3rd World Products, Inc. Book 7

by Ed Howdershelt

  Scooping some mud from in front of her, she tossed the mud on the phone, then let herself fall flat, catching herself on her hands and knees and spending some time bumbling around in a pretend-search for the phone, her efforts carrying her within a foot or so of the mud-covered gadget.

  Apparently deciding she'd left enough evidence of having searched for her phone, she got to her feet and continued toward the highway.

  This is Florida, home to gators and several varieties of snakes that like high grass and dampness. I guided the flitter to hover above Donna, monitoring the area ahead of her.

  At the highway's drainage ditch, she stopped and examined the water for a moment, then simply slogged through it. About halfway across, she stopped and seemed to be doing something with her feet. She emerged from the ditch and trudged up the slope to the road with only one sneaker.

  Laughing, I muttered, “Good touch, ma'am. Showing up half-barefoot should engender tons of sympathy."

  She looked like hell when she arrived at the well-lit parking lot. Her feet were encrusted with mud, her jeans were soaked halfway up her thighs, twigs were caught in her hair, and there was fresh mud just about everywhere on her from lying in the brush pile and ‘searching’ for the phone.

  As she trudged across the gravel, the bar's front door opened and about a dozen people rushed out, one of them being the cop in the blue shirt. While everyone bombarded her with questions, the cop quietly put an arm around her waist, held her other arm, and helped her up the steps into the bar.

  Within a few minutes, an ambulance and two police cars arrived. Maybe ten minutes later, some of the uniforms came back out with Donna and spread some cardboard boxes on the back seat of the lady deputy's car before Donna got in.

  The ambulance left, then the deputies, and the small crowd in the parking lot trickled back inside the bar.

  "Flitter,” I said, “I'll hop off now. When I do, return to your parking place, please."

  "Yes, Ed."

  Calling up my board, I said, “Five and three suits on,” and slid off the deck to return to my car, drove home, took a shower, and went to bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My Friday began with a loud clanging, thumping noise that jarred me awake around seven-thirty. It took me a moment to realize that I'd heard a fairly heavy barbell hit a concrete floor. I went to the window and parted the curtains.

  Behind my house, my neighbor was on one knee in his open carport, clutching the right side of his back and gasping. Uh, huh. Not the first time. Louis knew there was a chance his back would go out, but he kept messing with his damned weights.

  His wife, DeeDee, came out the side door, stopped and appeared to make an exasperated comment, helped him to his feet, then helped him hobble into the house.

  Sending a field tendril over there, I braced part of it on their car's bumper and used the end of the tendril to guide the heavy barbell, rolling it to the back of the carport so she'd be able to get their car most of the way in later.

  DeeDee opened the side door again and stopped almost exactly as she had before, staring at the spot where the weight bar had been. She looked around, saw the bar against the rear wall, and stared some more.

  Letting the curtain fall, I turned away from the window to do something about coffee and breakfast. I was putting some bacon down for Tiger when the phone rang. It was Jenny.

  "Hi, there,” I said, “Aren't you up kind of early?"

  "I haven't been to bed yet. After I closed the bar, I went down to pick up Donna. We've been on her computer all night, moving money around. I just called to say thanks before I hit the hay and try to get some sleep before two. Come on down to the bar tonight. Your beer'll be on the house. Bye!"

  Without giving me a chance to answer, she hung up. I sipped my coffee at the kitchen table and petted Tiger as I gave some thought to Donna Perrin.

  It seemed likely to me that a woman who could so quickly and effectively plan and execute her felonious husband's downfall would need something more out of life than a simple existence of indolent leisure.

  In its simplest use as working money, four million bucks could generate a lot of return—easily enough to live pretty well—but Donna was the dynamic type. She'd go nuts without a meaningful occupation of some sort.

  She'd spoken of starting her own business, but hadn't mentioned what that business might be. I wondered if she'd consider going to work for Steph or Linda.

  I seem to maunder best on a keyboard, so I fired up my computer and composed a summary of the last evening's events. After editing it a few times, I told the flitter to grab a copy and send the note to Steph and to Linda's datapad.

