Biomedical self engineer.., p.14
Biomedical Self-Engineering : Book 2, page 14
Turning left onto a shady sidewalk, he walked down a street that had seen better days. A restaurant that must have closed years ago still had tables and chairs set up like it was opening tonight. Unable to help himself, he turned on his failing business sense and was overwhelmed with four or five scents hitting all at once. The scents were strong, and he had a feeling that just behind the strong ones there were even more businesses failing that just weren’t doing as badly as the strong ones were.
As he walked into the mapmaker’s shop, he knew it wasn’t failing. First, it didn’t smell, but it also had a wealth of maps lining the walls, from old gold mining maps which Carl took an interest in, to railway maps and more modern maps of the surrounding areas. He noticed an old map of the Blue Mountains in northeast Oregon, and the detail was exquisite for something so primitive.
A gruff voice that sounded like it came from a connoisseur of too many whiskey bottles and cigars spoke behind him. “That one there is from the mid-1880s. it was commissioned by the railroads as they tried to find the best way through. That one’s a copy, but I have the original in my safe. And before you ask, it’s not for sale.”
Carl continued to admire it. The map showed lines of elevation, landmarks, streams and rivers, along with a couple proposed routes through the mountain range.
Without turning around, Carl continued to marvel at the detail. “It’s a beauty.”
The mapmaker was an older man, which didn’t surprise Carl in the least. He imagined the younger generation was more than happy to rely upon GPS to get where they needed to go, but there was beauty to be found in maps.
Carl thought he caught sight of a grin behind a thick beard and mustache. “Thank you. And if I don’t miss my guess, you’re not from around here.”
Approaching the glass counter, which had a prominent ‘Do not lean on the glass’ sign underneath it, he nodded. “That’s right. I’m in town for business, and a few other things.”
The mapmaker twiddled the left end of his mustache until it was a fine point. “What’s your interest? Gold and silver? Or perhaps gems? Because I know you’re not here for a pretty map of our fair city.”
Carl liked people who spoke directly. It was easier to get things done with them. “Gold and silver. I’m not averse to gems, but they’re not my focus.”
The man nodded as if it all made sense, his thinning hair spreading with the motion. “I have standard maps of known mines, although I should tell you that a lot of those old mines are now in the Whitman National Forest.”
Carl grinned. “Oh, I know. And I don’t just want maps of the old mines. I want modern mines included too, even those that failed. Along with the plat numbering on the edges, and roads, rivers, elevation and the like marked clearly so I know where I am at all times.”
Bushy eyebrows lifted just a hair. “I can do that, but it won’t be cheap. Most people go for the basic map before realizing how much work finding a gold mine can be.”
Rather than haggle in the non-air-conditioned office, he proposed an amount. “Five hundred if you can get it to me tomorrow.”
The mapmaker only hesitated a second before countering. “Seven-fifty and I’ll include the plats where mineral rights have already been gobbled up by other speculators. You might pry a few free from the owners, but they won’t be cheap. You may or may not know this, but there is a theory that a wealth of gold flows down two ‘mineral rivers,’ one going north to south, and one going west to east. I’m not claiming I know that for sure, but you won’t find a single plat not already claimed in that area.”
Carl didn’t have to think about it very long. “I’ll take it.” He reached across and shook the mapmaker’s hands.
“The name’s Tom.” He had a firm grip, giving it a single pump before releasing.
“Carl. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tom.”
Tom waved him away as he pushed through the door. Enjoying the heat and having nothing to really to do, he turned his failing business sense back on.
The closest one was a restaurant on the outskirts of the downtown, a busy road going by. He didn’t understand why the business was failing, until he went around front and saw that it was a knock-off fried chicken restaurant. Based on the smell of rancid frying oil emanating from the restaurant, it wasn’t one he wanted to eat at. Ever.
Heading back toward downtown, the next business he homed in on was another laundromat. This one looked to be in better shape, with all the lights working inside and two streetlamps outside. He didn’t know what the problem was, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t interested in owning a laundromat or a failing restaurant, because neither would create synergies with the rest of his businesses.
The third business took him closer to the hotel he was staying at, then down that same street and on to the next block. A hairdressing shop stared back at him, as did the three women inside wondering what he was looking at. An older woman gave him a flirtatious wave, her hair tied up in aluminum strips.
Beating a hasty escape, he followed the last scent. It was only a few blocks over, and now that he’d walked much of the downtown area, most of the streets looked familiar. Despite none of the businesses working out, he didn’t mind in the least. It was a beautiful day out, and the air was so dry that he didn’t really sweat much.
When he turned the corner to the end of the scent he’d been following, he thought he heard the trumpets coming down from the heavens above. The building looked forlorn, the weeds and bushes around the building laughing at the memory of the last landscaper.
He was staring at a credit union. And it smelled wonderful.
Chapter 23
“This concern with the basic condition of freedom—the absence of physical constraint—is unquestionably necessary, but is not all that is necessary. It is perfectly possible for a man to be out of prison and yet not free—to be under no physical constraint and yet to be a psychological captive, compelled to think, feel and act as the representatives of the national State, or of some private interest within the nation, want him to think, feel and act.”
— Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
He walked around the entire building. It had a single drive-through, and double door heading into the interior. It was clean but painted a drab gray that was almost a physical affront to the rest of the city.
Even worse, the interest rates on offer were the lowest he’d seen in ages. Heading to the door so he wouldn’t look like a robber casing the joint, he pushed it open and walked into a room so cold he shivered. Rubbing his arms to keep them warm, he stood in line facing an older woman who was the only teller on duty.
When his turn came, her attitude was desultory, as if she was on a work release program from the local prison.
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Carl smiled, reaching his hand across the opening to shake. Instead of taking his hand, she pulled back at the invasion of her personal space. “What are you doing?”
He held his hand up. “Trying to shake your hand. To be friendly. I’m from out of town, and I prefer to shake hands with the people I meet.”
The woman flattened her blouse down, giving him a look like she’d known that all along. “Fine.” She placed her hand in his, only her fingers touching his and only for a split second before she pulled her hand back by her side.
Keeping a smile on his face, he said, “I’d like information about this credit union. How many branches there are, what the rates for checking, savings, CDs, and the like?”
She put a hand on her hip. “You don’t want to open an account?”
Carl shrugged his one good shoulder, a smile still plastered on his face. “I might open an account, but I’d like more information first to make an informed decision.”
The manager wandered over, having seen the entire hand shaking episode. Carla wasn’t known for her customer service, but she wasn’t surly enough to get herself fired. She mostly kept to herself, and that worked fine for him.
Carl turned as a large, short man walked over, going behind the counter instead of approaching Carl directly. Low interest rates could be fixed with enough mathematical modeling, but poor customer service would take longer to rectify. He didn’t know how many branches La Grande Credit Union had, but he had just discovered one reason people had been going elsewhere.
The man was sweating despite the frigid temperature, and Carl immediately knew the reason for the sub-arctic air he was breathing. “What seems to be the problem here?”
Before the teller could answer, Carl spoke. “I came in seeking information to research whether to open an account or not. I offered to shake her hand, but she took offense and only shook reluctantly.” He turned to the bank manager. “Is this how you treat all your customers?”
Despite the man’s age, he spoke forcefully, and Mike always responded to force. He’d wanted to be a police officer, but after failing the physical exam—twice—he had ended up here instead.
The manager’s head swiveled back and forth so quickly Carl was afraid it might spin right off. “That won’t be a problem. Carla will pull together everything you need.” He motioned for her to do so as he walked out from behind the counter and steered Carl toward his office. “We have two branches. The headquarters are in La Grande, which you probably drove through on I84 on your way to Baker City. There used to be four branches, but two closed last year, one in Ontario, and the other in John Day.”
Carl took mental notes as Mike the manager spoke about the credit union, its problems—he tried to downplay those, although not very well—the CEO and CFO, and a variety of other things. He didn’t know how much a small credit union like this would cost, but he was excited.
Very excited.
Thanking the bank manager for his time after promising to think about opening an account, he walked out with a small fistful of pamphlets and brochures in his hands. From what he could tell, the credit union focused more on individual customers than businesses. He had a feeling that banks performed better with a mix of both customers and businesses, so that would have to be rectified as well.
He headed back to his room to drop everything off before stopping at the desk again to ask about a diner. The same young man behind the counter told him about a few, so he chose the closest.
After an enjoyable but short walk, he entered an older building, the hostess or waitress nowhere in sight. Even if the food here was decent, he missed the diner in Medford: it was that good.
Seeing that no one was heading his way, he grabbed a menu off another table that the waitress hadn’t cleared away yet. The menu offerings featured fried food, and while he had nothing against it, he preferred dishes that were homemade.
He waited another few minutes for a waitress to come out, just to be polite, but no one came out to see who might be here. Hungry and tired of waiting, he got up and left, heading to the next location he’d been given. It involved a bit of backtracking and then a long walk down a city block, but that gave him the opportunity to explore the town even more.
He liked rustic towns, and while Baker City was large enough to be called a city—it was in the name, after all—it still had the charm of a smaller town in the fifties and sixties. He didn’t see a single building that had been torn down to build something new, and he’d seen enough new construction along I84 to know why.
The second restaurant was a café, not a diner, but that was fine. It didn’t have a counter, which he thought was a shame, but it had clean tables and someone who popped her head up from cleaning a table to tell him to ‘sit anywhere.’
Taking a seat at a table by the window that gave him a broader view of the city, a few seconds passed before a hot cup of coffee was set down before him. The young waitress he’d seen before whipped out a notepad from her apron.
“What’ll you have?”
Carl put the menu aside. “Any specials today?”
She nodded, an impish grin on her face. To his eye she looked like she should be in high school, but he knew that was his own age speaking. “Today it’s T-Bone steaks with mashed potatoes and gravy. Or you can have the porterhouse.”
