I sat with lordly mien, puffing on an oversized puff-stick the while. And soon they were all cleared out. They had left some paper on his desk. He was waiting expectantly for me to produce my identoplate and start stamping. I opened a fresh chank-pop instead.
"There's one more thing," I said. "Take a little scrap of paper – that blue blank there will do – and write on it, 'Officer Gris: I consider your request for personal commission outrageous and refuse it. We only do business on proper channels and with total legality.' And sign it." He did all that and gave me the paper.
"Now," I said, "the ten thousand!" Some clerk had already brought it in. It was in a fabric wraparound case. He handed it over. I did not bother to count it. We big tycoons of business have to trust one another.
I began to stamp. Every time my identoplate hit a piece of paper, his grin appeared broader by half an inch. His head was practically split in half when I had finished. He was too satisfied. He was going to put in inferior goods or chemicals.
"As Inspector General Overlord for the project," I said, "I must warn you that I will catch all shorts and any spoiled chemicals or any faults in packing." A little bit of his smile faded.
"And if Lombar Hisst ever hears about this ten thousand, I will say allthe goods arrived damaged and the chemicals spoiled." He looked at me for a moment. Then he jumped up and pumped my hand. "I appreciate a careful client, Officer Gris." And he laughed. "We understand each other completely."
"I will stop by your shipping department and tell them where the two different shipments are sent. I will also want fifty spare shipping labels just in case some fall off." He handed me the fabric wraparound case. I put it and the blue handwritten note into an old lunch sack I had, folded, in my pocket. He saw me out clear through the bustling shipping department and to my airbus. He even waved as I took off.
"Am I rich yet?" Ske badgered at me.
I handed him ten credits. "You're rich," I said.
Actually, I had a glow inside me like a gallon of bubblebrew.
I suddenly wasn't poor! I could even buy some hot jolt and a bun!
"There was somebody watching this airbus," said Ske. He didn't seem as happy as I was. "I think you're being shadowed."
"Nonsense," I said. "Who would be interested in a perfectly legal government transaction? There's a jolt joint down there. Land so I can have some breakfast." Nothing was going to spoil this marvelous day!
Heavens help you now, Heller, I said to myself as I ravenously chomped down on a sweetbun. A clever Gris might not be enough. But a clever Gris and a richGris are an unbeatable combination! You're sunk!
PART TEN
Chapter 1
I was on my way to getting even richer, but first I had to cover some tracks. Be neat has always been my motto.
Still sucking crumbs out of my teeth, I stepped into a streetside message center and started dropping hundredths-of-a-credit tokens in the slots. I got a greetings envelope, a fancy note sheet used for sending presents and a pen. Using the little desk, I wrote: Know All Lombar: Happy going away present. H. was adamant to buy these supplies but I got in real quick to protect your interests. I hope I did right.
Your alert subordinate, SoltanFor a hundredth of a credit, you can get a facsimile of something. I took the million-credit Zanco bill, copied it and on the duplicate drew a huge circle around the total, put an arithmetical division sign on it and the figure "2".
Then I drew an arrow and wrote Lombar.He would certainly get the idea. We are used to using informal codes in the Apparatus.
On the greetings envelope, I wrote: To a Great ChiefThen I took the blue paper that Zanco had written, refusing to give me a commission. I held it up to the glass and dropped in another hundredth credit to get a copy. I took the duplicate and diagonally across the bottom wrote: Please can you lift this restriction a little bit?
That done, I splurged and bought a two-hundredths-credit cover envelope, put it all inside and addressed it formally – and top secret – to Lombar Hisst as Chief of the Coordinated Information Apparatus.
Of course I didn't put it in the regular post. I walked a little way up the street to a place I knew was a cover operation for the Apparatus – a women's underwear shop – and gave it to the agent in the back office for immediate transmission.
It made me feel very virtuous. I could hear Lombar purr when he got that! He might even say, "Ah, that Gris: a perfect subordinate." Lombar never turns down money!
I had breakfasted rather well. I had bought five huge sweetbuns and had only been able to eat four and a half. As a benign philanthropist, I handed the leftover half to Ske. He just glanced at the teeth marks in it and put it down on the seat. Ungrateful.
Nothing could dampen my euphoria. "Power City!" I commanded in a lordly fashion. "Boulevard of the Metal Markets!" My driver made muttering noises. It is natural. Nobody likes to fly over Power City if he can help it. I was shortly looking down upon it. That is to say, trying to.
The air over the place is a violent yellow. It is not smoke: it is the effect of huge induction fields on the surrounding atmosphere; it does things to molecules, whether gaseous or colloidally suspended solids. These induction fields come from the huge conversion energy generators that hum and roar away, furnishing the bulk of the power for this side of the planet and providing at the same time, most of its rarer metals. The conversion of one element to another delivers both the metals and the power. It is very neat, really. But there is a lot of ore dumping and downblasts from heavy flying trucks and the atmosphere is pretty clogged. The whole complex, with its towering elliptical transformers and elliptical streets, was first created about a hundred and twenty-five thousand years ago – at the time of the first invasion – and although it has vastly expanded, it is said that nobody has cleaned it up since.
Drivers and pilots hate to fly over it and through it. It gets their vehicles filthy. It also makes car radios and controls operate in weird ways. Traffic control beams get distorted and there are crashes. And all this, coupled with having to battle flying lorries and ground lorries arriving and leaving for all parts of the planet, has prompted some wit to call it "Profanity City." Ske dodged and cursed his way to the Boulevard of the Metal Markets. About a two mile stretch of hit-or-miss shops and warehouses, it is not where one would choose to drive for a scenic holiday.
My driver really cursed when I made him drive not just up it but also back down it. I ignored him. I was looking at the price signboards. They change daily and no company ever knows what another company is going to post and a smart operator like myself doesn't just pick up a communications link and say, "Give me three lorry loads of lead." No, indeed.
I finally chose one that seemed lowest today and directed the driver to land at the office. It was the Reliable Ready-Pack Take Away Metals Company.
I went in. They are used to dealing with factory agent buyers from Industrial City and there are no sales talks. It's all old-pal and put-it-in-the-truck. They are not used to seeing someone come up in a smart airbus, smoking a fat puffstick and looking down his nose at them. They looked surprised. Dealing in metals has made them metallic in appearance. Even their aprons look like they are cast.
"Military purchases are out back," clanked the salesman.
"This is personal," I said. I laid the old lunch bag on the counter and he started to walk off. I pulled a sheaf of gold-colored money out of it and he came back.