  Steph's presence materialized as I was turning off the computer. I said, “Hi, there,” and got up from the desk.

  Smiling, Steph said, “Hi, yourself, Ed. You seem rather impressed with Mrs. Perrin."

  Leading the way to the kitchen table, I said, “Soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Perrin, and yes, I'm impressed. I sent a copy of that note to Linda, too, in case you have a full staff."

  "I don't really need her at this time, but I could create a position..."

  Shaking my head, I said, “Nah. It has to be real. It wouldn't take her very long to figure out she had a make-work job.” Shrugging, I added, “Besides, it's not as if being between jobs for a while will be much of a hardship for her. She has a few bucks to tide her over."

  "Indeed,” said Steph, “But she might not have them if you hadn't intervened. Her taste in men appears lacking."

  "That's due to a lack of training, ma'am. People are taught from day one to shop for a Mr. or Mrs. Right, but they aren't taught enough about how to shop for one."

  Steph gave me a look of skepticism I'd seen often enough on Selena's face; a sort of eyelid-lowered, dubious sidelong gaze with a wry tightness to the mouth.

  Nodding, I said, “It's true, milady. They have to teach themselves the job by doing it. That's why so many women seem to get stuck with lemons every time they go man-shopping. Most of them know as little about shopping for a man as they know about shopping for a used car. More often than not, they end up settling for something that seems to be close to what they think they want or need at that moment."

  Snickering, Steph petted Tiger as she asked, “That's how you see it?"

  Shrugging, I said, “Sure. Think about it every time you see a tee-shirt that says ‘So many frogs, so few princes'. What that ol’ girl is actually saying is, ‘I haven't given enough thought to what I truly want and need in a man and it doesn't really matter a damn ‘cuz when I'm hungry I can't stick to my shopping list and I only shop when I'm hungry'."

  Steph laughed and asked, “Would you happen to have a similar theory concerning men?"

  "A theory? No, just observations over the years. Guys grow up thinking it's macho to go out and get laid as often as possible and to duck marriage at all costs. Most of ‘em'll poke any woman who's willing and the only list they ever assemble is a ‘best’ and ‘worst’ roster of half-remembered names and occasions.” Chuckling, I added, “And diseases."

  Linda's two-toned chimes had sounded through my implant as I'd said the word ‘diseases'. Steph grinned and disappeared.

  I answered the chimes with, “Hi, Fearless Leader."

  "Hi, yourself. I take it your note was a suggestion to check out and consider Donna Perrin."

  "Yup. She's not just another pretty face and she may become available when she gets bored with being rich."

  Laughing, Linda said, “Okay, I'll put Martinez on it, just in case. Will you maintain contact with her?"

  "Could be. She left her laundry with me last night and we have a bartender friend in common."

  "Her laundry? Oh, well, that pretty much guarantees another date, doesn't it? I hate to ask, of course, but since you've been in the mood to do favors for people lately, could you perhaps spare 3rd World—your employer, if you recall—some of your time this afternoon? Maybe even earn some of your pay?"

  "Well, gee, I dunno
, ma'am. What's the job?"

  With a chuckle, Linda said, “Nothing as dramatic as a rescue, I'm afraid. Three family members of a station employee are stuck in Atlanta. Flits one and two aren't available, but we'd like those people to stay on schedule."

  Hm. So now I'm a shuttle service. On the other hand, I remember how it feels to be stranded on a tight schedule. Oh, well; 3rd World pays the same no matter what I'm doing.

  Linda started to say, “I know it isn't quite a thrilling adventure, but..."

  Sighing dramatically for her benefit, I interrupted her with, “Oh, I guess I could find or make the time somehow, if I shelve a few of my less-critical projects."

  "That's so good of you,” Linda replied wryly, “Thanks ever so much. I'll make arrangements and call you back."

  "Roger and wilco, Fearless Leader! Standing by, ma'am! You call, we haul! On time or it's free, by God! I'm at attention and saluting your picture at this very moment, ma'am!"

  Snorting a sharp laugh, Linda said, “Oh, blow it out your ass, Ed. And thanks. Bye for now.” She disconnected.

  Tiger hopped onto the kitchen table and sat down.

