The proposal was in the wind, sailing north on the rust-streaked hull of the Baltic Star. For three weeks, there was nothing to do but wait and tend to the empire at hand. Rajendra found the silence from Moscow unnerving. It was like having lit a fuse on a very long, very expensive firecracker and then realizing you'd forgotten where you put it.
"Patience, bhai," Ganesh said, watching him pace the office. "Even bombs take time to fall."
"I'm not a patient man, Ganesh. I'm a man who prefers immediate, satisfying explosions."
Meanwhile, the legitimate side of his life was booming like festival firecrackers. Shanti's latest sales report was a thing of beauty, if you found spreadsheets beautiful. Pressure cooker demand had spiked so high their two small workshops in Pune and Gujarat were singing hymns to the god of overtime. Workers were threatening to unionize just to get some sleep.
"We need a proper factory," Shanti declared, storming into his office with the energy of a monsoon gust. "Not these back-alley sheds. We need assembly lines. Quality control labs. A canteen that doesn't serve food that doubles as a biological weapon."
"I agree," Rajendra said, leaning back. "Find the land."
"That's the problem. All the good industrial land within sensible distance is owned by people who either won't sell or want a price that includes your first-born child."
Ganesh, who had a map of greater Mumbai's ownership patterns in his head, cleared his throat. "There is one person. Indumati Patil. Widow. They call her the Matriarch of Bhiwandi. She has over a hundred acres near the rail line. Good land. She doesn't sell. Ever."
"Why not?"
"Sentiment. Her husband built a textile empire there. The mills are gone, but the land is her memory. Also, she's richer than god and twice as stubborn. She's also… pious. A devotee of Sai Baba of Shirdi. Politicians touch her feet, not the other way around."
Rajendra considered. A sentimental, pious, ultra-wealthy matriarch. You couldn't threaten her. You couldn't bribe her. You had to… woo her. It was a terrifying prospect.
"Send a generous donation to the Shirdi temple," he instructed Ganesh. "In her family's name. No note. Let it be anonymous, but make sure the priest knows where it came from."
"Wooing via holy proxy," Shanti noted dryly. "Romantic."
The political winds were also shifting. Priya Singh came to Mumbai, ostensibly on a study break. She met Shanti for lunch at the Cricket Club of India, a place so steeped in establishment air that the butter refused to melt unless formally introduced.
"The IMF people are like vultures with calculators," Priya said over delicate cucumber sandwiches, her voice low. "My grandfather is spending his days arguing that India can reform itself, that we don't need to sell every bridge to foreign companies. He needs… examples. Private sector successes that are efficient, export-oriented, homegrown. A small company that can show how it's done."
Shanti stirred her tea. "A company like MANO, for instance?"
"A company exactly like MANO," Priya said, smiling. "If, say, you were to secure a nice export order—for your textiles, perhaps, or even those quirky pressure cookers—to a friendly foreign nation, and do it through clever channels that don't beggar our foreign reserve… it would be a very useful story for a certain Finance Minister to tell."
The offer was clear: become a poster child for the new India, and enjoy the protective shade of the most powerful economic mind in the country. The trade-off was living in a goldfish bowl.
"We'll see what we can arrange," Shanti said, her mind already racing through the implications.
A week later, Rajendra found himself in a car bumping down a potholed road in Bhiwandi, heading toward the Patil estate. He'd chosen a simple white kurta-pyjama, projecting earnest humility. He felt like a sacrificial lamb being delivered to a particularly discerning lioness.
The Patil bungalow was a monument to faded Maratha grandeur—weeping stone arches, overgrown gardens, and the faint, ghostly smell of machine oil from the long-silent mills nearby. He was shown into a sitting room that was part drawing-room, part shrine. Portraits of grim-faced ancestors shared wall space with garlanded pictures of Sai Baba.
Indumati Patil entered without sound. She was a tiny woman, wrapped in a simple white sari, her back straight as a ruler. Her eyes were black, sharp, and missed nothing. She did not offer him a seat.
"You are the mill-owner's son," she stated. Her voice was like dry paper rustling.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You sent money to Shirdi."
"It was a pious act. Not a transaction."
A faint, almost imperceptible snort. "Everything is a transaction, boy. Why do you want my land?"
Rajendra abandoned any pretense of slick negotiation. He went with the truth, or a polished version of it. "My father's mill died. It broke him. I don't want to just make money. I want to build something that lasts. Something that gives good work, makes things we can be proud of. I have a product," he placed a MANO Supreme Pressure Cooker on the low table between them, "that is better than what anyone else makes. Women trust it. I want to make a million of them, properly. Not in a dirty shed. In a clean, modern factory. I need land to do that."
She looked at the pressure cooker as if it were a strange alien artifact. "You make pots."
"I make tools that save time and fuel for Indian families. It's a small thing. But small things matter."
"And you think because you donated to my Baba, I will give you my husband's land?" Her tone was dangerously flat.
"No," Rajendra said, meeting her gaze. "I think because you are a woman who understands legacy, you might lease me a small piece of it. Let me prove my word. A ten-year lease. You can inspect the factory every month. I'll build a temple for the workers and a clinic, as you require. If I break my promises, if I run a dishonest shop, you take the land back. My contract will be my bond."
The room was silent for a full minute. A clock ticked loudly.
