Navin Field was already a hive of activity as furs streamed in.  Mastny joined the ticket line and Tucci maneuvered to keep up with him, reaching him in time to hear him tell the ticket seller, “One grandstand seat, please,” and place a dollar bill and a dime on the counter.
        “Here ya go,” and the paper ticket was given to the otter.
        Tucci paid for the same type of seating and made his way inside, taking a seat a few rows behind Mastny but still giving him a good view of the field as the Tigers took the field to warm up.
        Nine innings, two hot dogs, one small bag of peanuts and three bottles of soda later Tucci watched contentedly as the Tigers claimed victory over the Indians four to three.  He had watched the game while keeping an eye on his subject but Mastny had been wholly concentrated on the game.  No one spoke to him or approached him, so his desire to watch the game was not a cover.
        The hare’s ears dipped.
        Maybe he could use a mutual experience as a lever.  Getting a glimpse of those blueprints would definitely be worth it.


        A week later Broome’s secretary looked up as the fox walked in, carrying an armload of mail.  “Hi, Richard!  Here, let me help you with that,” and she helped him get the assorted letters and packages safely onto her desk.  “Thank you for volunteering to get the mail today.”
        He smiled.  “It’ll be a regular thing from now on, Kathy.  Just helping out.”
        “Well, thanks anyway.”  The two of them sorted through the mail.  She held up a plain white envelope.  “This one’s for you, personally.”
        The fox frowned and looked at it.  The paw-writing was small, precise; the envelope bore Broome’s name and title, and two stamps showing that it had been approved by the Embassy for inclusion in the pouch from Spontoon.
        Gathering up the rest of his mail the vulpine went into his office, then picked up his letter opener and slit the envelope open.  He took the letter out and unfolded it, a bit surprised that the buck had chosen to write it on personalized stationery.
        Probably wanting to underline the fact that he wasn’t an actual member of the Service.
        Well, that suited Broome as far as it went.  As long as the man was willing to play, he could stay on the sidelines.  Now, to see what he had to offer . . .
        A few minutes later and the fox lowered the letter, impressed. 
        ‘Z’ had known Mastny, but only in a very indirect way.
        Jacob (or Jakob) Mastny had been a draftsfur at the Skoda works, the biggest arms manufacturer in central Europe, but when the Habsburgs had gone the way of the dinosaurs he had chosen to head across the Atlantic, ending up in New Haven.  There he’d fallen prey to a scam run by a con artist and a crooked officer in the New Haven State Police to fleece the agency.  Sure enough, the con worked and the artist left the country and his two patsies were left holding the bag.  The crooked cop got off on a technicality while Mastny, an obvious scapegoat, was imprisoned for five years.  After he was released he left New Haven (Don’t blame him, Broome thought) and was hired by Ford’s design bureau in 1926.  According to Tucci’s sources Mastny was a quiet, unassuming sort who kept to himself.  Smoking was apparently his only vice, which perplexed Broome.  A final assessment by the buck stated that Mastny might not be open to another business proposition.
        That made sense; once bitten, twice shy.
        Broome sat back, thinking.  His newest asset had revealed an encyclopedic memory as well as useful information.  The fox also marveled at the man’s restraint in not firing the entire State Police hierarchy when he’d made Chief just before the Revolt.  Cleaning house and starting over might have created an agency capable of handling the Red Fist.
        He sighed.  So much for might have beens.  If things had turned out differently with him and Phoebe...
        And if wishes were horses.
        Broome thought for a moment longer before taking out a piece of paper.  He started writing a note for Tucci to try sounding out Mastny regarding his design and what might tempt the otter to leave the warm embrace of Ford for Seathl.
       

        The day after the baseball game the waitress at the diner set the radio dial to Station WWJ, and the Red Network was starting to present the week’s episode of Your Hit Parade.  Tucci preferred the Mutual Network, but had to concede that the variety fare made for a good show.  He smiled as Mabel said, “I’d love to dance, but the other customers might not approve.”
        “Dance, huh?”  He winked at her and regarded the remains of the steak dinner on his plate.  He had decided to take her out for dinner, and the late hour suited both of them.
        They were going back to her apartment afterward anyway.
        “I’m so glad you were able to find nothing wrong with Mr. Mastny,” Mabel said, reaching across the table to hold his paw.  “Thank you again, Enzo, for helping.”
        He lifted her paw to his lips and kissed it.  “No problem, darling.  Like I said, he never knew I was there.”
        Both looked up as the waitress came up to the table.  “You two want some dessert?  We got fresh apple pie.”
        Tucci looked at Mabel, who nodded.  “Sure, we’ll take two pieces – and then the bill, please.”
        “Sure thing,” and with a wink at Mabel the waitress walked back to the counter.


        A few days later the hare scowled at the message he’d received from Seathl.  It was a simple enough message, but it posed a bit of a problem.
        Broome wanted him to make contact with Mastny and sound him out regarding the gun design he was working on.  He was ordered to offer whatever financial inducement he thought sensible if the otter would sell the design or try to persuade him to leave Ford and move to Rain Island.  Failing that, Tucci was ordered to acquire the blueprints and send them by diplomatic pouch.
        Why doesn’t he ask me for the Moon while he’s at it? Tucci asked himself.  Broome could be demanding at times, but this design was an opportunity definitely not to be missed.
        And he had planned on talking to the man anyway.
        Now, where?  At his apartment?  No; the plans weren’t there, and if Mastny was going to give them up Tucci wanted to have them in paw immediately before the otter changed his mind.
        Which brought up another problem – what if the otter refused to part with the plans and refused to come with him?  While having the plans themselves was desirable, so was having the mind that designed the weapon (and could conceivably design more or better).


