CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Limburger sat gazing out his office window. Though it was late afternoon, it was as gray as dusk outside; rain poured steadily from the heavy nimbus clouds that covered the sky like the ridges of a freshly-plowed cornfield.
The weather fit his mood. During its last session, the Plutarkian Review Board had come down rather hard on Lord Camembert for the constant delays in the Chicago operation, and, as usual, the manure had rolled downhill, right into his lap. The Review Board had confronted Limburger directly only once, and it was an experience he had no desire to repeat. And, if that wasn't bad enough, Flounder's Day was rapidly approaching.
Generations ago, when the state of Plutark's dwindling resources had reduced even the wealthiest to conditions of abject poverty, High Chairman Edam had ordered the launching of the program of planetary piracy which had become a way of life for Plutark. Now even the lowest lived comfortably, and, as a result, Flounder's Day was celebrated each year with almost religious fervor. Whoever was High Chairman when each holiday occurred was showered with gifts from a grateful populace. His field agents naturally sent the richest gifts, in the form of real estate, mineral ores, and, sometimes, even slaves. Though such things were routinely sent to Plutark through the High Chairman's office, those sent for this occasion became his personal property. It was a perk of office each High Chairman guarded jealously, and woe to any field operative who neglected his annual duty.
In the past, Limburger had managed well, but that had ended when those rogue rodents had shown up. Last year, he'd been the only operative on Earth not to send any present at all, and Lord Camembert still wasn't letting him hear the end of it. Not that he ever let him hear the end of any mistake he made, however small. Now, between the Borad and the upcoming holiday, he had to produce something that would outstrip, in Camembert's eyes, even the carved likeness he had once sent to placate his superior into restoring his funding.
He frowned as he remembered that particular fiasco. His original objective had been to send him the whole of Mount Rushmore, with the extra likeness added, but the mice had caused the stone effigy to break off and roll alone into the transporter field. They had spoiled that plan as they spoiled everything, but not quite. In fact, they had done him a favor, he realized, shuddering as he thought of what Terrans' reaction would have been to find such an alien image carved on one of their national monuments, literally overnight, or to find the entire monument missing. As it was, certain sectors of the population were still buzzing, even now, over the chunk of stone that had inexplicably vanished from the mountain. The FBI had even sent two agents to investigate.
The sky darkened into true dusk as Limburger brooded. His funds were limited; ever since that miserable mouse-loving female had blown the whistle on him to the Internal Revenue Service, the agents had been going over his quarterly tax reports with a fine-toothed comb--and also watching closely to be sure he submitted them in the first place. He'd discovered that IRS agents were as "untouchable" as the rivals of his idol, Al Capone, had been, immune to every sort of bribery he'd been able to think of, and so squeaky clean in their private lives that blackmail was not a viable alternative. The involvement of the IRS also made it impossible for him to reactivate his counterfeiting operation. Without the cash flow he'd enjoyed before the mice's arrival, his options seemed to be extremely limited; he couldn't go back in time or even to another dimension without those miserable Martians tracking him. If they had been a nuisance on Mars, they were a mountainous obstacle here, where the Plutarkian invasion was still at the low-profile stage--wait a minute, he thought suddenly. Mountain! Greasepit's attempt to gift the entire Plutarkian Review Board with a whole mountain a few years ago had deeply impressed the lot of them before that attempt had been foiled. The elation faded as quickly as it had risen as he remembered trying that particular scheme himself, with no better results.
He turned his gaze downward, watching the stream of humanity emerging from the base of his tower as his hundreds of clerical employees--all of them completely ignorant of his true nature or that of the company for which they worked--left for the day. Perhaps he should wrap it up himself, he thought, keying his computer into the time clock function so it would sound an alert when the last employee had departed. Yes, that was it. He'd take a soothing soak in a nice, warm bath, perhaps go out and take in a play or an opera, then return to his quarters and enjoy a steaming hot cup of tea before retiring for the night; perhaps his subconscious mind would present a solution in his dreams. Humans put a lot of store by such things, and, since Plutarkians dreamed, too, perhaps that stratagem would work for him.
The signal finally sounded; actually smiling now in anticipation of enjoying a relaxing evening, he set the proximity alarms and defense mechanisms and left the office.
oOo
As his limousine drove up the street later that night, returning to its home base, Limburger scrutinized his tower. It had been destroyed so many times already, he no longer counted on its presence when he came back from even the shortest jaunt. Many of its windows were dark now, but a few were still lit, most of them in the living quarters he provided for his enforcers. One set of lit windows belonged to the lab, and Limburger was not really surprised. When he really got rolling on an invention, Karbunkle frequently forgot things like sleep. He decided to drop in on his way to the penthouse.
Karbunkle turned from what looked like some sort of radio set as Limburger entered the room. "Greetings, Your Buttery Richness," he wheezed. "Your timing is most fortuitous."
"Oh, really? And what marvel of science do you have for me this time?"
He chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Something that will guarantee the elimination of the Biker Mice as a threat, Your Creamy Yogurtness. All I have to do is..."