The man finished drawing the final line, then removed and set aside his pencil and cautiously lifted the ruler away from the paper.  He sat back and looked at the drawing one more time, studying it in its entirety.
        Based as it was on an earlier design, the object kept the same clean lines as its predecessor and even improved upon them a bit, making the overall effect almost a work of art.  Use of lightweight materials and a new manufacturing process guaranteed that he could shave a pound, perhaps two, away from the previous design’s weight.
        The man, an otter with a thin streak of gray in his headfur, stood up from his chair and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette.  After lighting up he smoked while studying his work in silence, recalling the time when his parents had taken him to Prague as a boy to view an art museum.
        As pretty as the paintings and statuary were in his memory, they didn’t compare to the work of his own paws tonight. 
        After a few moments he stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then gathered up the scattered papers that carried his design and placed them in a portfolio.  The portfolio then went under a stack of sketches of beautifully-streamlined curves.  Setting the pile aside, he collected his hat and coat and stepped out of his tiny office, switching the light off before closing and locking the door.
        Walking down the hallway he paused and stepped gingerly over a wet patch of freshly-mopped floor, then nodded politely to the cleaning woman.  “Hello, Mrs. Rosen,” he said affably.  “Working late tonight?”       
        The woman, an otter like himself but somewhat younger, paused in wringing out her mop.  “Oh no, Mr. Mastny.  I’m early tonight – you’re the one who’s been up late.  It’s almost ten o’clock.”
        “Is it?”  A quick look at his watch.  “Good Lord, you’re right, Mrs. Rosen!  Good night,” and he hurried off to the exit of the sprawling industrial complex.
        The otteress watched him go, shaking her head.  He was talented, supposedly, but so very absent-minded she was amazed he remembered to breathe at times when he was working on a project.
        What had him so absorbed now? she wondered idly.


        The feline finished reading the last clause of the trade contract, then picked up his pen and signed the document with a flourish.  “Good Canadian beef,” he said, smiling at the fur across the table from him.
        “Good Rain Island dollars,” the stocky hare reminded him, and the two chuckled.  Witnesses appended their signatures and another trade agreement was finalized between Canada and their small neighbor to the west.  “Thank you, Mr. Sanders.  You’re a hard bargainer.”
        “So are you, Mr. Tucci,” the chairman of the board of one of central Canada’s largest meat packers said.  “Times are a little tough at the moment, and this deal will certainly make our shareholders happy.”
        “I’m glad of that, sir,” Enzo Tucci said.  “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”  The two shook paws and the hare left the building with his copy of the contract.  The deal would have to receive final approval from the company’s board, but that was practically a sure thing.  The company needed the money.
        Tucci was Rain Island’s trade representative in this part of the world, an area of responsibility that included Windsor and parts of Ontario as well as Detroit and Chicago.  He considered himself fortunate that he had a good expense account, drawn on the Embassy in Ottawa, or traveling back and forth across the border would be a bit of a strain.
        He stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up at the pale blue sky, then breathed deeply.  He always felt better after closing a deal, especially one so advantageous.  Lunch at a local diner, he thought, then he’d go across the river and check with the Consul in Detroit.


        “What the hell?” Tucci asked himself a few hours later as he reread the telegram:
 

        The Detroit consulate included a small code station, and the Consul, a coyote, sat and puffed at a cigar as the hare asked, “And Broome sent this to me?”
        “Yeah.  Odd, that.”  Broome rarely sent messages directly, content to shelter under the Trade Syndicate’s authority.  It made deniability a lot easier if an effort to obtain something failed.  The message had been sent to every embassy Rain Island had, addressed to all of the trade representatives.  Tucci looked at the telegram again and started to tease the meaning out of the message.
        It didn’t matter at first who ‘dear Jerry’ was; what was important in the first line was the fact that something was needed.  The second line was an actual order that the search should be as fast as possible.  The third line seemed contradictory, but was actually a warning to take all the care necessary rather than act rashly and maybe risk blowing his cover. 
        The fourth line hinted that he wanted something industrial, but not a usual item.  The thing he was looking for would be indicated in the first line. 
        Why the hell Broome has to make everything a riddle is beyond me, Tucci thought.  “Well,” he said as he dug out a box of matches, “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”  He struck a match, touched it to a corner of the message, and dropped it into an ashtray as it began to burn. 

