Cowder nodded, and Mike led the way back into his private office. He opened his desk drawer and took out the little pack that housed the workings of the vibroblade shield.
“That accident you were talking about, Sergeant—the one that made those vibroblades blow, remember? I got to thinking that maybe this could have caused it. I think that with a little more power, it might even vaporize a high-speed bullet. But I’d advise you to wear asbestos clothing.”
Cowder took the thing and looked at it. “Thanks, Mr. Gabriel,” he said honestly. “Maybe the kids will go on to using something else if vibroblades don’t work, but I think I’d prefer a rocket in the head to being carved by a vibro.”
“To be honest,” Mike said, “I think the vibro is just a fad among the JD’s now, anyway. You know—if you’re one of the real biggies, you carry a vibro. A year from now, it might be shock guns, but right now you’re chicken if you carry anything but a vibroblade.”
Cowder dropped the shield generator into his coat pocket. “Thanks again, Mr. Gabriel. We’ll do you a favor sometime.”
6
The firm of M. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGN was not a giant corporation, but it did pretty well for a one-man show. The outer office was a gantlet that Mike the Angel had to run when he came in the next morning after having spent the night at a hotel. There was a mixed and ragged chorus of “Good morning, Mr. Gabriel” as he passed through. Mike gave the nod to each of them and was stopped four times for small details before he finally made his way to his own office.
His secretary was waiting for him. She was short, bony, and plain of face. She had a figure like an ironing board and the soul of a Ramsden calculator. Mike the Angel liked her that way; it avoided complications.