Part 2 (2/2)
”We'll have to look at it again. But I can tell you, kids don't want that kind of stuff anymore. They want monsters, s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps, stuff that'll make 'em wet the bed. You remember? You were a kid once yourself!”
Jetboy picked up a pencil from the desk. ”I was thirteen when the war started, fifteen when they bombed Pearl Harbor. I've been in combat for six years. Sometimes I don't think I was ever a kid.”
Lowboy was quiet a moment.
”Tell you what you need to do,” he said. ”You need to write up all the stuff you don't like about the book and send it to us. I'll have the legal department go over it, and we'll try to do something, work things out. Of course, we print three issues ahead, so it'll be Thanks-giving before the new stuff shows up. Or later.”
Jetboy sighed. ”I understand.”
”I sure do want you happy, 'cause Jetboy's Jetboy's my favorite comic. No, I really mean that. The others are just a job. My G.o.d, what a job: deadlines, working with drunks and worse, riding herd over printers-you can just imagine! But I like the work on my favorite comic. No, I really mean that. The others are just a job. My G.o.d, what a job: deadlines, working with drunks and worse, riding herd over printers-you can just imagine! But I like the work on Jetboy Jetboy. It's special.”
”Well, I'm glad.”
”Sure, sure.” Lowboy drummed his fingers on the desk. ”Wonder what's taking them so long?”
”Probably getting out the other set of ledgers,” said Jetboy.
”Hey, no! We're square here!” Lowboy came to his feet.
”Just kidding.”
”Oh. Say, the paper said you were, what, marooned on a desert island or something? Pretty tough?”
”Well, lonely. I got tired of catching and eating fish. Mostly it was boring, and I missed everything. I don't mean missed, I mean missed out. I was there from April twenty-ninth of '45 until last month.
”There were times when I thought I'd go nuts. I couldn't believe it one morning when I looked up, and there was the U.S.S. Reluctant Reluctant anch.o.r.ed less than a mile offsh.o.r.e. I fired off a flare, and they picked me up. It's taken a month to get someplace to repair the plane, rest up, get home. I'm glad to be back.” anch.o.r.ed less than a mile offsh.o.r.e. I fired off a flare, and they picked me up. It's taken a month to get someplace to repair the plane, rest up, get home. I'm glad to be back.”
”I can imagine. Hey, lots of dangerous animals on the island? I mean, lions and tigers and stuff?”
Jetboy laughed. ”It was less than a mile wide, and a mile and a quarter long. There were birds and rats and some lizards.”
”Lizards? Big lizards? Poisonous?”
”No. Small. I must have eaten half of them before I left. Got pretty good with a slingshot made out of an oxygen hose.”
”Huh! I bet you did!”
The door opened, and a tall guy with an ink-smudged s.h.i.+rt came in.
”That him?” asked Lowboy.
”I only seen him once, but it looks like him,” said the man.
”Good enough for me!” said Lowboy.
”Not for me,” said the accountant. ”Show me some ID and sign this release.”
Jetboy sighed and did. He looked at the amount on the check. It had far too few digits in front of the decimal. He folded it up and put it in his pocket.
”I'll leave my address for the next check with your secretary. And I'll send a letter with the objections this week.”
”Do that. It's been a real pleasure meeting you. Let's hope we have a long and prosperous business together.”
”Thanks, I guess,” said Jetboy. He and the accountant left.
Lowboy sat back down in his swivel chair. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the bookcase across the room.
Then he rocketed forward, jerked up the phone, and dialed nine to get out. He called up the chief writer for Jetboy Comics Jetboy Comics.
A muzzy, hung-over voice answered on the twelfth ring.
”Clean the s.h.i.+t out of your head, this is Lowboy. Picture this: fifty-two-page special, single-story issue. Ready? Jetboy on Dinosaur Island Jetboy on Dinosaur Island! Got that? I see lots of cavemen, a broad, a what-you-call-it-king rex. What? Yeah, yeah, a tyrannosaur. Maybe a buncha holdout j.a.p soldiers. You know. Yeah, maybe even samurai. When? Blown off course in A.D. A.D. 1100? Christ. Whatever. You know exactly what we need. 1100? Christ. Whatever. You know exactly what we need.
”What's this? Tuesday. You got till five P.M. Thursday, okay? Quit b.i.t.c.hin'. It's a hundred and a half fast bucks! See you then.”
He hung up. Then he called up an artist and told him what he wanted for the cover.
Ed and Fred were coming back from a delivery in the Pine Barrens.
They were driving an eight-yard dump truck. In the back until a few minutes ago had been six cubic yards of new-set concrete. Eight hours before, it had been five and a half yards of water, sand, gravel, and cement-and a secret ingredient.
The secret ingredient had broken three of the Five Unbreakable Rules for carrying on a tax-free, unincorporated business in the state.
He had been taken by other businessmen to a wholesale construction equipment center, and been shown how a cement mixer works, up close and personal.
Not that Ed and Fred had anything to do with that. They'd been called an hour ago and been asked if they could drive a dump truck through the woods for a couple of grand.
It was dark out in the woods, not too many miles from the city. It didn't look like they were within a hundred miles of a town over five-hundred population.
The headlights picked out ditches where everything from old airplanes to sulfuric-acid bottles lay in clogged heaps. Some of the dumpings were fresh. Smoke and fire played about a few. Others glowed without combustion. A pool of metal bubbled and popped as they ground by.
Then they were back into the deep pines again, jouncing from rut to rut.
”Hey!” yelled Ed. ”Stop!”
Fred threw on the brakes, killing the engine. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n!” he said. ”What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?”
”Back there! I swear I saw a guy pus.h.i.+ng a neon cat's-eye marble the size of Cleveland!”
”I'm sure as h.e.l.l not going back,” said Fred.
”Nah! Come on! You don't see stuff like that every day.”
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