Page 136 - Just Deserts

Telepax

metropolis several hundred miles to the south, had driven to the test
site with one companion, a trusted captain in the civil insurrection
flying squad. It was a Saturday, and Drubble disliked doing business
on the weekend, but the opportunity was too great to pass up.
“Are we on track? I don’t see any signs of life, M.T.” The chief
peered through the bug-spattered windshield of his unmarked private
car—a bright pink Lincoln Continental with bullet-proof glass and
heavy steel paneling, confiscated from a teen-age drug lord earlier in
the year.
His companion, Merle Thudgeport Ness, referred to the map he
had taped to the dashboard. “Yep: just keep on down this road,
Chief; another mile or so and we’ll reach this spot marked with an X.
And we’re right on time, no need to rush.”
Drubble grunted, but kept the car plowing ahead through the ruts
and potholes unmistakably indicating the absence of continued
government funding. His leathery face was unreadable, but Ness
could sense the excitement in the other man’s tight grip on the
steering wheel and his slightly more than prudent speed, given the
road conditions. Pitching and rolling over a small hummock of land,
they abruptly reached their destination, a long low shed against which
a small number of automobiles and vans had already parked. Their
occupants had evidently gone inside to escape the sun.
The chief pulled up next to the other cars in a screech of brakes
and a spray of sand, a very satisfying end to an unpleasant journey.
He gestured to Ness: “Let’s go. This might be very interesting.”
Both men were in mufti, per instructions. The chief’s taste ran to
string ties and elaborately-tooled cowboy boots; his subordinate
sported a fluorescent Hawaiian shirt beneath his white polyester
leisure suit. Neither man was prepared for the desert heat that hit
them when they emerged from their vehicle.
“Whoo-ee!” whistled Ness. “It’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol out
here.”
A man in shorts and a safari shirt emerged from the shed and
greeted them. He was young and beefy, with a salesman’s smile and
practiced handshake.
“Good afternoon, Chief Drubble. And you are Captain Ness, I
believe? Pleased to meet you. I’m Marshall Skinner, marketing
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