Supositions: Continued

"So, anybody with a hundred and fifty thousand and a garage could have fabbed these?"

"Oh sure," the old man shrugged nonchalantly "as long as the neighbors didn't mind all the noise, you could afford the power and water bill, and you could stand the constant hundred plus heat that would be generated by the production.
"But then you have to factor in one other thing: so you got a variety of great cartridges, and I mean that: what fires them?"

"Right," Harper nodded as the realization dawned on him.

"The entire purpose of a firearm is to deploy a projectile. You know that. This little thing here," he held up a bindle with a small cartridge in it "looks like a nine, but it’s not: somewhere between thirty-eight and nine, and inside, it’s blacker than space. Now, of course it’s going to be black, you’re burning powder, right? But the burn isn’t just collected on the surface, with a little heat discoloration; it’s burned and pocked into the metal and that’s not even brass. My guess is titanium, maybe a ceramic composite. These things are fast and hot. No, make that HOT. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the round is actually burning.
"This big one," he held up another bindle "is a lot like an elephant round; and then you have these" he held up bindle with two casings that looked like D-cell batteries "are a lot like an ordinance round: bean bags, smoke grenades, that sort of thing.
"You add all that up: ordinance, weaponry, fabrication costs; manufacturing constraints and over head and you’re probably looking at closer to five hundred thousand or a million."

"Well, darn," Harper snapped his fingers. "There goes my garage theory."

"Out of the boat, and into the lake," the old man chuckled.

"Keep your ear to the ground for me?" Calvin asked as he picked his coat up.

"Absolutely," the old man nodded his head earnestly as he began dropping the bindles back into the large manilla envelope that they had been dumped from.

"Thanks for all you help," Calvin pulled his left glove on and held out his bare right hand.

"Any time," Calvin caught the sincerity in the old man’s eyes as he shook his hand firmly. "And tell Fletcher that just because it’s his turn don’t mean he can’t come around once in a while. Or at least call."

"I’ll do that, sir" Calvin said as he pushed the door open.

"And if you fellas ever need anything, hardware wise" he said with a wink "you come round here and we’ll see that you’re set up proper.

"No other place will even come to mind," and the door closed with a soft whisper, sealing the two men apart.

Calvin turned towards where he had left the car, his hands stuffed down in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched up about his neck, trying to shut out the cold that his up turned collar could not stop.

Things were supposed to be simpler now: he was supposed to have found out where the casings had been bought, get a sales receipt with the purchaser’s name and address and phone number printed clearly on it, call up said Johnny Lawbreaker "Yeah, will you be home at, say, Four, so that we can raid you home while you’re still in it? No? That won’t work? What about four-thirty or five then?" There weren’t supposed to be more questions about exotic rounds and spaceman pistols and gold plated machinery from the sun and planet destroying manufactory.

Calvin sighed in resignation, like a child that’s just been told that he will have to wait for his treat. A warmth, deep down in his chest, that had sparked to life when the old man had said "Well, bucko" was slowly beginning to grow. If he had wanted it easy, he would have stayed full-time with his father, programing AI’s and working out the kinks in MILOTREC’s quantum mechanics calculators.