Ben's Beer

I pulled off River Run and headed steeply up The Caves. Ben Bear lives about half way up in one of the early conversions. This whole warren of The Caves is very old and historically was exclusively lived in by Bears but for half the life of this city it has just been an ordinary, if somewhat high tone, neighbourhood. Animals are drawn to it by the great views of Beastburg Castle and the Wide River. I parked my Jackster where I could and walked in along one of the many paths that cut across the steep hillside. All the caves look very similar on this level and I hadn't been here for a while so I kept my eye out for the names on the wooden postboxes that were standing out in front of each cave.

The lights were on and I knocked on the big round door. Mrs. Bear, Ben's mother, let me in. She was looking old and thin in a shabby pink paisley dressing gown, carrying a glass of water. The whole look of the cave on the inside hasn't changed in fifty years, though it probably looked bang up to date when first decorated. Angular furniture in pale woods and all low to the ground was arranged very neatly and set out from the walls.

"Ben's upstairs, Jack. He'll be pleased to see you," Mrs. Bear said and led me up a wide stairwell. Ben was in the upstairs sitting room, decorated in the same style, watching TV and drinking a beer. He was watching what must be one of the last black and white televisions left in Beastburg. When he saw me he got up and turned off the TV. Mrs. Bear shuffled off somewhere.

"Nice surprise," Ben said. "I thought you were going out to Woody Spit for a spell."

"I'm still on my way," I said. "But I've had an idea for advancing the Hoppermobile and I wanted to tell you about it in person."

"Shoot," he said.

I told him about my experience of waking from a dream at Bridget Beaver's house with the elusive germ of an idea and then happening across another idea, a different idea - the thought that the Hoppermobile could have a separate circular drive wrapping it all around the middle like a donut. This drive could turn it into what we might call a 'Hoverhopper'. It could hover as well as hop. While I talked Ben got up and got a couple of beers from a tiny fridge behind the sofa and gave me one. When I finished explaining how I thought a Hoverhopper could work we sat there in silence for a while drinking our beers and looking out the small window at Beastburg Castle away across the water. Ben didn't react at all to my idea.

After a few minutes Ben broke the silence, and surprised me, by saying, "Who do you think make the best mechanics?"

"When we were racing, in the early days, I thought it was the Weasels," I said, "They were always so fast and accurate."

"But they have that one little problem," said Ben, smiling at me and waggling his beer.

"Yeah," I said. "Always true. But now I'd have to say the Bats are the best. They're not afraid to get their hands dirty."

"I'd agree," said Ben, "They're kind of the intellectuals among mechanics. So clever at thinking their way through the tricky problems."

"Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking," said Ben, "That I'd get Marge Bunny to create a new crew to work on this one. We could take some Bats from the assembly line and bring them down into the pit in R&D. That way we could push this one fast. See if it can fly, as it were."

"Sounds great," I said. "Try to get Billy Bat to go for loaning out some of his crew. I'll leave you to it."

Just then the teleportal rang. That was that. We didn't mention any of this business again.

The Squirrel Monkey

By the time Joe Dog was out of the Diving Bell and waiting on the curb for Bonnie Bimbo he was looking fairly sober. He swayed a little but a slight sway is part of Joe's normal, 'cool', persona. His hands were in his pockets, his jacket wasn't too disheveled, and he looked out at the world as if he were ready to engage with it. I was pleased with him. The rain had stopped and the clouds had risen a little. It was going to be a nice night.

I swung my Jackster out onto Orbital Drive and joined an interesting traffic pattern. Everyone on the highway was going a very smooth 40-miles-per-hour in both directions - a car length of space between every car. Personally, I didn't mind the slow down. Nobody was waiting up for me out at Woody Spit and I knew once I crossed the Poultry Bridge and headed down Memorial Drive it would thin out. I hit the radio and they were playing a cut from Fatty Walrus's new album, Ghostie Romance - a song called The Way You Look Tonight. Sultry and elegant.

The city lights, the dark clouds, the rolling sea at my side - everything had a silky quality. All these evenly spaced cars dancing along the coastline, keeping their measured pace, made me wonder if Orbital Drive got its name from way cars are orbiting the city like a constellation of stars whirling about some huge central star.

