Chapter 9

The ringing of metal welcomed the visitors to the ironworks. Smells of hot metal, oils, and water vapor clung to each breath. After entering the tractor-trailer sized open rollup door, the two men stood at the office door.

Rey looked up at the treble clef which sat securely on the ledger lines. He wanted the piece to cool before he added the notes. Shadows fell across the piece he was shaping. Turning, he saw two very large men.

Not wanting to lose a potential customer, he waved. "You two go on into the office. I'll be in there in a moment or two."

Crossing over to the wall-mounted sink, Alan turned on the water. He pumped two good-sized, dollops of cleaner onto his hands. Lathering quickly, he rinsed the morning's accumulated grime down the drain. Wetting a towel, he looked into the steel mirror as he wiped his face, more to cool it than to clean it.

Humming and mumbling, he performed The Thrill is Gone for his own gratification. Crossing the floor, he made his way to the office door. Weaving around machines and materials, he watched carefully where he walked. He needed more work for the smithy and bruising a shin or tripping over things would do little to help make a good impression.

Oversized chairs in the office allowed the men to sit comfortably for a change. The blacksmith entered. Though six inches shorter than either of the men in the office, his chest was just as massive. Years of ironworking had built up his physique.

"Welcome to Ironwood Smithy," He tossed the paper towel he was still wiping his hands with into the trash. "I'm Alan Rey, the master blacksmith." He extended his hand.

Both of the seated men stood. The older of the two shook the blacksmith's hand first. He noted that the grip of the smith was firm but not posturing. If his work approached his character, he might be worth keeping.

"I'm William Whitefeather. This is my associate Paul Carson." Carson and Rey exchanged greetings. "We represent a company that needs several functional yet decorative gates."

Rey motioned for them to sit again. "How large?"

William nodded to Paul. "A pair of wrought iron gates for a twenty foot wide opening." Paul opened his satchel pulling out a folder.

"Free swinging or sliding?"

Opening the folder, Carson pointed to the specifications, "Swinging gates using an automated opener."

"You can buy these much cheaper from a gate company. I'd recommend Tarleton Industries. I have their card."

William raised his hand. "These have to be handmade and we need to have each day's progress documented with pictures. The time-line would be two months from today."

"It's gonna cost a lot."

William smiled, "Mrs. Danvers demands handcrafted items. She understands they are often expensive." Paul handed William an envelope. "This is a cashier's check for eight thousand dollars for materials."

Alan looked at the envelope. "What's the catch?"

"Send daily pictures of the work to the included address. Hopefully, in two months I will return and pay you eight thousand more if the gates are completed to the specifications and if the terms and conditions are met."

An hour later with the contracts signed, the men left. Rey sat down and began an order for the materials.

Alan Rey was in luck. One of the girls going to junior college with his daughter, Cheryl, set up a simple method for him to send pictures. He only had to have someone snap a picture each hour of the work done. Then at the end of the day, he set the camera in the cradle, clicked one icon on the computer and 'voila' the day's pictures were sent.

Ready for inspection, the two gates were in unsealed packing crates. Promptly at four in the afternoon, William Whitefeather entered the smithy again. Alan thought to offer him some coffee, but Whitefeather was already sporting a large cup decorated with alternating deep brown stripes; the words on the orange-banded white oval were hidden by his fingers.

"Afternoon, Mr. Whitefeather," they shook hands in greeting. "C'mon out back and you can inspect the gates."

He led Whitefeather to the finished product area. Whitefeather spent what felt like ten minutes snapping his own pictures with his large phone. He stared at the gates for another minute. Turning, he smiled.

Reaching into his jacket, Whitefeather pulled an envelope out. "Here is the balance in full."

"Thank you," Alan took the envelope but did not open it. "I like doing business with you."

"I have another offer you might be interested in."

The smile on Whitefeather's face gave Alan pause. If it wasn't illegal, well, the man did pay well. "To my office then."

He hated secrets. Now he had one he was compelled to keep. Whitefeather had given him vouchers to attend the Mid-South Heritage Fair in Atlanta, Georgia. In agreeing to accept these vouchers, he also had taken on the burden of this secret. His entire shop, lock, stock, and barrel, was going to somewhere off-planet called Wayward.

Any time he tried to share this information with someone, he became ill. Alan Rey had never paid much attention in school. He wasn't stupid; he had just wanted to work with his hands. It took two bouts of puking before he learned that this was a secret to keep.

With a face like his and a CAP score of 6.3, he was resigned to hoping his wife and two youngest could escape. With him today was not only his family, but also the families of his two apprentices; Freddy, his wife and a baby, and Patrick with his girlfriend of three years. Whitefeather wanted him to be sure to bring Anita Klein, the girl who had jury-rigged the picture process for them. Happily, this let Alan trick his daughter, Cheryl, into coming also. Cheryl had enough of a CAP score to volunteer. In one fell swoop, his family and employees would be saved.