"Huh?"
"Just climb in."
Mickey clambered in, finding himself standing amid a profusion of wiring and stacked car batteries.
Other balloons filled with hot air, revealing the faces of Dingbat Duck, Mucky Moose and other famous Beasley characters. All were smiling the identical vacant grin that, market researchers informed Mickey Weisinger when he'd first ordered them redesigned, people interpreted according to their own moods. And since they reflected each person's mood exactly, they could not be improved on.
Every basket was fitted with four pink Mongo Mouse ears, like lollipops made from frozen pink lemonade, so no matter what angle they were viewed from, the famous mouse ears jutted unmistakably. As he looked closely, Mickey realized that they were transparent plastic, like lenses. Inside each ear networks of filaments and semiconductors formed electronic webs.
"Do these things light up?" he asked.
"Do they ever," Bob Beasley grinned as he climbed aboard.
"Huh?"
"You'll catch on. In time."
"If I fucking live," muttered Mickey Weisinger.
The ground crews released the anchor ropes, and before his fear of heights could kick in, Mickey Weisinger was high in the sky over the peaceful Virginia countryside. Only then did he notice who rode the other balloons.
They were the concepteers, wearing official Beasley greeters costumes. One basket contained Gumpy Dog, wearing a Confederate soldier's trappings. Dingbat Duck also wore gray, as did Mucky Moose, Screwball Squirrel and others. Missy Mouse was dressed in the hoop skirt of a Southern belle.
In the second balloon, grinning like the idiot he was and waving inanely, stood Mongo Mouse. In Union blue of course.
"This isn't so bad," Mickey Weisinger said, relief in his voice. "This is kinda like an observation balloon, isn't it? We're going to observe the battle from a safe height, aren't we?"
"No," said Bob Beasley. "We're going to land smack dab in the thick of it"
"Meshugga schmucks," muttered Mickey Weisinger, clutching one of the guy ropes for support.
REMO WAS COLLECTING keppies. It was the Master of Sinanju's idea. As they moved into the fray, Chiun pointed out how the battle surged like tidal pools, with waves and streamlets of men following the officers who swirled about with a mad frenzy of their own. In the thick of battle, all men blended into a riot of milling uniforms. But the officers could be picked out from the rest by their upraised sabers holding keppies aloft.
It was just a matter of getting to the officers.
Chiun, being short, simply ducked low and flitted between combatants until he got within range. A stabbing fingernail to an elbow brought a Confederate saber and forage cap into his hands. He moved on.
Remo stood taller than most of the soldiers. The bulk of the fighting was being done with musket stocks, heavy stones and the stray bowie knife. Remo weaved out of the way of them all, his exposed skin functioning like an enveloping sensor array. He felt the body heat of attackers, shifted wide, and sensing the advancing shock waves of muskets aimed at his skull, artfully evaded all until he zeroed in on an officer.
Harvesting the keppies was simple enough. The officers fired off their Dragoon pistols, but since their free hand was occupied with their keppie banners, they couldn't reload. So they contented themselves with waving saber and pistol and accomplished nothing more useful than to shout themselves hoarse leading their men. Mostly about in circles.
Remo grabbed Union saber wrists, bent them against the natural flex and the sabres dropped obligingly into his waiting hand.
"Much obliged," Remo made a point of saying before moving on.
When they had collected every officer's saber on the battlefield, Remo and Chiun broke all but two and threw the others away. Remo went one way and the Master of Sinanju went the other, holding up opposing headgear.
It was a good plan. Perhaps brilliant strategy. The opposing forces, thinking most of their officers were down and needing leadership to carry them through the fog of war, began moving in opposite directions. Fighting began to break off.
That was the point when the balloons appeared.
They were hard to miss, hanging in the sky like great pink clusters of grapes, but amid the din no one noticed them arrive. Except the news helicopters, which hastened to get out of the way lest their rotor wash cause an aerial catastrophe.
When they were almost directly overhead, the pink mouse ears began to glow.
The sky turned pink. The entire battlefield was bathed in a hot pink glow.
All eyes were drawn to the source of the radiance.
And the magic began.
WHEN THE FIRST CHRONICLES of the Second American Civil War were penned, it was set down that the Third Battle of the Crater was halted by an angelic light streaming down from heaven. And when the forces of the two Americas looked up toward heaven, their anger was smitten by the smiling faces of familiar creatures who reminded them of their shared culture, their common heritage and their deep and abiding love of cartoon characters.
At least that was the way the Sam Beasley Corporation press release represented the event.
ON THE GROUND battle-sweaty men turned, faces lifting then slowly softening, curious eyes filling with a blazing pink radiance.
"Day-am! That be the pinkest pink I ever did behold!"
"Never had much truck with the hue myself, but I purely like that particular shade."
"It's a powerful shade of pink, all right."
"Right purty."
All across the battlefield hands that a moment before had been turned against other men because of the color of their uniforms or the queerness of their accents fell quiet. Arms hung slack in unthinking hands, all faces turned to heaven as the bright pink lights drew closer and closer.
"Ah do believe Ah spy the famous ears of Mongo Mouse," said Captain Royal Wooten Page, spanking dust off his hybrid uniform.
"Could be. But seems I recollect that mouse sports ebony ears."
"There's no mistakin' them hearin' appendages. Must mean Mongo Mouse hisself is a-cumin. "
And as the hovering balloons began venting hot air, dropping them toward the Crater in a silent string, the unmistakable figure of Mongo Mouse, waving from the lead balloon, became visible to all.
Forage caps and chapeaus were pulled off heads and clutched to chests both blue and gray in worshipful respect.
"It's that day-am mouse, all right."
"Gotta admit, it brings a catch to my heart to see his grinnin' ole puss."
"Shouldn't we be shooting that varmint?" Colonel Dixie asked in a wary tone.
"You wouldn't ventilate ole Mongo, now, would you?"
"He's come to despoil Old Dominion, ain't he?"