My opinion of the legal profession seldom soars above ankle height. I believe that most troubles would settle out faster without lawyers stirring the pot. So it irks me to have to admit that Lister Tate and Congo Greve really did turn out to be useful.
Tate was a good idea man. Greve seemed to know everybody who was anybody. Well, he did know the legal beagles that everyone who was anyone paid to put words in their mouths. And he knew how to work them when they were just hanging around.
Tate told the rest of us, “We’ll create a demand for three-wheels by having them seen underneath the most important people.”
I didn’t get it. I protested, “You’re talking about giving them away! You don’t make money giving things away.”
“You have to consider promotion as a part of the investment process, Mr. Garrett. It’s an investment in public exposure paralleling our investments in tools and materials. We’ll only comp ten units, total. And those will be prototype and pilot units we put together while we’re figuring out the most efficient way to build the three-wheels.”
Congo Greve said, “I’ve placed all ten already, too. Two with the royal household! One with the Metropolitan. Thousands of the best people will see that old goof and his two acres of beard pedaling around the Dream Quarter. Every Orthodox heretic in town will want one to ride to church. Plus I got one placed in Westenrache House, with the imperial family. How about that? Just those four units should give us exposure enough to generate thousands of orders.”
I never got a protest in because I couldn’t get my jaw moving. Greve knew people inside Westenrache House? The remnants of the imperial family, with hangers-on, had been forted up, or under household arrest, there, for centuries. Ever since the ineptitude of generations of ancestors let the empire crumble into kingdoms and principalities and tiny quasi states, each of which paid lip service to the imperial crown while ignoring its wishes completely.
The sole function of the empire these days, insofar as Karenta is concerned, is to furnish somebody who can crown the king whenever a new monarch ascends Karenta’s throne. Which occurs with some frequency, though we haven’t had a coronation recently. Our present monarch is particularly adept at sidestepping assassins. With Deal Relway covering his back he’ll probably live forever.
I croaked, “I think I understand.” If the King’s daughters happened to be seen larking around on our three-wheels, every young woman of substance would demand she be provided one of her own. And the herd instincts of their fathers would ensure that the girls remained indistinguishable from the princesses.
“Good, Mr. Garrett,” Mr. Greve said. “Once we establish a list, and the social primacy of our product to the exclusion of all imitators, we’ll have written ourselves a letter of marque allowing us to plunder the aristocracy.”
I gave brother Greve the fish-eye. That sounded a whole lot like the true lawyer coming through.
Greve sighed, explained, “We must ensure that our three-wheel is the only three-wheel the elite find acceptable once the fad gets started. Imitations are certain to appear as soon as someone capable of building them lays hands on one he can tear apart. We have to make sure that anybody who actually buys a competing three-wheel is considered a second-rater. Or worse.” His expression suggested that he had begun to rank me with the dimmer of the dimwit Tate cousins.
Lister said, “It’s possible that I can work my royal household connections to wangle a decree of patent.”
If the Crown so ordered, nobody would be allowed to build three-wheels but us. Until somebody able to offer a big enough bribe got the King to change his mind. Or got the people who made up the King’s mind for him to do so. Likely, the King himself would never know about the decree of patent.
“I’m glad you guys are on our side.” I thought I could see how Weider beers had become the choice of beer drinkers, now. Snob appeal, backed by suggestions that any tavern brewing its own beverages on premises was an outdated second-stringer, its product likely fit only for the meanest classes.
Which is true. In many cases. The uniformity and consistent quality of Weider brews exceeds anything produced by corner taverns. And I can claim a certain expertise in judging the quality of beers.
Greve continued to pontificate. “Obviously, our ability to produce three-wheels will be limited. Demand will exceed supply for as long as the fad runs. We want to sustain and exploit that situation. First, we’ll set a publicly announced fixed unit price—exorbitant, of course—then we’ll place our buyers’ names on a list. Then Lister and I, being cheesy lawyers, will let those who want to do so bribe us to move their names up the list.”
“Excellent thinking!” Lister Tate declared. He actually rubbed his hands together in washing motions and chuckled wickedly till he realized some of us were staring. He grinned, told us, “Sorry I don’t have mustache ends to twirl. Here. Let’s do this while we’re at it. Publish the list by posting it outside the compound entrance. Update it daily. So the buyers will know where they stand. In case they feel an urgent need to move on up.”
“Oh, yes! Excellent idea! Here’s another idea. We’ll put serial numbers on the three-wheels. The lower the serial number, the more exalted the status of the three-wheel.”
I said, “I can see people falsifying serial numbers. . . . ” Oh.
Both men gave me looks that said they wondered how a grown man could be so naive and still be here among the living.
More than one three-wheel would go out the door with the same low serial number.
Pure, raging, unbridled capitalism. Now, if they could just find ways to steal our raw materials, evade taxation, and not pay our workers their wages, our profit margin might begin to approach what those guys would consider minimally acceptable.
I was becoming increasingly certain that the best thing I could do for the company I had invented would be to stay away. I should just let them haul my share of the profits over to the house aboard a beer wagon.
My mind just wouldn’t fall into a businesslike groove.
If I was building a business I’d do it as if everybody involved was a partner. Kind of the way I had things already.
Enough of that.
I saw Kip’s family whenever I visited the Tate compound. Kayne was bored. Prosperity was all right with her but she wanted something to do. She was used to working, long and hard. I told her, “There’s plenty of work around here. I’ll pass the word. Cassie? Rhafi? How about you guys?”
Cassie was extremely adept at doing nothing useful and planned to keep right on doing what she did best. Rhafi was content to polish his loafing and consuming skills as well.
“So be it.”
I was in the Tate compound when the workers completed our first presentation three-wheel, half of the pair of gaily painted monsters meant for the King’s daughters. We drew lots to see who would pedal it away. I didn’t win.