“Oh, there’s bound to be a certain amount of wastage and falling by the wayside,” Wynter said unconcernedly, “but I’ve only been outlining the basics of the idea. In the actual event I would expect to revive clients who had four winners followed by one loser. Tell them it was the fault of the opposition and offer to let them have future tips at half price. That should bring in more than enough to compensate for erosion in the various tiers and leave some over to offset against expenses.”
Expenses. There was that word again. I mulled it over for a moment and said, “I get the feeling you didn’t pick me purely at random.”
“Of course not! I had to find somebody who controlled a mailing services outfit. It had to be big enough to cope with the first mailing shot, but small enough to keep a lot of nosy employees from screwing things up. It also had to be a place that wasn’t doing too well – so that the owner would be properly receptive to a good idea.”
“Hold it right there,” I snapped, squaring my shoulders. “What gave you the idea that … ?”
He silenced me by holding up one hand, palm outwards, and putting on a world-weary smile. “Don’t waste our time with all that stuff, Desmond. I’ve done my homework very thoroughly and I know exactly what sort of financial shape you’re in. Okay?”
“Then you should have costed the operation. Even with throwing in the paper at trade price, and fully automatic printing and folding and franking, the cost of 400,000 copies in the mail – even allowing for the new fax mail rates – is going to be … is going to be …” My voice faded to an undignified croak as I doodled some figures on my blotter.
“I can let you have eight thou in cash to prove I’m on the level, but that cleans me out. You’ll have to rack up enough credit to cover the rest of your investment. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t like it.”
“It’s only for a couple of weeks, then you can cream it back off the top – before you pick up your third of a million or more. What more do you want?”
“A drink,” I said firmly, producing a bottle of Tucker’s Choice from the bottom drawer of my desk. Wynter nodded when I offered him a glass and we sat for another hour sipping bourbon and discussing practical details of the scheme and going over the letters he had already drafted. Sometime during that hour – partly because of the booze, partly because I was desperate for money, but mainly because I was impressed by the thoroughness of Wynter’s pre-planning – I became totally committed to the adventure in applied mathematics.
After all, I told myself, even if it doesn’t work out exactly as planned, we’re bound to get some money back. It won’t be the end of the world.
Hah!
It was almost eleven when I went into Trev’s office and found he was still sitting in his thought projector. He is a very large young man, one of those people who insist on wearing T-shirts and tight jeans on figures which ought to be decently swathed. His face is huge, round and placid, unmarked by earthly cares, covered with the kind of fine golden fuzz that girls shave off their legs. His blue eyes look humorous when there is nothing to laugh at, and gravely concerned when there is nothing to worry about.
“Trev, what are you doing in here at this time?” I said, trying to control my annoyance.
“Having my mid-morning break,” he replied, twinkling.
“How can you have a break before you’ve even started?” I pointed in the direction of the shop. “There isn’t a single machine running out there.”
His eyes clouded with sorrow, and for a moment I thought I had stirred his conscience. I should have known better.
“Aw, Des, don’t tell me you’ve been at the liquor already.” He heaved himself up out of his foil-lined box, a laborious operation which had to be carried out in stages. “Have you any idea what that stuff does to your body?”
“As long as it doesn’t get like yours …”
“Unkind, Des,” he said, but azure gleams showed he was unaffected by the insult. He picked up and swigged from a bottle of his favourite drink, a revolting locally-produced concoction known as Blissfizz, which was pink, opaque and loaded with sugar. It reminded me of calamine lotion, but Trev had been addicted to it since childhood and drank nothing else – a habit which no doubt had a lot to do with his excessive girth.
I decided to try sarcasm. “What’s the good word from Betelgeuse? Have they given you clearance to do some work today, or are you going to be tied up with more important things?”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Des.” He fixed me with a worried stare. “The emissaries from the Kingdom of Orion are going to land real soon now and put their true believers in charge of the world. I’ll probably be in control of the whole continent of North America, but even I won’t be able to save you if you go around scoffing like that.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Trev extended three fingers of his right hand and made a priestly gesture. “May the Supreme Nizam forgive you, Des. I think maybe I ought to intercede with him …”
He made as if to climb back into his box, but I grabbed him and pushed his pudgy bulk into a chair. “Not now,” I said, deciding to steer the conversation on to more constructive lines. “I’ve got some important work here. Charity work.”
“You?” Trev took a generous slug of Blissfizz and gave me a look which seemed almost worldly. “Charity work?”
“I’m a very charitable person, Trev, but lack of money has always prevented me from helping people the way I wanted to.”
“You’d have plenty of money if you didn’t blow so much on rotgut whisky and fast cars and painted women,” Trev accused. “There’ll be none of that sort of thing when I’m in control.”
Only the need to be diplomatic prevented me from planting one on his downy chin. During our discussions Ralph Wynter and I had foreseen that some people on the sucker list would make a few discreet enquiries before entrusting us with their cash. For that reason our letters had to be signed by a real person, one with an unblemished record and whose name could be looked up in various directories. Trev was listed as company vice-president, had never been in any kind of trouble and nobody from out of town would have any reason to suspect he was a fully-fledged lollipop farmer – all of which made him ideal for our purpose. Wynter had been dubious before learning that Trev was so naive that he signed all the tax returns I prepared for him without ever reading what they said. He had left it to me to enlist Trev’s aid without giving him any real idea of what we were doing.
“I want to atone for all my past sins,” I said, laying on as much sincerity as I could. “I’ve thought of a great way of helping thousands of needy people – but I can’t do it without your help.”
Trev shook his head. “I don’t know, Des. I’m pretty tied up with my meditation programme and the UFO observations and the meetings of the Orion Society.”
“This won’t take up any of your free time, and …” I paused as I got a sudden inspiration, “it would be a way of proving to me that you really do get thought messages from Betelgeuse. I might become a convert.”
“Hey! That would be great, Des.” A faraway look appeared in his eyes. “If you learned to play the harp I could make you one of the praise leaders in my Grand Temple.”
“We can talk about all that after I’ve shown myself to be worthy,” I said quickly, bringing out an advance list of the runners in the second race at Hillston, a meeting due to be held in three days’ time, and set it in his lap. “Have a look at that.”
He studied the sheet briefly then handed it back to me, his moonlike face registering intense disapproval. “You know what I think about gambling, Des. It’s evil.”
“I know that gambling is evil, but what I’m proposing has nothing to do with gambling.” I got closer to him by pulling up an empty Blissfizz crate and straddling it. “Listen, Trev, with the superhuman psychic powers you get from the Supreme Nizam you could easily predict which of these four horses is going to win, couldn’t you? There’d be no element of chance involved.”