and while we’re at it, here’s my number at the motel. And, Hoss, let’s make that
three
tanks, the same size as the one you filled up for me yesterday. Yeah. Try and get ’em out here by six A.M . tomorrow. And start rounding out a Pullen pipeline connection between our Nacogdoches tank farm and Monterey.”
“Monterey, California, or Monterrey, Mexico?”
“California. Monterey’s handy and it’s out of the way. We’ll need someplace real quiet for the next stage I’m planning. There’s way too many professional snoops watching everybody’s business here in Silicon Valley, drivin’ around scanning cellular phones and stuff—you’re receiving this call as encrypted, aren’t you, Hoss?”
“Sure thing, boss. Got my Clipper Chip set to maximum scramble.”
“Good, good, just making sure. I’m trying to be cautious, Hoss, just like Uncle Donny Ray.”
Hoss gave a snort of laughter on the other end of the line, and Revel continued. “Anyhoo, we need someplacekind of out of the way, but still convenient. Someplace with some spare capacity, but a little run-down, so’s we can rent lots of square footage on the cheap and the city fathers don’t ask too many prying questions.… Ask Lucy to sniff around and find me a place like that in Monterey.”
“There’s already hundreds of towns like that in Texas!”
“Yeah, but I want to do this out here. This deal is a software kind o’ thing, so it’s gotta be California.”
Revel woke around seven A.M ., stirred by the roar of the morning rush-hour traffic. He got his breakfast at a California coffee shop that called itself “Southern Kitchen,” yet served orange-rind muffins and sliced kiwi-fruits with the eggs. Over breakfast he called Texas, and learned that his assistant, Lucy, had found an abandoned tank farm near a defunct polluted military base just north of Monterey. The tank-farm belonged to Felix Quinonez, who had been the base’s fuel supplier. The property, on Quinonez’s private land, included a large garage. The set-up sounded about perfect.
“Lease it, Lucy,” said Revel, slurping his coffee. “And fax Quinonez two copies of the contract so’s me and him can sign off down at his property today. I’ll get this Tug Mesoglea fella to drive me down there. Let’s say two o’clock this afternoon? Lock it in. Now has Hoss found a pipeline connection? He has? Straight to Quinonez’s tanks? Bless you, honey. Oh, and one more thing? Draw up incorporation papers for a company called Ctenophore, Inc., register the company, and get the name trade-marked. C-T-E-N-O-P-H-O-R-E. What it means? It’s a kind of morphodite jellyfish. Swear to God. I learned it from Tug Mesoglea. If you should put Mesoglea’s name on my incorporation papers? Are you teasin’ me, Lucy? Are you tryin’ to make ol’ Revel mad? Now book me and Mesoglea a suite in a Monterey hotel, and fax the incorporationpapers to me there. Thanks, darlin’. Talk to ya later.”
The rapid-fire wheeling and dealing filled Revel with joy. Expansively swinging his arms, he strolled up the hill to Tug’s house, which was only a few blocks off. The air was clear and cool, and the sun was a low bright disk in the immaculate blue sky. Birds fluttered this way and that—sparrows, grackles, robins, humming-birds, and the startlingly large California bluejays. A dog barked in the distance as the exotic leaves and flowers swayed in the gentle morning breeze.
As he drew closer to Tug’s house, Revel could hear the steady screeching of the Samoans’ parrot. And when he turned the corner of Tug’s block, Revel saw something very odd. It was like there was a ripple in the space over Tug’s house, an undulating bluish glinting of curved air.
Wheeling about in the midst of the glinting was the furious Toatoa. A school of small airborne bell jellies were circling around and around over Tug’s house, now fleeing from and now pursuing the parrot, who was endeavoring, with no success, to
three
tanks, the same size as the one you filled up for me yesterday. Yeah. Try and get ’em out here by six A.M . tomorrow. And start rounding out a Pullen pipeline connection between our Nacogdoches tank farm and Monterey.”
“Monterey, California, or Monterrey, Mexico?”
“California. Monterey’s handy and it’s out of the way. We’ll need someplace real quiet for the next stage I’m planning. There’s way too many professional snoops watching everybody’s business here in Silicon Valley, drivin’ around scanning cellular phones and stuff—you’re receiving this call as encrypted, aren’t you, Hoss?”
“Sure thing, boss. Got my Clipper Chip set to maximum scramble.”
“Good, good, just making sure. I’m trying to be cautious, Hoss, just like Uncle Donny Ray.”
Hoss gave a snort of laughter on the other end of the line, and Revel continued. “Anyhoo, we need someplacekind of out of the way, but still convenient. Someplace with some spare capacity, but a little run-down, so’s we can rent lots of square footage on the cheap and the city fathers don’t ask too many prying questions.… Ask Lucy to sniff around and find me a place like that in Monterey.”
“There’s already hundreds of towns like that in Texas!”
“Yeah, but I want to do this out here. This deal is a software kind o’ thing, so it’s gotta be California.”
Revel woke around seven A.M ., stirred by the roar of the morning rush-hour traffic. He got his breakfast at a California coffee shop that called itself “Southern Kitchen,” yet served orange-rind muffins and sliced kiwi-fruits with the eggs. Over breakfast he called Texas, and learned that his assistant, Lucy, had found an abandoned tank farm near a defunct polluted military base just north of Monterey. The tank-farm belonged to Felix Quinonez, who had been the base’s fuel supplier. The property, on Quinonez’s private land, included a large garage. The set-up sounded about perfect.
“Lease it, Lucy,” said Revel, slurping his coffee. “And fax Quinonez two copies of the contract so’s me and him can sign off down at his property today. I’ll get this Tug Mesoglea fella to drive me down there. Let’s say two o’clock this afternoon? Lock it in. Now has Hoss found a pipeline connection? He has? Straight to Quinonez’s tanks? Bless you, honey. Oh, and one more thing? Draw up incorporation papers for a company called Ctenophore, Inc., register the company, and get the name trade-marked. C-T-E-N-O-P-H-O-R-E. What it means? It’s a kind of morphodite jellyfish. Swear to God. I learned it from Tug Mesoglea. If you should put Mesoglea’s name on my incorporation papers? Are you teasin’ me, Lucy? Are you tryin’ to make ol’ Revel mad? Now book me and Mesoglea a suite in a Monterey hotel, and fax the incorporationpapers to me there. Thanks, darlin’. Talk to ya later.”
The rapid-fire wheeling and dealing filled Revel with joy. Expansively swinging his arms, he strolled up the hill to Tug’s house, which was only a few blocks off. The air was clear and cool, and the sun was a low bright disk in the immaculate blue sky. Birds fluttered this way and that—sparrows, grackles, robins, humming-birds, and the startlingly large California bluejays. A dog barked in the distance as the exotic leaves and flowers swayed in the gentle morning breeze.
As he drew closer to Tug’s house, Revel could hear the steady screeching of the Samoans’ parrot. And when he turned the corner of Tug’s block, Revel saw something very odd. It was like there was a ripple in the space over Tug’s house, an undulating bluish glinting of curved air.
Wheeling about in the midst of the glinting was the furious Toatoa. A school of small airborne bell jellies were circling around and around over Tug’s house, now fleeing from and now pursuing the parrot, who was endeavoring, with no success, to
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