TINKER BLOMP sighed long and softly.
It felt like a hard day's work had been completed and now was the time to sit back in the comfy chair and relax.
Yet he knew matters were not quite all resolved in this part of the world. There was that thing at the old abandoned fireworks factory which was worth a cursory look. Spreading good news could have its drawbacks when the recipients of such were not yet ready to receive certain messages in the way they were intended.
Thus the Tinker who loved a bit of juggling decided a more officious role was in order. He thumped the ground with his staff and shook himself all over.
There. All done.
His appearance had not changed at all. Still he looked a rather plump shambling figure in a dark shapeless robe with deep and curiously filled pockets. Upon his head was a pointed hat with a slight dent in it, caused many, many years ago by a cucumber. Every effort to get rid of that dent failed and he realised there was a significance there. Thus to offset the shabby he added some chic with a little bit of gilding on the rim of his hat.
None of this mattered to the people bustling around him as he sauntered up the shallow steps to a less populated area of Cherryball Flats known affectionately as the Death Zone.
It was here could be found some of the more hazardous industries that greased the wheels of Frangean industry. Toxic waste management was an expanding business here, a spreading concern to some and an oozing worry to everyone else.
Here too Shimmer Blane plied his trade in sudden expansions of his own making by means of explosive mixtures that were meant to bring fun with colour and glitter and sparkly displays. Sadly fireworks had the habit of falling into wrong hands and evolved into weapons of urban warfare. Still, it made a useful contribution to population control and slum clearance. If only it wasn't so noisy.
A sharp rap on a reinforced partition might thus go unregarded, unless it was a Tinker who had come to call.
'Who is it?' and the door opened in a shack surrounded by a concrete wall. It had the air of a bunker about it. The man who stood there blinked at the curious-looking visitor a moment and thought he looked a bit officious so he straightened his back. 'Can I help you madam?' he offered.
Tinker Blomp cleared his throat and deepened his voice a few tones while stroking his beard meaningfully.
'Shimmer Blane?'
'Yes, uh sir?'
'I understand your licence to create massive unexpected and uncontrolled explosions had been revoked some years ago.'
'Sorry?'
'Been reports of blasts coming from your old fireworks testing ground.'
'That was ages ago, uh sir,' the man said. He scratched at his straggly hair. Parts of his scalp were scarred and no hair grew there so any attempts at combing it into neatness would be hit and miss, so he had relinquished that particular activity a while back.
'Last spring, if the reports, and they were quite loud reports, are correct.' Blomp ramped up the sense of officiousness to a higher level. It was great fun juggling with people this way as many were quite willing to confess to all sorts of things when in the presence of what appeared to be duly delegated authority.
'Oh, you mean them lads setting off rockets for fun like. I just rented them the place for a bit. Didn't see no money though, just ower notes.'
'Ah, may I see them.' Then Blomp coughed. 'I think I should see them,' for Shimmer Blane looked as if he wanted to demur on a request. A command however did the trick and in moments Tinker Blomp was in possession of names written with a curious flourish.
'Thank you for your time. We may be in touch in due course,' he said by way of farewell.
'Who did you say you represented?' Shimmer felt obliged to ask.
'The future,' Blomp said casually and waddled off in high delight at his discoveries.