Leo Frankowski - Copernick's Rebellion

“We call this Craftsman Way,” Mona explained. “It wasn’t really planned this way, but most people have tended to move near others with similar interests.”

“Hey, Mona! You need anything today?” Jimmy shouted from the open-air metal shop in front of his tree-house. He was wearing a leopard-skin loincloth.

“I don’t, but Patty probably does!”

“I do?”

“Sure. Uncle Martin’s tableware is a disgrace, and Jimmy is the best silversmith in the valley.” Mona herded Patty over to the display case.

Patty walked from display to display closely examining the collection of jewelry, silverware, and serving pieces. Everything was individually crafted, with a rare combination of art and utility. “I haven’t seen anything this good since I left Pratt!”

“Your friend’s taste is impeccable, Mona.” Jimmy winked and bowed grandly to Patty. “James Sauton, Silversmith, at your service.”

“This is Patty Cambridge, Jimmy,” Mona said. “She’s looking for some things to go in Oakwood.”

“Oakwood? The professor’s house?” Jimmy said. “Hey, Patty, you don’t want none of this junk. Let me make you something special. You known the professor long?”

“About four years,” Patty said, holding a spoon in her hand. “These are lovely, and I think we’ve only service for four.”

“I’ll make you a service for twenty,” Jimmy said, “but not these. Can you come by day after tomorrow? I’ll have some samples to show you. I’ve wanted to do something for the professor for a long time.”

“How long have you known Martin?” Patty reluctantly let go of the spoon as Jimmy took it from her hand.

“A couple of years, but he did me a real good turn once, so when I heard he was in Death Valley, I gave my tree house to a couple of kids and hopped a freight out here.”

“You heard he was here?” Patty was surprised, remembering the difficulty she had finding Guibedo. “How?”

“The grapevine. Come back day after tomorrow, I’ll have something to knock your eyes out.” Jimmy turned and left.

As they strolled on, Patty said, “My goodness! I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, I don’t have any money with me.”

“Most people don’t carry money around here, Patty. You just tell the telephone about your purchases, and it keeps track of that sort of thing.”

“I mean I don’t have much at home, either.”

“Jimmy’s pretty reasonable, ordinarily. But in this case, I don’t think you could get him to accept money. He idolizes Uncle Martin so much, it gets embarrassing. I think Uncle Martin avoids him. But don’t worry about money. The telephone will just bill Uncle Martin, and Heinrich always covers his account, so the old dear won’t even know about it.”

“But I can’t do that!” Patty said.

“Do it. Didn’t you know that they own a gold mine?”

“My lords! Intruder alert in Sector Fifty-five!” the CCU said.

“Dirk! Tell your brothers to nail him! Unharmed!” Heinrich said. “How did he get past the Gamma Screens?”

“The surrounding sector guards are converging, my lord,” Dirk said. “Gamma LDU 1096 reports that the intruder was under heavy narcohypnosis. His primary programming is only now surfacing.”

“Well, get several Gammas on him. I want a complete probe,” Heinrich said. “Go transponder mode.”

“Yes, my lord.” Dirk’s voice became a monotone, relaying transmissions from the LDUs in the area.

“Sector Fourty-four. Wirka here. Converging.”

“Sector Fifty-four. Pacho here. Converging.”

“Sector Sixty-four. Kinzhal here. Converging.”

“Sector Fifty-five. Vintovka here. Converging. I can see the intruder with my bird. He is armed.”

Vintovka was a Beta series LDU in empathic contact with an observation eagle. This empathic contact was quite distinct from telepathy. It amounted to a wide-band communication circuit, but it was limited to only two nodes. That eagle and the LDU had hatched from the same egg; they were really two parts of the same being.

“ETA for nine LDU’s is eighty-five seconds,” Dirk said. “Gamma Units report that intruder is KGB. Weapons include AK-84 Assault rifle and fragmentation grenades. Intruder’s IQ is 126, Need Affiliation four percent, Need Achievement seventy-eight percent, Need Power ninety-nine percent. High sex drive converted to sadism.”

“Uck! He’s worse than the Air Force Intelligence type we stopped last week,” Copernick muttered. “Dirk! My earlier command to capture the intruder unharmed is rescinded—he’s a butcher. Stop him!”

“Acknowledged, my lord. Thank you,” Dirk said. “Perhaps ‘hunter’ would be a better term. He is after Lord Guibedo.”

Dirk returned to his monotone. “Vintovka here. Intruder is in sports arena. Children’s gymnastic class now in progress. I will attempt to lure intruder to the band shell, now vacant. Other units converge there.”

Vintovka charged, his easily camouflaged skin glowing international orange. He threw rocks at the intruder, and when one of them caught the man’s head, he opened fire. Vintovka retreated, throwing rocks, maneuvering to keep behind him an area clear of bystanders. Lead tore up the sod at his feet and chips of bark and wood flew behind him, but Vintovka kept himself in full view and retreated toward the band shell.

The children stopped and stared.

Mona and Patricia entered a wide rolling park that was bounded by a library, a band shell, two theaters, a dance hall, and a few bars and restaurants.

“There’s a sports area on the other side of the band shell,” Mona said. “Gymnastics, football fields, that sort of thing. Past that a lake’s going in, but it isn’t done yet.”

“And only two years ago, this was all a desert,” Patricia said.

“The worst hellhole in the world. But everything was here: the sunlight, the soil, the water.”

“The water?” Patricia asked.

“What do you think the white stuff on those mountains is? All Death Valley needed was a little reorganization, which Uncle Martin and Heinrich provided. In twenty years the whole world will be a park like this, only varied and different. When we get to Pinecroft, remind me to show you the plans they have for a town in the mountains east of here. Fantastic!”

“It’s all so perfect.” Patricia noticed that the grass they were walking on was like a putting green.

“It’s getting there. Nightlife is still sort of restricted. There’s no shortage of musicians, but the bars and restaurants are mostly serve yourself and clean up the mess,” Mona said, leading Patricia to an open-air cafe.

“There are two exceptions. One is the Red Gate Inn, which is run by a sort of social group. It’s kind of a fun place, most parts of it anyway,” Mona said.

“What’s wrong with the rest of it?”

“Nothing, really. It’s a matter of taste—the inn is divided up into about twenty different rooms, each with a different motif and each with its own form of entertainment. There’s always at least ten things going on. Like there’s one room for Irish folk songs—interspersed with bagpipes. And there’s a Whopper Room where telling the truth is considered bad form.”

“It sounds like fun,” Patricia said.

“On the other hand, Basin Street is men only. The only women there are waitresses and dancers. They don’t wear clothes. The Guardians of the Red Gate had the nerve to ask me to dance there,” Mona said.

“Did you?” Patricia giggled.

“Only once. Heinrich hit the roof.” Mona laughed. “The other exception is Mama Guilespe’s, over here.”

As they sat at a square table with a red-and-white checked tablecloth, Patricia suddenly realized how few straight lines she had seen all day.