"Five acres," she said finally. "Not ten. The rent will be high. Inspections will be weekly, and I will send my man, not come myself. The temple will be to Sai Baba. The clinic will have a proper doctor. And you will hire thirty percent of your unskilled labor from the families of my old mill workers."
"Done," Rajendra said instantly.
She almost smiled. "You agree too fast. You are either a fool or very confident."
"I'm a merchant, ma'am. I know a good deal when I hear one."
As he was leaving, she stopped him at the door. "That Vasant Group. They are sniffing around you. Jackals. Be careful. My land comes with my… mild disinterest. Not with my army."
It was a warning, and a gift. She was already plugged into the gossip. He had just acquired not just land, but a notoriously prickly guardian angel.
The triumph was short-lived. Two days later, Shanti slammed a legal notice onto his desk. It was from the Indian Standards Bureau, citing a "formal complaint" regarding the safety testing protocols of the MANO Supreme Pressure Cooker. The complainant was listed as "a concerned industry stakeholder." Attached were glossy brochures from Vasant Group's "VasSafe" cooker line.
"They're saying our valves are prone to failure! That our safety certification is 'questionable'!" Shanti fumed. "This is pure slander! We have all the papers!"
"Of course we do," Rajendra said calmly, reading the notice. "They don't want to win in court. They want to tie us up in lawsuits, make distributors nervous, and bleed us dry with legal fees while their salespeople whisper in the market. It's corporate warfare. Cleaner than dockyard thugs, but just as dirty."
Ganesh added, "My contacts say Vasant's lawyers are like termites. They'll chew on you for years."
Rajendra leaned back. He needed a hammer. A big, undeniable hammer to smash this threat quickly and publicly. But he was cash-rich and leverage-poor in the legitimate world.
As if on cosmic cue, the universe delivered an alternative.
A thick, registered post envelope arrived from Singapore. Inside, no letter. Just a single sheet of crisp paper. A list, typed in Cyrillic with neat English translations inked beside each item.
Samarium-Cobalt Magnets (Grade 2:17), 800 kg.
Yttrium Oxide (99.99% purity), 500 kg.
Lanthanum-Nickel Alloy (hydrogen storage), 200 kg.
At the bottom, in the precise, familiar handwriting: "These are available. Immediate extraction possible. What is your market? Proceed with Project Ural. – A."
Anya had accepted. The vault was open. He was holding a shopping list for the backbone of the 21st century. And he had a market. A very specific, very demanding market.
He looked from the legal notice to the list of rare earth materials. A slow smile spread across his face. The Vasant Group wanted to play in the mud of bureaucracy? He'd just been handed a shovel made of neutron star.
"Ganesh, cancel my afternoon meetings. Shanti, stall the lawyers. Tell them we're 'reviewing the notice with our international technical partners.' Sound pompous and mysterious."
Alone, he accessed the System. He opened a channel to the Mad Scientist.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): I have come into possession of a limited quantity of high-grade permanent magnets. Samarium-Cobalt, Grade 2:17. Approximately 800 kilograms. I understand you utilize containment fields in your research. Are you interested?
The reply was faster than light.
Mad Scientist: Specify exact coercivity and energy product.
He relayed the specs from Anya's list.
Mad Scientist: Acceptable. That quantity is sufficient for 17 tertiary field stabilizers. What is your price?
He didn't want Void-Coins. Not for this.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): I require a trade. A piece of technology. Non-weaponized, Tier-1 or high Tier-0. Its purpose: material analysis and verification. It must be able to definitively, indisputably, analyze the molecular and structural integrity of a manufactured good—like a metal valve—and produce a report so authoritative it would silence any terrestrial regulatory body.
There was a pause. He could almost hear her calculating.
Mad Scientist: You wish to win a primitive standards war.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): I wish to decisively end one.
Mad Scientist: I have a device. A 'Molecular Integrity Scanner.' It is a Tier-1 archaeological tool used to date and authenticate artifacts without damage. It can be reconfigured to analyze metallurgical bonds and stress points. It will produce data beyond your planet's current measurement capabilities. It is bulky and requires a stable power source.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Can it be made to look… impressive? Like a very fancy science machine?
Mad Scientist: I can include blinking lights.
Was that… humor? From the plague-ridden scientist? He decided to take it as a yes.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): The 800 kg of magnets for the scanner, customized as described, and… 50 Void-Coins as a balancing fee.
Mad Scientist: Accepted. Delivery in 72 hours to your designated coordinates. Do not waste this tool on petty squabbles. The magnets will save time. Time saves lives.
The deal was struck. He would give Anya's Samarium-Cobalt to the Mad Scientist. In return, he would get a device that could prove, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the MANO pressure cooker valve was not just safe, but was, scientifically speaking, a masterpiece of earthly engineering. He would then shove that report down the Vasant Group's throat in the most public way possible.
He called Shanti back in. "Start planning a big press conference. In a week. We're going to have a dramatic scientific unveiling."
"Unveiling of what?" she asked, bewildered.
"Our new, incredibly expensive, and completely undeniable 'Quality Oracle.' We're going to test our valve live in front of God and everyone. And then," he grinned, "we're going to sue Vasant for defamation so hard their grandchildren will feel it."
The game was on two boards now. And on both, Rajendra had just drawn a card nobody else knew was in the deck. All he had to do now was not screw up the delivery of 800 kilograms of smuggled Soviet super-magnets to an interdimensional plague doctor. Simple.