Here is an excerpt from Chapter Seven of the Chimera Crusade. Walt is flying in the cockpit of the Zumee on a search for the king's ring, which he is trying to steal and deliver to the Head, who is the king's enemy.
“I guess we head to the Academy next, then.” Walt said.
A noise came from Zumee that almost sounded like a muffled
snicker followed by more machine noises and then stated, “Plotting a course for
the Academy. It is not far from
Labyrinthia. We will be there
shortly.”
The Zumee had just emerged high out over the fog covering
Labyrinthia and now changed course toward the Academy, which was located in the
sunlit desert on the horizon, small but visible already.
In the Governor’s mansion, two figures sat in dim amber
light. One figure in a grey robe sat at
a table stacked with dusty grey and black machines, connected with wires and
cables. The other was a boy silhouetted
in shadow, busily working controls on the face of a tall black obelisk.
A muffled, unpleasant chuckle emitted from under Skrudge’s
hood, “Heh, heh, heh.”
Skrudge sat in front of an old tabletop microphone, the
style used by radio announcers in the 1940s, and pressed a button with his
yellow forefinger on the black and ivory bakelite intercom that also sat on the
same desk. A grinding buzz
followed.
Through the papery, distorted speaker the deep voice of the
Head replied, “Good news, I hope?”
“Good and bad, your Eminence.” Skrudge hissed.
“What is bad?” The
Head asked with gritted teeth.
“The Shadow man did not find the ring.”
“Blast his stupid jelly brained, weak willed snot
face!” The Head howled.
“Yes, your Eminence.”
Skrudge replied, drawing out the ‘s’ sounds.
“Then, what is good!” The Head demanded.
“I have directed the shadow-man to the Academy where my
brothers will direct him toward the next stage of our mission.” He chuckled slowly.
“But what of the RING?
We must have the ring!” The Head demanded.
“Agreed, your Emminence.
We have eyes in many dark corners.
We will find it.”
“Be sure that you do.”
The Head demanded. “The spread of
our rebellion depends upon it.” The Head
clicked off the intercom in the middle of Skrudge’s reply, “Yes, your Em….”
Skrudge twisted a knob to “FWD” on a large reel to reel tape
deck that began playing machine noises, beeps and whirling, and then clicked on
the microphone, announcing, “Captain, prepare for landing. Zumee is arriving at the Academy.” The microphone altered Skrudge’s voice from
wheezing and hissing to sounding clear, flat and mechanical. The wheezing and hissing came across as radio
static.
Zummee landed with a mild lurch on the desolate dry ground
outside of the “Madministration Building”.
Walt noticed the name from the cockpit and laughed aloud
commenting, “Ha! They misspelled administration!”
Zumee replied with annoyance. “Not so.
Look more closely. It is
‘Mad-Ministration’. The full title of
the Academy is the Bureau of Mad-Ministration”.
Walt leaned forward and squinted, “Yeah, I guess there is a
small hyphen in there.” Then half to himself but still loud enough to be heard
by Zumee, “What kind of a bureau is that?”
“Quite the ideal one for our … your purposes, Captain.”
Zumee responded tersely. “Zumee anticipates
you will find your encounter with the headmaster most enlightening. En route, Zumee signaled your arrival along
with an introduction and certification of your credentials and the authority
conveyed to you by his Eminence, the Governor.
They are expecting you. Zumee
out.”
Before Walt could reply, the engine and controls powered
down and the hatch popped open. “Here’s
your hat. What’s your hurry?” Walt grumbled.
Skrudge turned to the silhouetted boy and said, “You may
take a short break. Go watch some orb if
you like.”
The silhouette shuddered as if not knowing what to
decide. “I want to play more!” He
announced.
“Not now. The game is
over.” Skrudge gnashed his teeth. “Go watch some orb and I’ll send a rat for
you when it is time to play again. Now,
go.”
The boy disappeared down the hall toward his room, while
Skrudge returned to his machinery, turning the radio dial and pressing the mic,
he called out, “Skrudge to Mad-Min, Skrudge to Mad-Min. Do you read me, Mad-Min?”
Walt walked up the steps of the Mad-Ministration
building. The sun was blistering hot on
his flight suit and he was already sweating after just leaving the Zumee. He entered the building to find himself in a
high ceilinged, dingy, hot and stuffy waiting room with a single unadorned
black ceiling fan, hanging from a long pole.
The fan turned so slowly that it was irritating to watch, as it were
proclaiming, “You could feel a refreshing breeze, but I’m only going to spin
enough to show you what I won’t do for you.”
The waiting room had rows of sturdy oak chairs with armrests. The black vinyl covered back and seat
cushions were very worn and deeply compressed, indicating that all of the
cushioning capability wore out years ago.
The room itself had badly worn oak floors with matching oak
chair rail all around the lower walls and cracked and stained plaster above
them, rising to the tin-printed ceiling tiles between heavy rafters. Above the chair rail, at the front of the
waiting room, there were dirty narrow long windows that permitted a sickening
light to fill the room. Off to the right,
flanking a hallway that led to the interior of the building, was a wood framed
cubicle with yellowed glass and a hole in the center through which one could
speak with the receptionist. Behind the
glass sat a sleepy-eyed, heavy, yellow-green person at the reception desk. She had blueish-grey hair so perfectly curled
that Walt wondered if the curlers were still in her hair. A stub of a cigarette hung, stuck onto her
blood-red lipstick. Her arms were
crossed over her chest moving up and down slowly with her sleep-like pace of
breathing. Walt wondered if she were one
of those people who slept with their eyes partly opened. She displayed no hint that she saw him.
Standing in front of the hole, Walt observed a large ashtray
piled and overflowing with cigarette butts.
Several cups of coffee with mold growing on them surrounded the
receptionist. Walt felt a hint of gag
reflex and cleared his throat, “I’m Doctor, er… Captain McCay. I believe I am expected.” Before he could finish,
the receptionist cocked open her right eye and lifted her left forefinger from
her crossed wrists, pointing toward the open hallway. Her eyelid then drifted back into place. Walt was so repulsed that he stopped himself
from even giving a “thank you” from habit. As he turned toward the hallway, he
heard a sudden snort followed by a long round of snoring volume out of the
reception window.
Walt walked down the hallway looking for signs on doors to
find the headmaster’s office. He did not
go far when he spotted a tarnished brass sign that said “Headmaster Moant”. Walt knocked on the door.
“Enter.” A deep rough
voice spoke. Walt entered a dimly lit
office with floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Behind a large oak desk sat a stocky man in a stark white dress shirt
that appeared to have a strangle hold on his thick neck. The collar of his shirt was high and stiff
with a striped bow tie and suspenders. The headmaster’s face was round and red
with a dimpled chin and jaws like a moray eel, and small black eyes to
match. He had close-cropped, flat-topped
drill sergeant style gray blonde hair, and his ears and nose were puffy like an
old boxer who did not retire soon enough.
He looked nothing like what Walt expected. 
These impressions gathered in Walt’s mind in a second, not perceptively
delaying his practiced introduction, “I am Captain McCay. I believe you were expecting me.” He started to reach out his hand but the
headmaster never moved from his desk.
“Sit.” The headmaster commanded. Walt sat.
He even sounded like a drill sergeant.
The headmaster picked up a cigar from a dark red glass ash
tray the size of a salad plate. He
re-lit it and puffed while considering Walt through a cloud of smoke. The silence and beady-eyed examination made Walt
shift nervously in the leather chair.
“Yeah. I was expecting you alright.” The headmaster broke the silence with a
gravelly voice.
