Legacies

7.

"It doesn't look like a battery, maybe," Abe said, "but it's a battery."

The little Rover lay partially disassembled on Abe's counter. The body was off, the battery compartment lay open in the exposed chassis.

Abe had a thing about the weapons he sold. He dismantled and reassembled everything that passed through his doors. He could break down and reassemble a Glock in a couple of eye blinks. Jack had asked him why, and Abe's reply had been something like, "I shouldn't know all about what I'm selling?"

"That's not like any battery I've ever seen," Jack said.

"So? You've seen every battery ever made? Look, it's where a battery should go; it's hooked up to the contacts that power the motor, and the car runs. It's a battery. Even Parabellum would tell you that if he weren't asleep."

"Okay, okay." Sometimes Abe's help was no help. "It runs, but only in one direction. Explain me that."

"Easy," Abe said, and twanged the metal antenna. "This is where it gets its instructions. Somewhere, someone or something is sending its steering mechanism—via this antenna—the message to head in a certain direction. Without this little wire, the steering mechanism would be deaf, and the car would head in whatever direction you point it. Here, I'll show you."

"That's okay," Jack said, reaching for the truck.

But Abe pulled it back out of reach. "You don't want I should prove it?"

What he didn't want was Abe messing too much with the toy.

"I just don't want you should break it. I've got a gut feeling that thing will lead me to the mysterious 'Clayton technology.' But if its directional mechanism gets screwed up—"

"Nothing will get screwed up. What's to screw up? It's an antenna—just a piece of wire. Only take me a second."

Jack watched helplessly as Abe adjusted his reading glasses and picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers. After some fiddling, some twisting, and a few muttered curses, he managed to remove the aerial.

"There," he said. He handed the chassis to Jack. "Nothing to it. Go ahead. Now you'll see. Point it wherever. It's uptown-running days are over."

Jack turned it over and flipped the power switch.

Nothing.

He flipped it back and forth from on to off and back again.

Still nothing. Oh, hell.

"Swell, Abe. Now it doesn't run at all. You broke it."

"What? Impossible."

"No, you did." Jack flipped the switch back and forth again. "Look."

"Quit kvetching and give it here."

Jack handed it back and leaned on the bench. He stared at the scarred surface, asking himself how he could have let this happen, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. That little car was his only lead.

And then he heard the soft whine of the little motor. He looked up and saw the Rover's wheels spinning.

"Thank God. What did you do?"

Abe was staring at the chassis, frowning. "Reinserted the aerial, that's all."

"Well, whatever it was—"

The motor died as Abe removed the aerial again. Then started up when he reinserted it. Off… on… off… on… all in time with the aerial.

"You must be breaking a circuit," Jack said.

But Abe didn't reply. His frown was deeper as he pulled out a magnifying glass of his own and focused it on the aerial socket.

"Look here," he said, pointing with a pencil. "See this fine little wire? It runs from the aerial socket to the battery compartment. And you can tell from the way it's soldered that it's not original wiring. This has been added. And I didn't notice before, but the new wire is attached to this strange little battery that doesn't look like a battery."

He straightened and began fiddling with the aerial again, in and out of its socket, starting and stopping the motor.

And then he left the aerial out and left the truck chassis in the center of the bench.

"I think I have to sit down."

Jack shot Abe a look. Something in his voice. And his face—so pale.

"Abe, you all right?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely, staring at the chassis. "I'm okay."

"Well, you sure as hell don't look it. I've seen better color on a casaba."

Abe continued to stare at the toy. His color was still rotten. Jack was worried about him, but then Abe said the magic words.

"That's because I've just figured out what we've got here."

"Swell. Gonna tell me?"

"I… I think this little toy runs on broadcast power."

"Is that good?"

Finally Abe looked at him. "Is that good? You ask me if that's good! What kind of meshuggeneh question is that?"

At least the color was returning to his face.

"Broadcast power. I never heard of it. Pardon me."

Abe reached for the truck, and Jack noticed his hand hesitate, like he was afraid to touch it, like it was some sort of holy object. But finally he grabbed it and lifted it.

