The conference hall was totally quiet and only the rustling of paperwork could be heard. The main table, which looked like every other conference hall table, was long, oval and of black mahogany. A few drinks, coffee mugs and snacks were left half-drunk or half-eaten on the table. A few people started to rise and leave while others conversed quietly.
For J2LC, the transaction was barely worth it. 50, 000 gold coins just for a few eaten level-makers, 15, 000 gold coins for the ML factories outside J2C, 7800 coins for control over ML’s huge music storage facilities and 2000 for the ML logo designers who would, they claimed, revamp J2LC’s logo that no other company banner would be able to match it for the next 45 weeks.
Frank Quist leaned back on his chair and relaxed: a brave, zen-like effort, which failed. He had great plans for his company: the Jazz 2 Level Creators but buying the company’s biggest competitor, or ex-competitor, had proved extremely costly and took big chunks off his company’s budget.
‘Mr. Quist? Sir? The giant white rabbit is heading directly towards our position so we better disassemble the port and leave. Do you want to take the remaining equipment or use them to build more Guides?’ asked his assistant.
Frank hated giant things, especially those that threatened his property. ‘Can’t we just order some Zap-Zoom-fighters to distract that thing?’
‘It survived the nuclear explosion. I think it’ll survive a few laser shots.’
Fquist refrained from telling his assistant that the rabbit was probably weakened by the missile so much that all it took to kill it off was a few well-aimed laser shots.
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘No. We won’t disassemble this port. If we let the giant white rabbit to destroy it, we’ll get insurance compensation. There’s, of course, also the chance that it will decide to not destroy this place after all, which would leave us with a spaceport very close to J2o. And good communications is always good.’
‘Of course, sir. The spaceport of Zero-one-one Omega will not be demolished…at least not by us, sir.’ Fquist’s assistant paused, before continuing. Frank just knew that this was going to be bad news of cataclysmically small proportions. ‘Er…sir?’
‘Yes?’ said Frank expectantly.
‘We have used all of ML’s now obsolete battle-droids and guard-droids for fridges, except one. One of our men has reported that the missing droid has ran away. Shall I order 556A to go in pursuit?’
Frank just wanted to leave this place and remembered that he wanted to pay a visit to Lori Central. Some driver he met on the road claimed that the women there were quite nice.
‘Can’t you take any decisions for yourself? Do what you think is fit. I’m leaving.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Fquist’s assistant. ‘Er, sir? 556A is coming.’
The door leading into the conference room wasn’t wide enough to fit the tank, so 556A just stood outside, handbrake on, and told Fquist about the two visitors outside the gates.
‘Are they willing to pay?’ inquired Frank.
‘HEY, YOU…BEEP…!! ARE YOU WILLING TO PAY FOR ENTRANCE???!!’
Only the tank and Fquist heard what the reply was, but the author can tell his readers that the reply went somewhere along the lines of ‘go stick your cannon in your fuselage’.
Fquist frowned. This wasn’t some kind of airport. It was a spaceport. His spaceport. Then he had an idea. The best way to deal with these obsessed freaks, he thought, was to let them into a spaceport that was most probably doomed to get squashed by a giant white rabbit. So he let them in.