[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/Leo%20Frankowski%20-%20Stargard%207%20-%20Conrad's%20Time%20Machine.txt
world is made.
Because of trade secrets and insurance problems, this sort of sightseeing is
difficult to do out in the real world without knowing someone on the inside who
can get you an invitation. But on the island, well, we owned the place.
The factories were all big, blocky grey buildings, mostly without windows, and
without any signs except for the large street numbers. Except that there weren't
any street signs here, or streets either. On the other hand, in the industrial
area, everything that wasn't a factory building was paved over. Maybe you could
call those spaces streets, except that there still weren't any street signs. I
was a long time finding out what they did about the mail.
For our tour, Ian picked a building at random, and we just walked in, followed
by most of our scantily clad entourage. As had happened before, the workers paid
little heed to our ladies, but all of them turned and gawked at Ian and me. The
plant manager bustled over, smiling and holding out his hand for me to shake.
It was an ordinary factory, making aluminum window frames. They were very well
built window frames, obviously meant to last a long time, but there was nothing
very interesting about the operation, except that there didn't seem to be any
need for all the windows that they were diligently making.
"I thought that all the buildings on the Island already had windows," Ian said.
"Well, well, I'm sure that they all do, sir," the manager stammered.
"I haven't seen any new construction going on. What are they going to do with
all the windows you folks are making here?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir. I don't get involved with sales, you see. I just
make sure that the orders are filled."
"Then show me the orders."
"As you wish, sir, but they won't tell you much."
They didn't. The purchase orders were all on the same standard form, not on
forms with the letterhead of the ordering company, as would be the usual case
anywhere else I'd ever heard of.
They specified which standard catalog items were to be built and shipped by what
time, and they mentioned the catalog prices but made no mention of any discounts
expected, a thing unheard of in the real world.
And they specified precisely which numbered shipping containers should be
filled, which seemed impossible. How would anybody, except maybe for the
shipping company, know which container would be available for shipment at the
time the order was filled? Oh, it could be done, I suppose, if you had that
particular container especially set aside and waiting, but that would have been
terribly inefficient, and why would anyone bother to do such a thing?
A little checking showed that each order exactly filled one container, which was
weird, when you thought about it. How would the purchaser know exactly how they
would be packed, what the exact external sizes of all the boxes were, so he
could know how they would fit into a standard container?
Finally, there was no mention of who was doing the buying, when they had placed
the order, nor when their check could be expected to arrive.
"A strange way to do business," I said to Ian as we left. "What kind of a
building job is it that always takes exactly one full container of windows to
complete the building being constructed? I mean, there would usually be a few
windows more or less than what was needed."
"I know what you're trying to say, Tom, but it's just about the same story we
got a few days ago at that electric motor shop."
We hit three more shops before noon: an elevator company, a plant that processed
frozen fish, and a clothing factory. It was pretty much the same story at each
of them: standardized orders for filling particular standardized containers of
particular standardized products.
The crowd of girls with us mostly just kept quiet and followed us around, trying
not to yawn. Why they came along, I don't know. We never asked to be followed
around by a crowd.
Ian said it was a lot like the way the Roman Patricians figured that their
status was defined by how many clients each of them had in his train.
"How about we hit a Syrian restaurant for lunch?" I said.
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%2...rd%207%20-%20Conrad's%20Time%20Machine.txt (75 of 156) [12/28/2004 4:51:10 PM]
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/Leo%20Frankowski%20-%20Stargard%207%20-%20Conrad's%20Time%20Machine.txt
"I don't think I've ever tried Syrian food."
"It's a marvelous cuisine built around odd spices, flat bread, and dead animals.
Their best dish is mostly raw lamb's meat. Don't worry. We'll make sure that
they cook your kibbie, and that they don't throw in very much in the way of
spices."
Ian agreed, and, of course, there was an Eastern Mediterranean restaurant just
outside of the industrial area. They had a big table reserved and all set for
our party of twenty-six. The place was much like the one that I had frequented
back in Ann Arbor, except that here, the black-haired waitresses all wore
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]