Free The Exploding Detective by John Swartzwelder Page A

within
the island, then a blinding flash. When I could see again, I saw that the
condominiums had been vaporized.
    “Laser cannons,”
Overkill said proudly. “They can take out anything within four miles of this
island.”
    “Neat,” I said.
“Now let’s say you like those condominiums again.”
    Overkill
scratched his chin, then shook his head. “No, once I don’t like them, I can’t
start liking them again. They’re gone.”
    I thought about
this. “You’d better be careful with that thing then.”
    “You’re probably
right.”
    All these
weapons, though very impressive, seemed to me to be a bit of an over-reaction.
I asked him if he was really doing all this just because he had lost his job.
Could there also be some other, more personal problem that was driving him on
to this megalomania? Like most people, besides being what I actually am, I’m
also a psychologist.
    He considered the
question for a moment, then admitted that he had just quit smoking. That might have
something to do with it. “You should quit too,” he advised. “The smoke gets
into people’s drapes.”
    “The hell with
drapes.”
    He looked at me
as if I were mad. I wasn’t mad. I just don’t like drapes.
    “Besides,” he
continued, “I’m not a megalomaniac, I’m a master mind.”
    “What’s the
capitol of India?”
    He hesitated for
a moment, then said firmly: “India has no capitol.”
    I started to
argue, but changed my mind. This guy was dangerous. I had to remember that.
    “My weapons
aren’t just defensive, you’ll be pleased to know,” he continued as we resumed
walking, “I’ve also amassed an Unholy Army.”
    “Good for you.”
    “It took awhile.”
    “I’ll bet it
did.”
    “It’s not easy to
assemble an Unholy Army. Most unholy people already have unholy jobs somewhere
else. It’s hard to find someone who has the evil skills, who is also between
gigs. Recruiting has always been a big problem. You go to high schools and
speak and maybe you’ll get a few bad apples to sign up, but a big organization
needs thousands. That’s why modern super villains never get very far with their
operations. You can’t get the henchmen. That’s where my business sense came in.
If there’s a need, and nobody’s filling it, fill it yourself. Using my
technical knowledge as a professional toy and model maker, I began making my
own henchmen, to my own specifications.”
    “You’re great.”
    “I use a variety
of lightweight, strong, modeling materials: molded foam, polyvinyl chloride,
balsa and other light woods, titanium for strength, and so on, powered by
anything from rubber bands and clockwork to steam and gasoline. Their brains
are just small computers, running a few basic evil programs. To command them,
I’ve recreated great leaders from the past. I’ve got over fifty Napoleons now,
each one as clever as the original, but even better because they don’t eat or
sleep or give me any backtalk, or get poisoned by the British.”
    “You know, if you
put this much effort into something constructive, you could be a great man.”
    “Now you sound
like my mother. Here, let me show you how I make my troops.”
    He led me into
his factory. It was a huge low building that looked like an airplane factory.
Its floor was covered with endless rows of what looked like oversized copying
machines.
    “Right now these
machines are busy making my standard model troops, but they can be programmed
to reproduce just about anything. I’ll show you how it works.”
    He walked over to
some bins and looked inside.
    “First, we make
sure the raw material receptacles are at acceptable levels, and… they are.”
    “Hey,” I said,
“is this why your robberies in Central City were of warehouses and chemical
plants, instead of banks and jewelry stores?”
    “Sure. I don’t
need money. But I’m always running low on raw materials. Can’t ever have too
much.”
    He sat down at
one of the machines and tapped out a few commands on