry, he fell with a thud.
"In my heart, I knew,” she whispered. “I knew he wasn't dead."
Hernando got up and went over to the body. He stared down at him. Then he looked at the two men still sitting at the table. Neither had moved.
"All right,” he whispered. “So it begins.” He looked around “Pedro. From now on your name is Paco. You will manage the cantina and the store. Take his keys."
Pedro, a large, gaunt man, grinned and followed orders.
"And you two,” said Hernando sourly, glancing at the evil twins. “I hope you live up to your bargain."
Roger got up and went over to him, looking Hernando in the eyes. “You may not see us working, but we'll be here, doing what you know we can do. And when it is over, you will pay us what we ask of you. It will seem a lot then, but you will pay us nonetheless. You'll have the freedom to spend the rest as you wish."
Hernando grunted.
"You asked for weapons, but I suggest you build schools. You wanted ammunition, but what you need is a medical clinic. And if you are wise with what this fortune will gain ... you will be generous to your neighbors, and therefore, receive protection from all sides. That will be your strength. Not force of arms, but friends looking out for your welfare. Only fools depend upon weapons alone, and soon, it will the fools paying for it."
They shook hands in a grip that spelled a bond only death could break.
Regis narrowed his eyes, keeping track of Escobel, the mining engineer, secretly the head of the police for that region. Then there were the military post guards and Secural, the clerk at the mining office, a spy sent there to keep an eye on the mining manager. Secural played a lonely game of cat and mouse. Powerless to stop the corruption, he did what he could. He had to be approached quietly. Regis decided he would be the one to do that. He was the friend no one knew.
With everyone they needed working on it, “the project” took three weeks to finish. When it was set in motion, everyone who needed to be removed was replaced. A hundred and seven soldiers, collaborators, and thieves disappeared without a single shot fired.
* * * *
Nine months later the first shipment came through, and sixty million was deposited in an offshore bank. With connections in Tokyo, now flowing with money, Taggart Industries became a syndicate.
It was expected the other clans of the Yakuza would gather like vultures, but the presence of the Black Dragon made them shy away. When the head of the Black Dragon was summoned, he visited a foundation office buried twenty floors beneath the surface.. His ally had no fear from them or anyone else. These newcomers were not to be trifled with.
"Inichi,” said the man at the computer console, waving the other to a chair. “I have an important task for your people. Will you do it for me?"
Inichi nodded. “I will."
"Without comment?"
"With no reservation."
Regis smiled. “As you and your men have seen, this place was built like a fortress. It will be from here that I intend to change the world."
Inichi took a deep breath. “For whose benefit?"
"For you and yours, and eventually, for me and mine."
"What must I do?"
"Become sharks. Cast your shadows into the depths of every government. Spy on those who hear about us and ponder what they should do. Let us know beforehand if trouble brews. Then we shall take care of that."
"We could do it for you."
Regis turned back to the computer screen and shook his head. “We must become more diplomatic than that, Inichi. We must take care not to spoil ourselves with greed or ambition. Did you receive the funds promised?"
"Yes.” He wagged his head with embarrassment. “It was a great deal more than promised."
"There are districts about you that are poor, yet still in the hands of Yakuza who prey upon them."
Inichi nodded slowly, getting the picture.
"Do it by stages. Spend money freely. Build hospitals. Encourage spiritual strength. Pay taxes. Help those in desperate need. We must build an army from loyal people, Inichi. They will be our true shield."
Inichi nodded. “It will be done."
Not certain how it came about, Negochi and his staff, along with a coterie of brilliant technicians, found themselves as construction coordinators, designers, and overseers. Before they had a chance to complain that this work was not the understanding they had in their contracts, they were buried beneath plans, figures, people, machinery, and more money than they could possibly spend, with ever greater amounts coming in monthly.
Then he met Sir Anthony Pembroke and his niece, and the organizer took over the heavyweight stuff. His niece was clear-headed and purposeful. They spoke Japanese like diplomats.
Still, the scientist berated himself for having allowed it to happen. Never in his life had he or his people been forced to work so long. Never had they had such plans to work with.
Negochi thumbed through a set Regis had handed him, and soon found himself staring down, dumbfounded. He rubbed the top of his nose and put aside his glasses. If he didn't know better, he was looking at a mechanism that would create an area where they could maintain a field of gravity apart from the earth.
He examined the papers carefully. Then he looked at them upside down and held his breath. He understood how it was built. There was the flywheel, the central hub floating upon a magnetic grid of opposing force, and then the projectors themselves hydraulically controlled by the axis of the hub's movement. The whole mechanism was centrally fixed on gimbals. He shook his head. No, it wouldn't work. It couldn't work.