"See this aerial?" he said, holding up the wire. "The motor can't run without it. No aerial… no power. But stick the aerial into its slot…"

As he did just that, the motor whirred and spun the wheels.

"… and suddenly we've got power. Power from the air."

From the air? Had Abe just had a mini-stroke?

"You're losing me," Jack said.

"You were right about the thing in the battery compartment, Jack. It's not a battery. It's a transceiver. It's taking the signal the aerial is receiving and transforming it into electrical energy."

Jack felt a kernel of excitement begin to burn in his gut.

"Okay, but what's the aerial receiving?"

"Power. Whoever modified this toy must have some sort of a transmitter somewhere that can broadcast a beam, a wave, an I-don't-know-what—let's just call it energy, because that's what it is——that can be downloaded through the aerial and turned into electrical power."

Jack stared at the spinning wheels, feeling that excitement swell and burn hotter. He was beginning to see how big this was.

"But how?"

"If I knew how such a thing could be, would I be standing here talking to you? No, I wouldn't. I would be sitting in my palatial home on Martha's Vineyard—my Martha's Vineyard, because I would have bought the entire island. Jack, I'd be much too rich to even know you, let alone talk to you. I'd be the kind of rich that'd make Bill Gates look like he's on welfare."

"All right. I get the message."

"Do you?" Abe said. "You've heard the phrase, 'The end of life as we know it?' That about approximates it."

Jack nodded. "No power lines. No electric cords. No—"

"You're thinking small, Jack. How about saying bye-bye to the internal combustion engine?"

"Hey, you're right," Jack said. "Finally we'll be able to breathe the air around here and maybe…"

He heard his voice trail off as the full import of Abe's words hit ground zero. Now Jack had to sit down.

"Holy shit."

Because suddenly it was all clear… or most of it, at least.

"Oil," he said after a moment. His saliva had gone south. "Oil will be worthless."

"Not completely," Abe said. "As a lubricant it'll still be good. But as a fuel? Feh!"

"No wonder Kemel's been ready to do anything to get hold of this."

"Kemel? This is the Arab you told me about? Yes, of course he'd do anything. This little toy car portends the complete economic collapse of the Middle East. Not to mention Texas and the U.S. Gulf Coast."

"My God," Jack said. "The economic holocaust you've been talking about all these years… it's finally—"

"That was supposed to be from runaway inflation. But this isn't it. Don't worry so much. Wailing and gnashing of teeth there'll be, huge upheavals in finance and in every industry that gobbles power, but no holocaust. Unless of course, you're heavily invested in oil stocks."

"Yeah. Then it'll be time to take that long first step off a window ledge."

"But if you should have lots of your money invested in countries that rely heavily on foreign oil—"

"Like Japan?" Jack said, thinking of Yoshio.

"Japan, yes. Big time, Japan. They're virtual slaves to foreign oil. Broadcast power puts the Japanese and Middle East economies on a seesaw: one drops into the abyss, the other goes into orbit."

The pieces were falling into place. Jack could almost hear the clicks as they came together.

"That's it, then," he said. "No wonder that Japanese trade delegate was so ecstatic: Ronald Clayton was on his way to Japan to sell them his broadcast power technology. Kemel and his Iswid Nahr buddies got wind of it, and made sure he never reached Japan. That's why they're so desperate and so secretive now—they don't want anyone to even guess broadcast power exists."

Even the will's cryptic message for Greenpeace made sense now: broadcast power meant no more oil spills… a brand-new day for air quality, the ozone layer, the whole environment: World-changing technology…

Abe cleared his throat. "One thing I don't understand—I should say, one of the many things I don't understand—is why Ronald Clayton was taking his technology to Japan. He didn't need Japan. He didn't need anybody. All he had to do was patent it and quietly announce it. He wouldn't have to go to anybody. The world would stampede to his door. Not only would he be rich beyond King Midas's wildest dreams, he'd be worshiped as well. He wouldn't be Time's Man of the Year, he'd be the world's Man of the Millennium. Why was he going to Japan?"

"Haven't the faintest," Jack said, taking the chassis from Abe and switching off the motor. "But I know someone who might."