Using his right hand, he pointed at his left arm hanging uselessly beside him. “I think steak is out.” The waitress’ face fell, but she perked right back up. “I could cut it for—”
Carl held up his good hand. He hadn’t had anyone cutting food for him since he was a child, and he wasn’t about to start now. “I appreciate the offer, but no. What else do you recommend?”
Nodding resignedly, she started listing them off. “We have roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes. Lamb chops, and…” The list went on for a while, almost all of it disappointing. “… and we serve breakfast all day.”
If Carl had a cowboy hat, he would have thrown it in the air and whooped up a storm. “I’ll have bacon and eggs, hash browns on the side. You keep the coffee coming and I’ll leave a nice tip.”
She nodded, the impish grin returning to her face. She placed a bottle of ketchup on his table, then followed that up with a top off on his coffee. It was decent coffee, too, hot and fresh without being bitter.
His food came out less than fifteen minutes later, the eggs perfect and the bacon crispy. Scraping the hash browns from a separate plate over the eggs, he then muddled them together until it became a yellow-brown mess that looked delicious. He added a couple squirts of ketchup to top it off and got to eating.
Just as he’d asked, his coffee cup was refilled every time it got below half. She didn’t hover over him, but she kept one eye on him while working other tables.
When she came to ask about dessert, he begged off, unable to take in any more food. He left a nice tip as promised, because the meal had been fantastic. It wasn’t a diner, but he found that he didn’t care as much as he’d thought he would.
* * *
His cell phone rang as he was heading back to the hotel.
“Carl here.”
“Carl, it’s Tom. I’ve got your map ready.”
Carl grinned. He didn’t know if he’d find gold or silver, but having a good map would give him an edge up either way. “I’ll head over right now.”
Pushing the flip phone closed, he changed directions. Ten minutes later, the little bell over the door tinkled as it opened and closed.
Tom was behind the counter with two tubes in front of him. Carl reached out to shake, and Tom did so. “It took a bit of work, but I think this is what you’re looking for. It covers the entire area from the Walla Walla down to just south of Ontario, and over a bit into Idaho. I know it’s more than you asked for, but I prefer to over-deliver. It keeps customers coming back.”
He pulled the map from the first tube, then unfurled it on the counter after weighing down the corners with little leather bags of sand. “I divided them into east and west. This one here covers the east, including most of the Blue Mountains, and ends just shy of McCall, Idaho. If you can’t find what you’re looking for here, then you need to keep looking. And maybe come in and get a new map.”
Tom chuckled at his own joke, the sound low like it was coming from deep in his throat.
Carl admired the map, seeing the plat lines he needed along the edges. They changed at the border between Washington and Oregon, and then again in Idaho, but that was fine. Despite the multiple national forests, if he couldn’t find a few good mines here, then he really was out of his element.
Pulling out his company credit card, he handed it to Tom. He ran it through a little extension in his phone, which Carl had never seen before. Still, it seemed to work, and soon he was on his way back to the hotel. He planned to lay these beauties out on the bed and plan out his activities for tomorrow.
Chapter 24
“We are at war, and the enemy knows that the subconscious absorbs everything.”
— Wayne Gerard Trotman
He got back to the hotel a few minutes after 5pm, picking up his movies at the desk. The clerk pulled them from a little cubby on the back wall where Carl imagined messages—or even telegrams in the Old West days—had been kept until the residents returned to the hotel.
He’d selected 3:10 to Yuma and The Longest Day from the DVDs packed into the box. He doubted he’d watch both tonight, but he was happy they had a decent movie selection amongst all the dross. He knew he’d be watching 3:10 to Yuma tonight, because it was the kind of gritty western that he preferred. And Glenn Ford was a heck of an actor.
He spread the maps out on top of the queen size bed. They were wider than the mattress, with the edges hanging over on three sides. Still, it gave him a sense of where to start. Just as Tom had mentioned, there was a swath of gold and silver mines going north to south just west outside Baker City, and then another, smaller, swath going west to east further north.
Ignoring those, he circled in pencil a few promising sites. He liked areas where one or two mines struck metal as there was always the possibility that other possible mine sites nearby might have been overlooked. He circled a dozen or more of those areas, a few bordering national forests. There were quite a number of mines clumped together in certain areas, and for the moment he ignored those. He needed to look where others hadn’t.
Looking at the clock, he saw that it was almost 7pm. He made a pot of coffee in the small machine in his room, filling up the carafe in the bathroom, then rolled up his maps and put them away. That done, he kicked off his shoes and called in to his answering machine.
He had two messages, one from Gene and the other from Charles. Knowing Gene, he had likely left him a long message about the security systems he wanted to install, while also reminding him of the upcoming UFO conference. He skipped Gene’s and listened to Charles’.
“Carl, sorry I missed you. Rebecca said you’d just left for eastern Oregon. Anyway, I found contractors for the building. One can handle only the structural repairs and the renovation upstairs, while the other two can do the entire job themselves. All three come highly recommended. Let me know what you think, and we’ll get started.” The message paused but didn’t end. “I think we need to communicate better. I realize I’m the manager and you’re the boss, but I can’t be effective if I don’t know what’s going on. Call me when you get a chance, and we’ll discuss.”