  I asked, “How would you like to go flying and meet some new people today?"

  He seemed to give the matter some thought, then replied, “Do they know I talk?"

  "Linda didn't say who they are, but I don't think so."

  "Good.” He jumped down and went to his food dish as he always does before leaving the house.

  "Tiger, we may not be leaving for a couple of hours and there's food on the flitter."

  Looking up from his dish, he replied, “Okay,” and continued nibbling. I thought perhaps he wasn't quite clear on what an hour was, but I didn't want to embarrass him by asking, so I said, “Linda will probably call around lunchtime."

  Apparently my message got through. He hopped onto a chair and said, “I will wait."

  Conversation with Tiger was sometimes a chore. Basics were easy enough, but the moment abstract concepts came into play, Tiger sort of zoned out.

  He understood ‘a few minutes’ or ‘half an hour’ to be a relatively short time, and he knows that a week is seven suns (that many of his toes), but I once made the mistake of trying to define months and years to him.

  I wound up trying to use seasons to define a year, but this is Florida. As Tiger says, “It is a little cold for a while and there are no little lizards, then it is hot for a much longer while."

  Seizing the opportunity to close the discussion, I said, “Exactly! You've got it, friend Tiger! One hot time and one cold time is one year. The little lizards sleep when it's cold."

  His right ear flicked back as he considered the information, then he said, “Okay,” and hopped onto the window ledge to watch the lizards. Oh, well. At least he wasn't a TV junkie.

  Linda called me back a little before eleven to tell me where my passengers would be waiting for me and suggest that I get them to Carrington in time for lunch.

  "Sounds good to me,” I said, “I like the mess hall."

  "Dining facility,” Linda corrected me.

  "Yeah, that place. Who are these people? Bigwigs?"

  "No, just family members who got stranded in an airport."

  "Okay, milady. I guess I can lift off as soon as you stop gabbing at me."

  "Over and out, then. Have a good trip."

  She dropped the link.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I had Tiger in my arms, my coffee mug hung on a pants pocket, and my backpack on my left shoulder. We headed for the flitter as a silver SUV parked on the swale in front of my house. Donna got out, waved, and headed our way at a trot.

  "Hi!” she said, “Jenny gave me your address. I'd have called ahead, but she said she didn't have your phone number."

  With a smile and a shrug, I said, “She lied, ma'am,” and noted her obviously brand-new sneakers, jeans, and her medium-blue blouse. Either her small yellow backpack was her purse or her purse was in it.

  "Yeah, I know,” she said, “Who's your little furry friend?"

  She was reaching to pet Tiger when he brightly said, “Hello! I'm Tiger!"

  Donna's hand stopped reaching, then continued and petted him as she looked at me. Looking highly skeptical, she said, “That was cute. You're a ventriloquist, too?"

  Shaking my head, I said, “Nope. Say hello or you'll hurt his feelings."

  Tiger looked at her expectantly and repeated, “Hello!"

  "We're going for a flitter ride,” I said, “If you want to come along, you'll say ‘hello’ to my fuzzy friend."

  Still appearing vastly skeptical, Donna looked at Tiger and said, “Hello. Tiger, was it?"

  "Yes,” he replied, “Who are you?"

  She rolled her eyes, but decided to play the game.

  In a tone one might use with a retarded child, she said, “I'm Donna, Tiger. It's very nice to meet you."

  Tiger eyed her for a moment, then looked up at me and said, “She doesn't believe I can talk."

  "No, she doesn't,” I said, “Here, I'll put you aboard."

  Donna stared and gasped as about half of me disappeared into the perimeter field of the flitter she hadn't realized was sitting in my driveway.

  She reached toward the flitter and watched her hand and forearm vanish. Emitting a kind of squeaking gasp, she pulled her hand back, then reached into the field again.

  I extended a hand to Donna, led her into the field and helped her aboard the flitter, then followed her onto the flitter's deck. Keying up a two-foot field screen, I tapped Linda's flapping-lips icon as Tiger stood on the seat in front of the screen.

  When Linda's face appeared, Tiger yowled, “Hello, Linda! Hello!"

