A SERIES OF meetings took place over the coming days in which the ballistics student dragged details from his project sponsor, as he explained matters to his course professor, on the nature of the delivery vehicles for the mail shot.
'Parachutes?' he said later.
'Why? No one's going up in them,' Teasel objected, 'though that would be jolly useful come to think of it. A few school kids word perfect on set speeches might make quite an impact.'
'Quite a mess rather say,' Stane replied, shaking his head. 'The weight would be prohibitive. Keep the things light, helps with precision guidance.'
'Still needs a message though.'
'Simple device made as light as possible with miniature amplifiers to get the word across for your, erm, sponsors,' he reassured the other. 'Quite feasible with the right wind patterns. Modules like that can be purchased on-grid.'
'Then get cracking. Summer Pause is almost upon us and my clients need the exposure.'
Thus a somewhat ambitious and probably quite illegal advertising campaign was literally launched from a somewhat remote area of Frangea, remote thanks to Shimmer Blane's reputation for destruction.
One fateful and slightly foggy morning two splendid looking rockets shot impressively into the infinite blue of the sky at the press of a button and disappeared from view sooner than even Stane expected.
'Potent stuff that chemical fusion fuel,' he muttered, shading his eyes against the dazzle.
Then they waited, and waited and after a decent period when on-grid messaging remained a complete blank it started to look as if this first attempt was a complete failure, for there was not a word from potential customers.
At the very least a few sonic boom complaints might have drifted in. Bad news is good publicity, Teasel Marchmont reminded himself, but no news is bad news through and through.
'I've visited the several location sites today,' he said to his project manager, as Stane was calling himself by this time, having waited long enough for results.
'And?'
'With the first, absolutely nothing. Not even a broken pane of glass, which was the very least I expected when I gave you those coordinates.'
'Ah yes, you wanted to notify the greenhouse manufacturers of an unbreakable substance one of your client's was offering. Perhaps they already employed the new discovery,' the lad suggested. 'And it just bounced off.'
'Impossible. It hasn't been made yet. Merely meant as an investment option. I'm good at those. Then there was the safety gas device just to the north there,' and he flourished his location map again.
'Not so much as a flare up?' the ballistics expert said. Though serious about the project from an engineering standpoint, the actual advertising methods left him bemused.
'Quiet as a drowned mouse in a block of ice,' came the curious comparison.
'Passing strange,' the other replied. 'Leave it with me and I'll do a bit of rejigging on the next batch. I can assure you the programmed coordinates were accurate to a hair on that frozen mouse of yours. The figures in Damnation Mole's gravity adjustment tables for Gridmarks have been in use for over a hundred years and I've the latest copy too of
Algorithms For A Fun World
, printed specially by the Academy of Sure Things Press.' He waved a fat book reassuringly.
'Which is really good to know,' Teasel responded flatly. 'Check, double-check and triple-check all your figures before pressing that button on these three beauties,' he added, giving to his project manager without a social life a swatch of guidance notes for the next three mail shots. 'Make sure with that one a sultry female voice is used on the delivery message. Believe me, it'll make all the difference.'
'Inflatable pillows for a men's hostel? Guaranteed sweet dreams? Well, that's not my area of expertise,' Stane admitted with a shrug. 'I just send them up and bring them down.'
'In the right place,' Teasel reminded him.
'Of course.'