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"More colors." Try green.
"Then red."
"What will they do?" asked Rod.
"We'll find out when you generate them."
Because the color-therapy charts they had supplied said that green was a
particularly soothing and healing color, Rod built a second dye laser that
generated an extreme green pulse from the pigments of tropical lizards.
Everyone wanted a sustained glow, but that damn eximer laser ate up power too
quickly.
This time the Beasley boys stood around in front of the laser while Rod set a
timer and, like a photographer wanting to be in the picture with his subjects,
he rushed to join them. They were standing expectantly awaiting the green
beam, which filled their eyes with the most vivid, hideous, stomach-churning
green ever conceived.
When Rod Cheatwood woke up in the Beasley infirmary three days later, his
first question was a strange one.
"What day is it?"
"Sunday."
"The sixth?"
"Yes. You've been under three days."
And tears started welling up in Rod Cheatwood's stricken eyes.
"There, there," the Beasley nurse with the starched white cap adorned with
paper mouse ears said soothingly. "We expect you to make a complete
recovery."
"I missed it...." Rod blubbered.
"Missed what?"
"The season finale 'Next Generation' episode," he said miserably.
When he was well enough to return to work, Rod told the Beasley boys, "I guess
green is out, huh?"
"On the contrary, it's a perfect offensive color."
And they showed him a chart.
Most color charts broke down into complementary colors or contrasting colors.
The Beasley chart was divided into offensive colors and defensive colors.
And they had new names. Hotpink. Supergreen. Contrablue. Ultrayellow. Optired.
Infraorange. Deepurple.
Over time they cataloged their properties and created various beamers.
"How about we call them phasers?" suggested Rod. "They phase light."
"Can't. Not our trademark."
"Oh, right," said Rod.
When they told him he was being shipped out to Paris to install the first
hypercolor beamers in Euro Beasley, Rod Cheatwood was horrified.
"I don't want to go to Paris."
"Why not?"
"They hate us. And they love Jerry Lewis." Rod shuddered.
"You don't have to go to Paris. You can live under Euro Beasley."
"Under? They have a Utiliduck there, too?"
"Utilicanard. It means the same thing."
It was not so bad. There were dorm rooms, with kitchenettes and TVs. And when
the new pink lights were installed all over Euro Beasley, attendance shot up
almost immediately.
"How about a raise?" Rod asked one day when even the Beasley boys could not
disguise the dramatic turnaround.
"What do you need a raise for? You have your ten percent royalty."
"I haven't had time to make my remote finder."
"When you do, that will be your raise."
"Mousefuckers," Rod grumbled.
And so Rod lived for the day his work at Euro Beasley was done.
Page 72
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Unfortunately that day never came. Instead, the French Foreign Legion came
rappeling out of hovering helicopters and advanced on one of the many
entrances to Utilicanard.
When they were all on the ground, Rod knew what to do. He clapped a pair of
solid lead goggles onto his eyes and, with his pounding heart high in his
throat, he depressed a console button marked Supergreen.
Even though he was spared the awful green light hitting his retina, he threw
up anyway.
Chapter 16
The unmarked van was parked on US. 460, south of Petersburg National
Battlefield Park. It was the direction the balloons had come from, so it was
reasonable to conceive of a link between the two.
Certainly if it was a TV truck, it would have identifying call letters or a
network logo painted on the sides.
That was how Dominique Parillaud perceived it as she drove past the van in her
Europe 1 satellite truck before parking it well down the highway and out of
sight. After exiting the vehicle, she moved low toward the waiting van. There
was no sign of life or activity around the van. No one behind the wheel.
But the nest of electronic array atop the van was very suggestive.
Crouching behind a thicket, Dominique unshipped her 9 mm MAS automatic and
started out of the hedges. If the van contained the secret of the bright
colored lights that had her countrymen literally agog, and she could acquire
it, the Legion of Honor medal-not to mention the adulation of all
Frenchmen-would be all but hers.
More importantly she could leave this hellish nation of imbeciles and
cretins.
She started forward.
And her beret swallowed her head like a Venus's-flytrap made of cloth.
"Merde!"
Some force took her by the shoulders and spun her around inexorably, but still
she retained the presence of mind to jut her MAS snout forward. When she felt
it come into contact with her assailant's chest, she pulled the trigger.
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