        The apartment door opened after he knocked the second time, and the otter blinked at the sight of the hare.  “Who are you?” he asked in accented English.  He was dressed in a shirt open at the collar and his trousers, no shoes.
        The hare put on his friendliest smile.  “Mr. Jacob Mastny?”
        “Yes?”
        “My name is Enzo Tucci.  May I come in?  I wish to discuss something with you.”
        “What do you want to discuss?  Are you from the factory?”
        The hare smiled.  “No, sir.  I represent the government of Rain Island, and I wish to talk to you about your work with Skoda.”
        The otter’s eyes widened and a worried frown touched his features.  “Come in,” and he pulled the door open wider to admit his caller.  Closing the door behind the hare Mastny leaned against it and asked, “What is it you wish to know?”  His eyes narrowed.  “And how do you know it?”
        “Well, sir, we know that you worked for Skoda during the Great War.  How we know it – well, that’s a secret,” and Tucci smiled.  “I was asked by my government to follow you and find out if you might be interested in giving us the benefit of your expertise.”
        “Rain Island.  And why should I work for Communists?”
        The hare tried not to bristle at the old canard.  “We are not Communists, sir.  In fact, we are able – and willing – to pay you well for your labor on our behalf.  We’re a small country, and I think you’d like it there.”  He smiled.  “We even have baseball.”
        The otter’s ears perked and his eyes showed a gleam of interest.  “Really?”
        “It’s true.  While they may not be as good as the Tigers, they make up for it in heart.”  Tucci’s favorite team, the Ephrata Sea Eagles, had been in the cellar all season thus far (but he wasn’t going to mention that).
        “So, you offer me money,” Mastny said.  “I have been offered money before, by a man who then took the money and left me to spend five years in prison.  What do you say to that?”
        “I’m very sorry that you had a bad experience in New Haven, Mr. Mastny.  But I assure you that my offer is genuine – “
        “Bah.  I assure you, Mr. Tucci, that I am quite happy where I am.  And here is where I intend to stay.”  He opened the door and stood beside it.  “Good day.”
        “Mr. Mastny – “
        “Go, or I shall call the police.”
        “All right.”  Tucci sighed and walked out.  He paused and offered the otter his paw.  A small slip of paper was held in his fingers.  “If you should change your mind, I can be reached at this number.”
        Mastny took the slip, and after Tucci had stepped out the otter closed the door and crumpled up the paper, throwing it into a wastepaper basket beside his chair.

        That went well.
        What now, salesman?
        Tucci walked to the streetcar stand, paws jammed into his trouser pockets as he thought of his next course of action.  Short of kidnapping him, Mastny was not going to be going to Rain Island.  And kidnapping would pose an entire mountain of difficulties, from engineering the snatch to safely getting the man across Canada or the western United States without arousing suspicion.
        He paid his six cents and got aboard the trolley, taking a seat and thinking as the car moved off at a sedate pace.  No, kidnapping was out.
        The more he thought, the more his jaw set in determination.
        If the designer couldn’t be persuaded, that left only the plans themselves.


        The Ford factory was surrounded by a high fence topped with three strands of barbed wire.  The gates into and out of the plant were patrolled by armed security guards hired by the company.  They were actually little more than hired thugs whose function was to keep union organizers out and quell any labor trouble within the plant.  Judging from the constant state of near-war between Ford and the auto workers’ union, they were doing a fine job.
         The main factory was still operating as the night shift continued to work the assembly line, but most of the lights in the office block were dark.  All of the executives and most of the administrative staff had gone home for the night.
        He had watched the plant before, a year ago, carefully noting the change of each shift and the patterns the guards followed while on their rounds.  The hare walked around the sprawling complex until he found what he was looking for.  He had no fears about being challenged because he looked like everyone else working there that night – a nondescript fur wearing overalls, a rumpled jacket and a fedora.
        The Ford plant wasn’t a prison or military base, and for all of its troubles with the unions security was quite lax.  He chose a piece of fence near the parking lot that was poorly lit and clambered over, taking care not to snag his clothing.  After making sure he hadn’t been spotted he started toward the building where the design bureau was.
        The time was right; Mastny would probably be there, while Mabel had the night off.  He certainly didn’t want her to know he was sneaking into her workplace.
        The design bureau’s offices were on the fifth floor of the building and he went up the stairs as quietly as he could.  At the second hallway he struck paydirt.  One of the offices was occupied, with light streaming from under the door.  A small sign beside the door read J. Mastny. 
        Tucci froze, long ears twitching as footsteps sounded inside the office, and he ducked down a side corridor as Mastny stepped out of the room and headed in the opposite direction.  He left the light on, so he might have been headed for the bathroom.
        Time to seize the moment, as one of his old teachers used to say.
        Tucci slipped into the office and glanced around quickly.  Mabel had described a cardboard portfolio . . . ah, there it was, under some papers.  He pulled it out and opened it, jaw dropping as he studied the blueprints.
        The design was elegant in its simplicity, even to his untrained eyes. 
        “Zkurvysyne!  What the Hell are you doing here?!” Mastny shouted as he walked in and saw the hare.  He saw what the lepine was holding and the exposed skin on his face purpled.  “Get away from that, you thief!”


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