Then he heard that Sir Anthony had dug into the floor bed, as another five hundred feet was required. What would Regis do with more floors? They already had more than forty thousand square feet with structures built-in from top to bottom and eleven platforms—and who knew what else? Were they building a habitat for Godzilla?
Then there were the instruments ... and the machinery ... and the labs, and permanent residents coming in each day, smiling, showing their identification tags, which were scanned in some secret manner.
Which meant more apartments. More energy. More plumbing. He shook his head. The enormity of the project was getting out of hand. However, Sir Anthony remained confident. He wished he'd known the man when he was younger.
He turned another page and stared at a machine that looked like a giant food processor, only it ... his gaze was lured to formulas and equations.
Irritably, he set everything aside and went back to his lunch. Then, not being able to do anything about it, the urge too strong to deny, he picked up the plans and worked on the figures. He knew it was impossible. It flew in the face of all physical laws. One simply could not create energy from nothing.
* * * *
Three hours later, after having set down most of the principles he'd rewritten in his computer, and setting those to mechanical draft formulas and designs, he keyed in the analysis function. He sighed when the answer came back that it
was feasible. It approximated a ninety-seven percent chance of success. He stared into space.
Before him was a mechanism that offered unlimited energy without waste or pollution.
He was tired. His attempt to disprove such a fantasy made him feel like a fool. Calling an assistant from the outer office, he had her put the material into order. Eagerly, she took it and hurried out.
Wait until the girl realizes what she's working on. She'd scream and tell everyone, and then the word would be out. From here the rumor would spread that a “breakthrough” in the design of generated power had been made. He didn't know whether he should laugh or be disgusted.
Around him people with a thousand tasks worked, unaware that what they were building was a station for an alien, unaware this was the cutting edge in their own technology, the results of which would affect everyone on the planet.
Where was Taggart now? Was he contemplating himself as the master of a planet? He beat his fists uselessly against the console and cursed. Lately, every time he turned around, the fellow was there, like a hungry hawk after a pigeon. He and that English shadow of his, that Tate fellow.
He needed to walk a bit and stepped into a sunlit corridor. Still he couldn't get used to the fact that it was night outside. Another innovation. He rubbed a spot in his chest. He fumbled in his pockets for something and then froze, the pain etching its way across his shoulder and down his elbow. He just remembered. His pills weren't in his pocket.
Perspiration trickled down his forehead, and he looked around. Maybe his medication was back in his office. In the corridor outside, his vision started to swim. A large form materialized, his precious vial was held out, and he clutched it, popping a tab under his tongue. When that didn't help, he did another.
He leaned against a wall with an arm around him, preventing him from collapsing to the cement floor.
"I had no idea you were so ill."
Negochi sighed. It was Regis.
"It's nothing, really."
"Of course, it's nothing."
He was laid down on the cold floor, and Regis spoke into a lapel mike. “Help is on the way. We have to get you stabilized."
"I'll be up in a moment."
Regis shook his head. “No, professor, I'm afraid you're wrong.” He looked into the little old man with x-ray eyes. “Several of your arteries are closed off, and a valve is malfunctioning. Ah, yes, I see now why your physician felt surgery was inappropriate. There are imperfections your heart has adapted to, and with that liver of yours ... and those kidneys are in terrible shape."
"Go away,” Professor Negochi whispered. “Just go away."
"Professor, really. Why haven't you changed your diet?"
Flushing with guilt the old man looked over a shoulder making sure they were out of earshot. “I have an ulcerous condition of the stomach, and changing what I eat only irritates it. I end up coughing blood. Besides,” he quipped, “I don't like broccoli."
Regis was not amused.
He sighed, letting the truth out at last. “We've adopted extraordinary rules in our corporate existence here in Japan. I might have been taken off important projects because some busybody would have thought they were doing me a favor."
"I see ... but professor, if you can't handle the pressure, even with the drugs you're using, you're endangering not only yourself, but others as well. There'll be times when deadlines are impossible to avoid. What will you do then? Have half a dozen scientists make guesses on what you would have done?"
"I'll manage,” protested Negochi desperately.
"You'll manage all right. Manage yourself into an early grave is what you'll do."
The old man was too distraught to save face. “Please, I promise I'll take care. Don't worry so. It's nothing!"
"I'm sorry, professor, but this is something rather important. Your welfare must be thought of first and foremost. I cannot, no, will not allow you to suffer like this."
Defeated by logic, Negochi leaned back breathing heavily and felt like weeping. “Who will you use to replace me?"
"Replace you? Professor, I don't think you understand. You are not expendable. Besides, I don't think I could find anyone to replace you. You are due some leave, a vacation. That's the excuse we'll use."
"What are you saying?” queried the old man.
"You are going on an old, old recipe of shark oil, rice, carrots, bean curd, and exercise ... and while the world outside this place moils on at its own frenetic pace, youth will come upon you like a bride in the night. Now, be still, I hear the medical people coming."
