"You paid for all night," she said, surprised.
"Fine. You were wonderful. But I'm tired."
"They don't like giving a refund."
"I don't want a refund."
She looked doubtful, but when he started dressing, so did she. "That's an expensive habit," she said.
"What is?"
"Paying for love and then not using up what you pay for."
"Well, right," Herman said, then added wryly, "we wouldn't want any extra love lying around, would we?"
"Everybody's a comic," she answered, but even at that the habits of the trade stayed. It was sexy, her smile and her tone of voice, and for a moment he wondered if he really wanted her to go. But then he thought of Italy and decided he'd rather be alone.
She kissed him good-bye-- it was company policy-- and then left him alone. He sat up all night, watching Italy. The imbecile was letting things go. He could have had Arabia around three in the morning. But instead, he made a ridiculous peace treaty that actually gave up land in Egypt. Stupid! By morning, Herman had fallen asleep, but he woke with a headache and called Grey.
"Dammit, what's happening?" Herman demanded.
"Herman, please," Grey said. "We're working hard here."
"Yeah, and I'm just sitting around here watching Italy turn to crap."
"Didn't you get an edna tonight?"
"What the hell business is that of yours?" Herman snapped. "Buy Italy, Grey!"
"This Abner Doon, the assistant minister of colonization, he's pretty adamant."
"Offer him the moon."
"It's already owned. But I offered him everything else. He just laughed. He just told you to watch the game and you'd see a real genius at work."
"Genius! The man's a moron! Already he--" and Herman launched into a description of the stupidities of the night before.
"Look, I'm not into International Games," Grey finally said. "You know that, that's why you hired me. OK? So let's just have me do my job and you follow the scoreboard."
"So when are you going to do your job?"
Grey sighed. "Do we have to do this on the phone, with Mother's Little Boys listening in?"
"Let 'em listen."
"All right, I've tried to trace who's controlling this Doon. The man has connections, but they're all legitimate. I can't find a bankroll, all right? So how can I get the people who are paying him to sell out if I can't find who's paying him?"
"Can't he have an accident or something?"
Grey was silent for a moment. "This is the telephone, Mr. Nuber, and it's illegal to suggest criminal activities over the telephone."
"Sorry."
"It's also very stupid. Do you want me to lose my license?"
"They don't listen to every conversation."
"All right, keep praying. But we don't do anything criminal. Now sit and watch the holo or something."
Herman punched off the phone and sat at the computer terminal. Italy had just launched a pointless, half-assed war in Guiana. Guiana! As if anything that happened there mattered. And it was such a naked act of aggression that the alliances were starting to form against Italy. Stupid!
He had to do something to take his mind off the delay. He punched in a private game, offered it for free for any taker, normal specs, and pretty soon he had a good five-man game of Acquitaine going. He won it in seven hours. Pathetic. The great players were all on the broadcast games. What's keeping Grey?
"Nothing's keeping me," Grey insisted when he finally came to Herman's flat that night. "I'm performing heroic tasks for you, Herman."
"Swinging on vines isn't doing a damn bit of good."
Grey smiled, trying to like Herman's sense of humor. "Look, Herman, you're my biggest client. And you're famous. And you're important. I'd have to be an idiot not to be doing my best for you. I've got three agencies out researching everything about this Doon. And all we can find out is that he's nothing like what we first thought."
"Good. What do we think now?"
"He's rich. Richer than you could imagine."
"I can imagine infinite wealth. Give me credit."
"He's got connections all over Capitol. He knows everybody, or at least knows the people who know everybody. Right? And all his money is in trusts and investments in dummy corporations that own dummy banks that own dummy industries that own half this damn planet."
"In other words," Herman said, "he's self-employed."
"Self-employed, but he ain't sellin', you see. He doesn't need the money. He could lose everything you own in pinochle and still like the guy who won it."
Herman grimaced, "Grey, you sure have a way of making me feel poor."
"I'm trying to tell you what you're up against. Because this guy's twenty-seven years old. I mean, he's young!"
But something didn't fit. "I thought you told me he wasn't on somec."
"That's the craziest thing, Herman. He isn't. He's never gone under at all."
"What is he, a religious fanatic?"
"His only religion seems to be wrecking your life, Mr. Nuber, if I may be so bold. He won't sell. And he won't tell why. And as long as he doesn't go on somec, he doesn't have to sell. It's as simple as that."
"What have I ever done to him? Why should he want to do this to me?"
"He said he hoped you wouldn't take it personally."
Herman shook his head, furious and yet unable to find a reason adequate for his fury-- or an adequate way to express it. The man had to be reachable.
"You know what I said over the phone?"
"You'd be the first suspect, if anything happened to him, Herman," Grey warned. "And it wouldn't help a bit. The game would end for the duration of the investigation. Besides, I'm not in that business."
"Everybody's in that business," Herman said. "At least scare him. At least rough him up."
Grey shrugged. "I'll try it." He stood up to go.
"Herman, I suggest you go back into business for a while. Make a little more money, get the feel of it again. Meet some people; try to get the game out of your system. If you don't play Italy this time, you can play it on your next waking."
Herman didn't answer, and Grey let himself out.
At three o'clock in the morning, Herman, exhausted, finally slept.
At about four-thirty, he was wakened by the alarms going off in his flat. He groggily pulled himself out of bed and staggered to the door of his bedroom. Alarms were pro forma-- no one of his class was ever burglarized, at least not while the residents were at home.
His worries about theft, were soon dispelled, however. The three men who came in all carried small, tight leather bags, filled with something hard. How hard they were Herman wasn't eager to find out.
"Who are you?"
They said nothing, just approached him silently, slowly. He realized that he was cut off, both from the front door and the emergency exit. He backed into the bedroom. One of the men reached out a hand, and Herman found himself crushed against the doorjamb.
"Don't hurt me," he said.
The first man, taller than the others, tapped Herman's shoulder with his bludgeon. Now Herman knew how hard it was. The tapping continued, getting harder and harder, but the rhythm was steady. Herman stood frozen, unable to move, as the pain gradually increased. And then, suddenly, the man shifted his weight, swung the bludgeon backhand, and Herman's ribs were smashed. The breath left him in a grunt, and pain like great hands tearing apart his insides swept up and down his body.
The agony was unbearable.
They were just beginning.