TEASEL MARCHMONT was a young man full of ideas. With the coming of spring that fateful year which was soon to herald a doomladen future for all, there was at that time for him nothing but optimism in the air.
So much optimism that Teasel decided to make full use of it.
'You want me to do what?' a young man asked on hearing the words of the ambitious promoter by way of introduction.
He had been sitting on a bench minding his own business, which consisted chiefly of making strange markings on the wooden slats with a chisel. The imaginative entrepreneur, noticing the scarf that identified him as belonging to an engineering academy which specialised in ballistics, had introduced himself as someone with an idea.
'Arrange a mail shot,' the man repeated succinctly. 'This is your lucky day. I am opportunity in shoes.'
Stane Mallix, attendee at the Academy of Circling the Square, third year of seven, looked down at the other's shoes which appeared scuffed but otherwise unremarkable. Then he glanced around him with exaggerated care.
Teasel followed his glances with puzzlement.
'Looking for someone?' he asked, suddenly nervous.
'Only for where I parked my post van.'
'Ah, ha ha, I see,' came a strained musical laugh. 'A joke. Engineering student with a sense of humour.' He mopped his brow, checked there were no uniformed park wardens within hailing distance and then leaned closer with a conspiratorial leer.
'This,' he whispered so loudly it was almost at normal voice level, 'is no ordinary delivery round. This will be an out of this world, Frangea-wide scatter blast.'
'Missiles?' In spite of his surprise, there was a telltale edge of interest in the student's voice and Teasel congratulated himself for the umpteenth time on his selling prowess. The boy had bought it.
'Without warheads,' he said reassuringly. 'No good blowing prospective clients skyhigh. What I intend they will receive is a message of a lifetime, right on their doorstep, through their window or roof and even perhaps into their swimming pool. Should make a big splash that one.'
'Ah, so you want me to design, in my spare time, between lectures, at my mum's house and at every opportunity when I am not doing anything else like living the life of a popular teenage boy out socialising with a girlfriend or my mates and larking about in a park on a nice sunny spring day, a series of ballistic modules designed to hit various parts of Frangea by next Ease Off Day?'
'Absolutely. No more defacing park benches for you my lad. Do you actually have a girlfriend?'
'Of course not. I'm a bloody engineering student,' Stane Mallix replied. He fidgeted with his chisel a moment and then looked Teasel in the eye. 'What are the parameters?' he huffed.
The man beamed at him.
'This map here shows where I want the deliveries to be made,' and he flourished a square of paper from a folder he carried and upon which all the districts of Frangea could be seen. Of course half the area was just a blank for the Big Blue Sea dominated the territory, pushing the land off to the east and scrunching it up into highlands dominated by Mount Syzywyg.
'And the starting point?'
'All in hand already. I can hire Shimmer Blane's testing yard for several days as required. He's on my sponsor list so it'll cost next to nothing.'
'Shimmer Blane? That's the fireworks guy isn't it? I remember reading about when he destroyed a warehouse full of granite blocks during a period of sudden expansion. The dust cloud created some great sunsets for a few years.'
'Well, that's before my time. Besides, being cross-eyed never hurt anyone,' Teasel dismissed the doubts of the ballistics student.
Stane Mallix pocketed his chisel and sat back upon the bench to ponder an addition to his course thesis which might contain actual practical applications instead of very dry old theory. It was an attractive thought.
'I'll do it,' he said. 'On one condition.'
'Name it.'
'Shimmer Blaine must be off the premises during testing.'