* * * *
The old woman gathering her plants for the inking looked up and peered with interest at the young man coming towards her. There was something about the way he moved. He seemed familiar.
Finally, he stopped before her and bowed with respect. She smiled at the novelty. A westerner acting Japanese.
"Revered One,” began the stranger in her own excellent tongue. “I've come to ask a favor of you, if you would."
Her smile held a querying turn of lip, as if some thought were startled by the sound of his voice, the odd accent he spoke, which nudged a memory. But she put it aside, the wandering mind of an old woman nearing senility.
Still, she smiled and silently urged the other to apply himself. The young were so shy, and ever were they in need of guidance.
"Revered One,” he said. “I know of someone who would wish to train with you."
She sighed, regretfully shaking her head. She raised her hands, and he noticed her fingers were bent with age, crippled with rheumatism.
"Alas,” she whispered. “This cannot be. If I took another now, I would be forced to leave before finishing.” She left off how that leave-taking would come about. She was amused and remorseful. “I have lovely texts on the subject. Perhaps, because you've come so long a way, you would care for them ... cherish them? I put so much effort into their making. I would be sorry to have them stored and forgotten. None of my own family have taken up the art of weaving silk by hand. It is gentler than a machine, and I would be honored."
"Perhaps...” he said softly. “There is another way?"
"Another way, young man? What other way is that?"
"Allow me to stay awhile with you, and together we might find one."
She stared at him, her memory itching, the way he spoke, the way he moved, the intent of his words ... she forced herself to straighten. “I would be honored.” With a regal air, she held out her arm where a ready hand gripped her elbow, and she and her escort went back to her teak-built home on the edge of the marsh. She wondered, mystified, if somehow she knew who this person was?
As for Anthony Pembroke, minus his title, he was still in the planning stage of renewing this woman to her once remarkable vigor, for when he was introduced as a mere boy in the diplomatic corps, he had a crush on her that never dissolved with time. While on her part, delighted with the idea of being the older woman, they lived together for two years ... and mourned his departure all her life.
* * * *
"What is that?” demanded an exasperated aircraft designer.
"That is a single-man fighter craft built around a poly-combed structure incorporating a collapsed layer of twelve Kevlar-titanium folds, an inner vacuum chamber with deflecting ports, and a hydrogen converted engine with self-generating capabilities,” Roger Tate replied.
"I know.” The designer pointed. “I meant that."
"Oh, yeah, that,” murmured Tate, glancing aloft. “Well, ya see, I, uh...” He cleared his throat. “I was looking at the specs the other day and made a few corrections in the prototype model. It didn't look as big on the screen, as it seemed to turn out..."
The young engineer tapped his shoe, waiting for the rest.
"And, uh, well, you see, it looked like it needed an added stabilizer, that's all."
"No, I don't see. And it doesn't need it. If it had needed one, I would have put it into the design, but I didn't, because it wasn't necessary. Now the p
rototype is ruined, and I shall have to do it all over again."
"But—"
A finger pointed to the door. “Out."
Roger knew how to take a hint. The pride he had in his accomplishment took a nosedive. Knowing when he wasn't wanted, he grumped and left the muttering aircraft designer behind.
"So what,” he muttered. “So the guy has that kind of an I.Q. If I'd been born Japanese, and started schooling at the age of seven months, I'd probably have it, too."
Belatedly he sought something else to do He was really bored. The place looked as if it were robot-controlled, and lately, even Regis was too busy to follow. He paused at a cross point in the corridor and looked in three directions. He knew what was behind him. He knew what was on the right ... and on the left. He shivered.
The studies Regis had him practicing, were, well ... more than a little dangerous. He passed several labs filled with people too busy for visitors. Finally, he stopped in front of a steel door built for a bank vault. He keyed in numbers, and the door opened slowly.
He was greeted with a face that made him cringe. The face was on the other side of the unbreakable veratite plastic they developed some months ago, and that was an extraordinary achievement. The greater the pressure against it, the more dense the molecules become. It couldn't be scratched, as even diamonds had no affect, but it was transparent ... and to Roger, alarmingly so.
"Hey there, big fella. Fed on anything lately?"
The Orca opened his mouth, and blew a bubble of air at him. Then the beast rose to the surface of the tank and gurgled.
It was one thing for Regis to assure him that Orcas were intelligent, but it was another to look one right in the mouth, when that mouth looked capable of gulping a whole man down in one careless swallow.
He could have turned and swum away into the tunnel behind him, but for now, he wanted company. Roger wished he would swim away.
"Well, now, my fine beauty,” he said dryly to the Orca, as he was just one of a group that capered around him. “Like your home?"
Another Orca nudged the one he was talking to aside. Apparently, he wanted to talk to the human, too.
The Fourth Guardian Page 18