        An afternoon of paperwork and a good dinner later and Tucci was still puzzling over the telegram.  He shook his head irritably and set aside a sheaf of paper concerning the ongoing negotiations with Ford.
        They were going nowhere anyway, based on old Henry’s adamant refusal to have anything to do with Rain Island after the appearance of the first ‘Fjord’ truck in Seathl.  The vehicle was an obvious copy, and Ford had sued in Federal court.  The case was still bound up in litigation more than ten years later, which did nothing to sweeten the old canine’s attitude.  Tucci picked up the latest news wires from home.
        Popov Wire Services (“All the News, Just for You”) was based in Port Vancouver and was a good rival to Reuters as a clearing house for news.  The latest major stories were always cabled to the embassies in order to keep the staff up to date.  He skimmed through the stories, humming to himself.
        His humming stopped at a report concerning the aftermath of the Military Collective’s spring maneuvers. 
        The article referred to the Army Syndic, General Jerry Colding.
        Dear Jerry . . .
        The last piece of the riddle clicked into place, or so Tucci hoped.  An industrial item was needed for the Army; speed was indicated, but also caution.
        Okay.  What sort of item?  The hare knew that his country was replacing its old grab-bag of artillery with new pieces designed by the Swedish firm Bofors, and the new Skoda tanks . . .  The Navy was building its own ships and submarines . . .
        Of course, such things were pretty much common knowledge.  Knowing that secrecy is toxic to democracy, the Governing Syndicate made sure that the people knew almost everything that was going on.
        Almost everything.  There was still a need to be cautious, or the Anarchcracy would be like a lost lamb in the middle of a den of wolves.  Tucci shuddered, put that image out of his mind, and started thinking.
        What would the Army need?
        Well, guns, of course.
        He sat up.  That was what Broome was looking for, a new gun design for the Army.
        The hare grinned in self-satisfaction at having solved the riddle and went back to work.  He’d keep an eye out, of course, but in the meantime there were other matters that demanded his time.


        They say that curiosity is the natural bane of felines, but any fur can fall prey to the siren song of the unknown.  A few days after their chance encounter, Mabel Rosen’s curiosity got the better of her.
        It helped her that, like virtually all cleaning ladies everywhere, she had a passkey.
        After Mr. Mastny had left for the evening she let herself into his office and switched on the lights.  She emptied his wastepaper baskets and swept and mopped the floor, then started looking around at what might possibly be keeping the otter at work after most furs had gone home.
        Sketches littered his desk and she studied a few of them.  Car fenders, mainly; beautiful shapes composed of sleek and flowing lines that mimicked waves.  She smiled, thinking that the new models would sweep the competition, and looked a little further down in the pile of drawings.
        A pasteboard portfolio was at the bottom of the stack and she opened it.
        What’s this? she wondered.  It was no car fender, that was for sure.  It looked like a series of tubes and bits of angle iron, all meticulously drawn to scale and labeled. 
        The final sketch in the portfolio showed all of the parts in relation to each other, and the otteress frowned.
        Mr. Mastny seemed like such a nice man.
        Why would he be drawing what looked like a gun?
        She put the drawings back in their portfolio and put it back where she’d found it.  After tidying up a bit more she left the office and continued cleaning. 
        Maybe he was part of the Purple Gang, and that thought chilled her a little.

        After two days she simply had to talk to someone about what she’d found out.  Either she got it off her chest or she’d just explode.
        But who to talk to about it?
        Definitely not someone at the plant.  That would be a sure way to get Mr. Mastny in trouble or fired, and he was such a nice fur.
        She hoped. 
        As she got up that evening to start her shift she came to a decision.  After her husband had died in a streetcar accident two years ago, she’d started seeing a very nice man off and on, and the thought of her caller brought a brief warm flush of blood to her cheeks.
        Their relationship had been very discreet, because while love might be blind, the neighbors surely weren’t. 
        She’d leave an agreed-upon signal and when he came around she’d talk to him.  He was smart and might know what to do.
        Mrs. Rosen suspected that the hare might be a union organizer or something, but she’d voted for Moosevelt (God rest his soul) back in ’32 – she tended not to bother her head about such things.
       

        “What do you mean, you don’t carry the Clarion?” Tucci asked the vendor.  The hare pointed at the sign on the window.  “Says so right there: ‘Metropolitan Newspapers.  "Try us for any newspaper or magazine published.’ ”  Says so in your ads.  And you mean to stand there and say you don’t carry Rain Island’s biggest paper?”
        The vendor, a thickset mastiff, growled around the stogie in his teeth, “Look, Mac, we don’t carry Pravda either, so either buy something or get the hell out.  I’ve got payin’ customers waiting.”  The canine pointed at a pair of young boys poring over the latest edition of Rocket Rat and bawled, “Hey!  Stop reading those comics if you ain’t gonna pay for them!  This ain’t the Library, you know!”
        Tucci bit back a retort (something having to do with the canine’s mother) and bought a copy of the Free Press, then jammed the paper under one arm and walked out of the shop.  He leaned against a streetlamp and opened the paper, scanning the headlines.
        The biggest story on the front page was President Long’s efforts to get the Revenue Reapportionment Act (which some people were calling the Rampant Reds Act) through the Congress.  The legislative equivalent of the Share Our Wealth campaign promise was definitely going to sting the wealthy furs in America, but the hare doubted it would pass. 
        Another story dealt with the local baseball team’s preparations for the start of the season.  Tucci read this story avidly, having played the sport when he was a boy.  He folded the paper up and started walking, still glancing at the story from time to time as he walked down the sidewalk in front of a line of apartment buildings.
        Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he glanced up, stepping aside rapidly to avoid colliding with two elderly men.  He nodded pleasantly to them as they passed, and looked up again.
        A certain apartment window had the blind raised.
        And he knew the apartment’s occupant worked nights and slept during the morning.  She’d usually keep the blinds drawn, especially as her windows faced the morning sun.
        His ears twitched and a smile came unbidden to his muzzle.


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