I noticed that the car next to me was a red Jackster run by a young Squirell Monkey. He had the Jackster with the arm conversion. The guy was sedately pumping the steering wheel back and forth to the rhythm of Fatty Walrus. It was funny seeing somebody driving along and pumping his Jackster to exactly the same rhythm as I was (even though I was doing my pumping with my feet).

Poultry Bridge was coming up and I changed my mind about going straight to Woody Spit. It wasn't that late. Ben Bear would still be up. I could tell him about my idea for adding an active rotary shaft to our prototype Jackster Hopper, the Hoppermobile, and renaming it the Hoverhopper.

To get up to The Caves I needed to change lanes to get into the River Run lane on the Bridge. I nudged the Squirell Monkey next to me and he let go of his steering wheel and gestured me in. He waved me in front of him keeping time to the music and giving me a big grin. He had noticed that we were rolling along together and pumping in time to Fatty Walrus on the radio. I gave him the thumbs up and then scooted in front while he hung back. It felt great. We were in the flow.

Root Stew

“Hi Frankie,” I said, when he saw me from over in the dark corner of the bar.

“This is so amazing!” and Frankie looked truly amazed. “Have a drink!”

“I can't, Frankie. I'm driving. I'm on my way out to Woody Spit.”

“Just one!” he said, “Bartender!”

“Fruit juice,” I called out, “Cranberry.”

“Spike it, Joe.”

“No, Really, Joe,” I said. “just the juice.” I sat down next to Frankie Dog and gave him my best comradely smile.

"This is so amazing," Frankie said again, but this time he looked at me hazily.

"I've got to talk to you Frankie. About Bonnie Bimbo."

"I love that woman, Jack!" And now Frankie looked near tears. "What am I going to do if she loses her job? I need to have her near me."

"She's not losing her job," I said to him firmly. "I've talked to Tobias Turtle. He's not firing either of you."

"Me?" Joe said, "He was never going to fire me! It was Bonnie!"

"You both broke the rules, Joe. You broke his 'no hanky-panky' rule. It's in your contract. Plus it looks like you got her pregnant, so everyone is going to know about it. Here's the deal. You can both keep working at the Egret Club but for the next three months you each get your pay docked twenty per cent for breaking your contract."

"That seems pretty harsh, Jack," And Frankie looked like he couldn't decide whether to cry or get mad.

"Your relationship with Bonnie is still on the new side. You don't want to rock the boat, Joe. Even getting drunk like this could get you in trouble with Bonnie. She's been cleaning up her act lately. Right now, while you're drinking, she's been doing aerobics. I just called her. She's OK with the pay cut." I let him look in his drink for a while. Meanwhile, I checked out all the seafaring paraphernalia on the walls. This bottom room just had the small bar and one little alcove, currently occupied by a couple of large Hens. I wondered why they bothered with such a small bar down here. Every level, going down, was smaller than the level above - always a sure sign that a Beastburg eaterie is really old.

Next to where Frankie sat was a hatch built into the wall. I could see a bit of the kitchen through the hole. Someone put a plate of food on the shelf in the hatch and the shelf started floating upwards, until I could see from the moving cable that it was a dumb waiter.

"What was that going up?" I asked the Beaver who was tending bar.

"Root stew," he said.

"It looks good. I'll have some."

It struck me that this Diving Bell pub had been around a very long time. Everything seemed genuinely old. Here I was down an old hole on the edge of Beastburg, near the Ferry Docks, but surrounded by big hotels and only half a mile from all the skyscrapers of the financial district. And yet this dingy establishment had somehow survived down the years, still a home for sad drunks and still cooking up Root Stew. Survived but not prospered. Over the years somehow the throbbing city growing all around it had got to this place and drained the personality out of it. There was deadness in the air and I had an urge to get out fast and drive to Woody Spit. As soon as I had my root stew.

"Here's your root stew," said the Beaver. It smelled pretty good.

"Where is she Jack?" said Joe, coming out of his trance.

"She's probably still at Bunnyhop."

"OK, Jack," and Joe gave me quite a serious look, "I'm going to play this your way. Maybe I'd better have a cup of coffee. A strong cup."