  Linda grinned and returned his enthusiastic greeting, and looked at me. Her eyes flicked to Donna, then back to me.

  "Hi, Ed. Who's your friend?"

  "Donna Perrin, milady. She pulled in just as I was about to pull out. Mind if I bring her along?"

  Shaking her head, Linda said, “Not at all. Captain Perrin, did he tell you where he was going?"

  Captain? Well, damn! The one thing I hadn't asked. Hadn't seen any railroad tracks on her fatigues last night, either.

  "No,” said Donna, “He just said he was going for a ride."

  Checking her watch, Linda said, “Tell her on the way, Ed."

  "Roger that, Fearless Leader. Flitter, head for Atlanta, please. Get the coordinates from Linda."

  "Atlanta?!” yelped Donna.

  Linda said, “I'll see you when you get here. Bye for now, everybody. Bye, Tiger!"

  Tiger stood tall and yelled, “Goodbye, Linda! Goodbye!"

  Donna stared at Tiger as he hopped from the seat to the console dash area and sat down. She turned to me and seemed about to say something, but froze with her mouth open and her eyes growing wide.

  I looked where she was looking. We were already above the first layer of clouds. Turning back to Donna, I looked for signs of panic, but she was already coming down from her shock.

  Donna's mouth closed and her eyes became more normal-sized, then she sat down in the farthest-left flitter seat. I took my usual seat by the console.

  "Wow!” she breathed.

  She appeared to have a mood going, so I didn't disturb it by talking to her. I changed the field screen for internet use and checked email as we soared in a long, high arc toward Atlanta.

  Maybe five minutes passed before she leaned forward, reached to see if there was anything beyond the edge of the deck, went to her hands and knees by the seat, and apparently tried to see directly below the flitter.

  As I admired the way she filled her jeans, she asked, “How high are we?"

  "I cruise at hundred thousand feet. People get kind of pissy about sonic booms at lower altitudes."

  "Maybe because they're illegal,” she suggested, “How fast are we going?"

  "A bit over twelve hundred,” I said, using my stock answer to that question.

  She stiffened, then rolled on her side to look
up at me.

  "I'm a helo pilot, Ed. Completely aside from the fact that I read somewhere that flitters can only go six hundred, we're going considerably faster than ‘a bit’ over twelve hundred."

  Nodding as I hit the ‘Empty Bulk Mail’ icon, I said, “Yup."

  Sitting up, she asked, “Is there some reason you don't want to tell me how fast we're going?"

  "You aren't cleared for that info, ma'am. I will tell you, however, that Atlanta isn't our final destination. We're picking up three people there and we'll be at Carrington, North Dakota in time for lunch."

  "North Dakota?! But that's ... what? Two thousand miles?"

  "About sixteen hundred from Atlanta, I think."

  Logging out of my email, I checked my ebook sales pages, then dissolved the field screen and stood up.

  Donna also stood up and asked, “Who are we picking up?"

  "They're supposed to be station personnel family members."

  Blinking at me, she asked, “The asteroid station?!"

  "No, the base gas station.” Chuckling, I said, “Of course the asteroid station, ma'am.” Pointing over the flitter's nose, I said, “By the way, that's Atlanta."

  Rushing to lean on the console and peer at the uprushing ground, Donna made all the noises I'd come to expect from passengers. She eased herself on weak knees into the nearest flitter seat—my seat, as it happened—and seemed enthralled with the view as we descended toward Hartsfield-Atlanta International Airport.

  The flitter paused twice on the way down, then dropped like a stone toward one of the flexible docking tunnels. I expected the flitter to stop right against the tunnel, but it parked by a set of nearby ground-floor doors and made itself visible.

  Three guys carried luggage out to the flitter and one of them asked where I wanted it. I told him to set the bags on the deck and asked the flitter to take care of them.

  The guys backed off when bags began lifting and arranging themselves, but then one of the guys clapped his hands softly and said, “Okay, guys, let's get the rest of it,” and they made another trip to and from the building with luggage.

  My passengers finally came through the doors; a man who was obviously in a rotten mood and a woman who carried a baby in a shoulder sling. The various noises outside the building woke the kid up and it started to squall piercingly.