"You did it, that's a fact," Jerry Auburn said. He thought about it for long moments during which time the other held his peace. He sipped at his brandy until the glass was empty, then put it down and turned to one of the screens on his desk. He flicked it on, and when a face faded in, said, "Barry, make arrangements to sell all our interests in Auburn Space Development to the Space Federation. I have a gentleman here in my office named Ian Venner, from Lagrangia. Go over the details with him. You'll have to relay this to Central and to Sillitoe in London and Flaker in Berlin. But first, buy what common shares you can and add them to our holdings you turn over."
Barry Wimple gaped, but Jerry flicked the switch again and turned back to the equally gaping Lagrangist.
Venner said, "But look. We make a policy of paying cash, when we've accumulated enough credits to swing our latest acquisition. This was to be the largest thus far. We don't want to be saddled with paying interest for…"
"No interest," Jerry said flatly. "I'm turning my space properties over to your Federation." He stood and extended a hand. "Perhaps, someday, you'll be able to do a favor for me. Meanwhile, you can use those credits you've accumulated the hard way to buy up some other properties. The move is on, Venner, to create a world government. If such elements as the United Church are in control of that world state, you people are going to be in the soup. You'd better make yourselves as independent as possible, as soon as possible."
The Lagrangist, still in something of a daze, shook hands. He said hesitantly, which was out of character for him, "I don't know what motivates you, Auburn, but I assume that you've thought this out. And I can assure you that the Federation is most anxious to grant that favor.''
Jerry smiled suddenly. "No racism in space, eh?"
The other was mystified. "That's right. There hasn't been from the beginning."
When Ian Venner was gone, Jerry went back to his living room, got a double brandy from the bar, and spread himself out on a couch. He remained there for a couple of hours, staring unseeingly out the huge window which overlooked Manhattan. From time to time he got up to replenish the glass.
At one time he said aloud, "What in hell am I doing in this position?"
And ten minutes later he answered himself. "I was born into it."
It had grown dark outside by the time the identity screen buzzed on the door leading to the offices. He sat erect and looked over. It was Lester.
Jerry said, "Yeah?" a slight slur in his voice.
"Mr. Luca Cellini is here, sir."
"Send him in."
The door opened and an alert-looking stranger entered. In his late thirties, he could have been one of Jerry's staff, so far as appearance was concerned. He was dark of complexion in the Sicilian tradition, clean and handsome of features, sharp of eye. He took the room in completely in one quick sweep, then turned to its occupant.
Jerry got up and went over to the bar for still another drink, saying over his shoulder, "Sit down, Cellini. You're the Graf's local man?"
The newcomer seated himself in a comfort chair and crossed his legs, adjusting his beautifully tailored trousers.
He said, "That's right, Mr. Auburn, and for both hemispheres of the Americas. What can I do for you?"
Jerry came back, reseated himself on the couch, and viewed the other. He said finally, "What would you take to sell out the Graf?"
Luca Cellini stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "First of all, nine lives, like a cat."
Jerry said nothing, took a sip of his drink.
Cellini leaned forward a bit. "Mr. Auburn," he said "I don't want to antagonize you. I know who you are, and I know how much weight you can throw. Even the Graf wouldn't want to antagonize you. However, I've been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years. One of his scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I've been with him ever since. He even sent me to school. Now I'm settled in the organization. The pay's good, more than I could ever have expected with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He's been more than a father to me."
Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from the other. He said slowly, "The Grafs a has-been. Mercenaries are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arms to would-be revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of operation for you, is now part of the United States and sealed off from your operations. And that's just the beginning. World government is on the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for mercenaries and illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Death wish policies will be gone, since such policies will be illegal with a World State. There'll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since most of them are international and there won't be any nations. The Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get into the upper hierarchy of the World Club so he'll have a place in the new scheme of things. You rank-and-file employees will largely be dropped. So, looking out for your own interests, you'd better get out while you can."
Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the Graf's organization by being slow.
He said, "Mind if I smoke?"
Jerry shook his head.
The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela. The end had already been pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and lit the long cigar carefully. He said, "I couldn't sell out the Graf. He'd get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those Deathwish policy suckers. Few of them last a week."
Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn't need. His eyes were already shining in the characteristic way they did after a half-liter of spirits.
He said, "Try this. We'd arrange a Shootout in which you were involved. You'd supposedly take a couple of hits and the ambulance would haul you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my payroll. He'd operate on you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half inch or so out of one of your shin bones, so you'd be left with a noticeable limp. When you were released from the clinic, the doctor's report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one of your kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it. You'd report to the Graf or Peter Windsor or whoever you report to, that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise like Samoa, and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension the Graf settles on you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporated is gone from the scene—possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the rest of your life where you're not apt to run into any of your present associates. So, the question is still, what would you want to sell out the Graf?"
Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, "Could I have a drink?"
His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it and poured himself a triple from the same bottle his host had used, He swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.
He said, "One million pseudo-dollars, tax-free and untrace-able."
Jerry nodded in agreement. "Very well. As you leave, Lester will make arrangements with you to deposit that amount to whatever account you prefer. I assume that you have at least one secret account in Nassau, Tangier, or wherever."
Cellini nodded. "I know you don't welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What did you want from me?"
"What happened to Harold Dunninger?"
"He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn't pony up the ransom, they hit him."
"I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?"