"Good for you, Mister Bolin. Good for you."
Chu Ti Ping entered her superior's office, carrying an armload of quota reports. Lu Ki Wang, production-control officer for Nanking Industries, had been falling behind in his paperwork. She frowned as she noticed the office, was empty. The walls were different as well. The photograph of Chairman Fan hung in its customary place, but the others—the pictures of Lu balancing the plates on the sticks, and the ones of those round-eyes in peculiar costumes—were gone. Turning to his desk, she saw a pile of empty picture frames and a newspaper. She looked more closely at the periodical and saw that it was in English, and that something was circled in red. Chu Ti Ping prided herself on her English skills and she walked around the desk to read the marked portion. It read: "Luke the Gook, where are you?"
Outside of Staunton, Virginia, parents dragging their runny-nosed brats to their riding lessons found the stable closed and both horses and trainers missing. In South Wales, four miners—all brothers—failed to report to their shift. A check of their home found it empty. In the United Republic of Germany at a sanatorium for the incurably obese, a patient who had reached a weight of 249kg after a year of treatment suddenly disappeared, along with an astounding quantity of sausages. In Ottawa, the CBC announced the cancellation of a much loved children's program, "Captain Billy and his Performing Dogs." Las Vegas police announced that they were still searching for nightclub mime Anton Etren who walked off of the stage in the middle of a performance after a drunk in the audience began singing.
In Moscow, guard sergeant Atsinch Gorelov stood sweating before the Commandant of the new Peoples Rehabilitation Facility. The Commandant peered at Gorelov from under heavy black brows. "What do you mean Kolya has escaped?"
Gorelov held out his palms. "Comrade Commandant—"
"Stand at attention!"
Gorelov slapped his hands to his sides. "Comrade Commandant, prisoner Sasha Kolya was not in his isolation cell at evening call."
"Not in his cell? How can it be that he was not in his cell? Did one of you vegetables leave his door open?"
"No, Comrade Commandant. The prisoner's door was locked."
"And, nothing was recorded on the automatic surveillance board?"
Gorelov licked his lips. "It shows the prisoner going to bed with the covers over his head. When he did not stand for the evening call, a guard went in to investigate. The prisoner's shape under the blanket was formed by wads of newspaper."
"Newspaper?"
"Yes, Comrade Commandant. It was in his mail this morning. I have it in the outer office." The Commandant nodded and Gorelov rushed to the door, opened it, then took the paper from the guard private, standing at the entrance. Gorelov slammed the door, rushed back to the Commandant's desk and held out the paper. It was crumpled, but the sheets had been flattened and placed in their proper order. The Commandant leafed through the publication, but overlooked the line "Slippery Sash, where are you?"
World Eco-Watch announced a slight decline in the elephant population of the Indian Preserve, as well as minor decreases of a few other species in both Indian and African preserves, due most likely to the unseasonal drought.
In Albany, the Governor of New York walked into his press secretary's office and found the press secretary missing. On the man's desk the Governor found a hastily scribbled letter of resignation and a newspaper with the following line marked: "Quack, Quack, where are you?"
SIX
Jon Norden looked out of the view bubble of the lounge at the starship held in the null field of the orbiting shipyard's framework. Ant-sized workers swarmed around the struts to the Bellenger pods, securing them to the ship's body. "Quite a sight, isn't it?"
Jon turned and saw the yard boss holding out a steaming cup of coffee. "Thanks." He looked back at the ship. "I've never seen the gangs work together so well. When I was jockeying those pods into place—you know how tricky that is—it was as though we could do no wrong. Know what I mean, Jake?"
The yard boss nodded. "I never saw components put together so fast. We're so far ahead of schedule, I'm afraid that unless that battleship deal comes through, I'll have to lay some of you guys off."
Jon snorted. "Just you try it, Jake."
"Just kidding. Tell me, Jon..." The yard boss rubbed his chin. "Why are the gangs so enthusiastic about this one? We've built bigger ships. Remember the Otazi?"
Jon sipped at his coffee. "The City of Baraboo is different, Jake. It's funny, since the Baraboo has the same design as an attack transport, with all those heavy cargo shuttles. But, it's a circus ship. This ship will never be used for killing. Not that I'm a pacifist—I couldn't work here if I was. But... I don't know."
"I think I know what you're getting at."
"Jake, have the work orders for the special fittings been approved yet? Except for running up a few nuts and doing the shakedown, she's about ready to go."
The yard boss shook his head. "No. We have the parts made; all that's left is installing them. Must be some foulup down in the main office."
"Aren't we doing an attack transport soon? The company could have saved a bundle if we'd done this, ship and the transport at the same time."
Jake shrugged. "As far as I know the deal's either been postponed or it fell through. The head office is getting a lot of static from the government over doing business with the Nuumiian Empire. The union was about to take a position against it, too. I don't think A&BCE wanted the bad press."
Jon looked back at the City of Baraboo. "Jake, I want to rotate downstairs early. Okay?"
"Sure. It's your paycheck. With nothing but the fittings left, I won't need you. Trouble at home?"
Jon studied the ship as he shook his head. "I'm not certain."
John J. O'Hara punched his treasurer in the shoulder. "Jingles, it's all downhill from here!"
Jingles McGurk looked at the Governor with a sour expression. "If you call nothing in the bank going downhill, Mr. John. The money we're getting from the show on Ahngar is only letting us break even."
"Isn't that good?"
"What about the small matter of paying off the City of Baraboo?"
"Pooh! Onee we hit the star road with the new show, we'll have that crate paid off in five years." O'Hara turned to his rented office door. "Jingles, you should see the acts we'll have! They're coming from everywhere. You remember Waco Whacko?"
"Sure. The guy with the pythons." Jingles shivered.
"He's been teaching school on a planet named Ssendiss, but he's on his way here with twenty snakes you wouldn't believe. That's what they have on Ssendiss—snakes, they run the place. But, what an act!"
Jingles shook his head. "I better get down to the bank. They're a little nervous about those checks we don't have covered."
"They'll be covered. I never saw such a chilly bunch!"
Jingles smiled. "You are still young, Mr. John, for an old man."
As Jingles turned and walked off, O'Hara frowned, shrugged, then opened his door. Seated at the Governor's paper and plan littered desk was a young man. He was leaning back in the Governor's chair and had his feet on the Governor's desk. "You must be John O'Hara."
"I am, and who in the hell might you be, and why are your feet on my desk?"
The young man removed his feet and sat forward, elbows resting on the desk. "My name is Jon Norden. I'm with the A&BCE shipyard."
O'Hara pursed his lips, then sat down in a chair facing his own desk. "Is there trouble?"