Then again, this game wasn’t rigged at all. Couldn’t the businessmen looking at this map see the obvious answer to their problem?
And if they couldn’t, how could Kris open their eyes?
Or as the famous Billy Longknife was sometimes heard to mutter under his breath, “There are none so blind as those who have their eyes wide open but can’t see a damn thing.”
Concentrating on her problem, Kris ignored the soft sound of the door opening . . . until a familiar voice said. “Dad, you didn’t tell me we were getting a visit from Kris Longknife today.”
“Bobby,” Kris shouted, her problem only too happily tossed for the moment as she stood to get and give a hug to her old school bud.
“It’s Mr. Robert DuVale here, and I hear it’s Princess Kris these days.”
“Strange thing, that. It’ll teach me to turn my back on my own kin,” Kris said, trying to make a credible grumble through her grin for her old friend.
“Isn’t it always your own kin?” Bobby whispered in Kris’s ear as he finished the hug.
“So, what are you doing in my town?” he demanded of her.
“Listening to your old man gripe,” Kris said, and got several soft snickers from around the room, which were quickly swallowed as Mr. DuVale met them with a glare. “Listen, Bobby, maybe you can help me out.”
“If I hadn’t helped you out, you would have flunked several business courses.”
“Only ’cause my grampa Al signed me up for them against my will. And I was doing my best to flunk them.”
“You didn’t have a chance. Not with Julie as your study partner.” Now both of them smiled at the shared memory of one schoolmate that wasn’t here.
Mr. DuVale’s glare deepened into full glower.
“About these dukedoms,” Kris said, tapping her map on some of the new cowpoke dukes. “Are there some kinds of local minimums you have to meet before you can officially get a baron recognized or a duke seated in the House of Dukes? On Wardhaven, we won’t let a new county have a representative in parliament until it has fifty thousand people living in it.”
“It’s kind of the same here,” Bobby said. “You have to have at least ten thousand people and fifty thousand head of cattle before you’re officially a duke. And it has to be in the boundaries officially set out for a dukedom.”
“Fifty. Thousand. Cows?” Kris said.
“And ten thousand people,” Bobby added.
“Can you believe these people!” Mr. DuVale snapped.
“Denver once fell below the fifty-thousand-head requirement, and they tried to disestablish us. My father had to pay through the nose to buy a hundred cows real quick from Austin.”
No question, the ill will here had good cause . . . and a long history. But if Kris let them turn the conversation back to their gripes, they’d never see what was sitting right in front of their noses.
“Just ten thousand people,” Kris echoed.
“And fifty thousand cows,” Bobby repeated.
She let that hang in the air between them until Bobby shook his head.
“Sorry, Kris, but what you have to understand is that the people of Denver and Detroit are very proud of their cities and the culture we attract to these centers of human endeavor.”
“I’ve been listening to a lot about those cultural achievements,” Kris admitted, trying not to let it out too dry.
“And nobody around here would want to move out to dusty little towns where a square dance on Saturday night is the top of the social calendar,” Bobby finished, staring tight-lipped at his father.
“But for that girl, you’d move out to a hog farm,” the older man exploded. “My father worked himself into an early grave making Denver into the type of city that we could be proud of. That could draw stars from half of human space to our opera house, our theaters, our ballet.”
“And you’ll work yourself into an early grave trying to keep it that way,” Bobby snapped.
“Ah, folk,” Kris said. “I’ve been there, done that, cussed my elders, and stomped out. You don’t have to rerun this little tizzy just for me.”
The two DuVales continued to glare at each other. The others around the table looked like they’d rather have a dentist drilling than be here.
“So,” Kris said slowly, “there’s a reason why eight million people are crammed into just three dukedoms.”
“We will not,” Mr. DuVale said, hand raised to heaven, “scatter our seed in the dust. My grandchildren will not be raised to be uncouth hicks.”
“Keep this up, and you won’t have any grandchildren,” his son said in a harsh whisper.
“Okay, okay, folks, let’s nobody have a heart attack. Bobby, I’m having a hard time understanding things. I can’t seem to get from A to B to C, just like in college.”
“Kris,” he said, starting to breathe almost normally, “you were never dumb. Blind to the human condition, maybe. Unwilling to admit people weren’t all that eager to submit to your idealism. But never dumb.”
“You may be right. I’ve had a painful time lately, growing up.” Here Jack made his presence known with a loud snicker.
“No comments from the guilty bystanders,” Kris said. “Bobby, if you can see that you need more dukedoms and you want to get out of Denver, why are you still here?”
“Because I can’t borrow a nickel to start up Ft. Louis on the confluence of the Platt River and the Big Muddy, down here,” he said, stabbing the map at a point far to the west.
“That an empty dukedom?”
“Totally vacant.”
“Could you get anyone to move there with you and Julie?”
“If I got five minutes on the six o’clock news tonight, I’d have ten thousand volunteers by this time tomorrow.”
“And money is all that’s keeping you here?” Kris said. “What about cows?”
“Julie says there are plenty of ranch kids that would love to move a hundred head of cattle out east and set up on their own. Hard to believe that I’m not the only one whose old man doesn’t want me to have the same chances he had.”
“It’s too risky,” his father snapped. “No one would lend them a dime.” Mr. DuVale glanced away just long enough to fix his glower on three of the men who’d been introduced as bankers. They nodded in agreement with the middle-aged plant owner.
“Everything’s too risky for your bankers, Dad. But that’s because everything has to be done just the way it is done,” Bob said to his father, then turned to face Kris.
“When you were in cowpoke country last night, did you happen to see the jerry-built rigs those cowboys drive around in?”
“I couldn’t miss them. Your limo was a delightful surprise today.”
“Here in Denver, we produce cars. Cars, mind you, and large eighteen-wheelers that require the fine roads we have here. No pickup trucks. No four-by-fours.”
“But all I saw last night among the ranchers . . .” Kris said slowly.
“Were truck wrecks,” Bobby finished. “Every once in a great while, one of the ranchers will buy a car from us and drive it straight to one of their repair and customization shops. First thing they do is cut the back end off with a welding torch. Maybe they patch together a couple of seats, then build up a truck bed. You saw a lot of those.”
“Yes,” Kris said, “and they all looked like they’d been beat up and crashed and glued back together, or something.”
“Mainly, it’s the something. You want to ask the guy who runs Page Automotive why he doesn’t produce trucks?”
“Not really, but I suspect I ought to.” Kris glanced around the table, spotted one fellow who looked like he’d rather be under it than sitting at it, and asked, “On Wardhaven, we make all kind of vehicles, from small off-road gadabouts to eighteen-wheelers. Why don’t you?”