Friday

shall I tell you what to do with it?"

"Don't bother. For master-at-arms I would expect only master-atarms wages. But as courier... I am the best and if this man really does want the best, he will pay my interview fee without a second thought." I added, "You're not serious, Mr. Fawcett. Good-bye." I cleared.

He called back seven minutes later. He talked as if it hurt him. "Your round trip and the kilobuck wifl be at the station. But that kilobuck is against your salary and you pay it back if you don't get the job. Either way, I get my commission."

"It will not be paid back under any circumstances, and you get no commission from me because I have not appoi~ted you my agent. Perhaps you can collect something from Mosby but, if so, it does not come out of my salary or my interview fee. And I'm not going down to the station to wait around like a boy playing snipe hunt. If you mean business, you'll send the money here."

"You're impossible!" His face left the screen but he did not clear

it. His assistant came on. "Look," she said, "this job really does have heat behind it. Will you meet me at the station under the New Cortez? I'll get there as fast as I can make it and I'll have your fare and your fee."

"Certainly, dear. A pleasure."

I called my landlord, told him I was leaving the key in the refrigerator and be sure to salvage the food.

What Fawcett did not know was that nothing could have induced me not to keep this appointment. The name and address was that which Boss had caused me to memorize just before he died. I had never done anything about it because he had not told me why he wanted me to memorize it. Now I would see.

XX VIII

All the sign on the door said was FINDERS, INC. and SPECIALISTS IN OFF-PLANET PROBLEMS. I went in and a live receptionist said to me, "They filled the job, deane; I got it."

"I wonder how long you will keep it. I'm here by appointment to see Mr. Mosby."

She looked me over carefully, in no hurry. "Call girl?"

"Thank you. Where do you get your hair dyed? Look, I'm sent here by HyperSpace Lines, Las Vegas office. Every second is costing your boss bruins. I'm Friday Jones. Announce me."

"You're kidding." She touched her console, spoke into a hushphone. I stretched my ears. "Frankie, there's a floozie out here says she has an appointment with you. Claims to be from Hypo in Vegas."

"God damn it, I've told you not to call me that at work. Send her in."

"I don't think she's from Fawcett. Are you two-timing me?"

"Shut up and send her in."

She pushed aside the hushphone. "Sit down over there. Mr. Mosby is in conference. I'll let you know as soon as he is free."

"That isn't what he told you."

"Huh? Since when do you know so much?"

"He told you not to call him Frankie at work, and to send me in. You gave him some backtalk and he told you to shut up and to send me in. So I'm going in. Better announce me."

Mosby appeared to be about fifty trying to look thirty-five. He had an expensive tan, expensive clothes, a big, toothy smile, and cold eyes. He motioned me toward a visitor's chair. "What took you so long? I told Fawcett I wanted to see you before noon."

I glanced at my finger, then at his desk clock. Twelve-oh-four. "I've come four hundred and fifty kilometers plus a crosstown shuttle since eleven o'clock. Shall I go back to Vegas and see if I can beat that time? Or shall we get down to business?"

"I told Fawcett to see to it that you caught the ten o'clock. Oh, well. I understand you need a job."

"I'm not hungry. I was told that you needed a courier for an offplanet job." I took out a c'py of my brag sheet, handed it to him. "Here are my qualifications. Look it over and, if I am what you want, tell me about the job. I'll listen and tell you whether or not I'm interested."

He glanced at the sheet. "The reports I have tell me that you are hungry."

"Only in that it is getting on toward lunchtime. My fee schedule is on that sheet. It is subject to negotiationÄupwards."

"You're pretty sure of yourself." He looked again at my brag sheet. "How's Kettle Belly these days?"

"Who?"

"It says here that you worked for System Enterprises. I asked you, `How is Kettle Belly?' Kettle Belly Baldwin."

(Was this a test? Had everything since breakfast been carefully calculated to cause me to lose my temper? If so, the proper response would be not to lose my temper no matter what.) "The Chairman of System Enterprises was Dr. Hartley Baldwin. I've never heard him called Kettle Belly."

"I believe he does have some sort of a doctor's degree. But everybody in the trade calls him Kettle Belly. I asked you how he is."

(Watch it, Friday!) "He's dead."

"Yeah, I know. I wondered if you knew. In this business you get a lot of ringers. All right, let's see this marsupial pouch of yours."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I'm in a hurry. Show me your bellybutton."

(Just where did the leak occur? UhÄ No, we killed that gang. All

of themÄor so Boss thought. Doesn't mean it couldn't have leaked from there before we killed them. No matterÄit did leak... as Boss said it would.) "Frankie boy, if you want to play bellybuttons with me, I must warn you that the bleached blonde in your outer office is listening and almost certainly recording."

"Oh, she doesn't listen. She has her instructions about that."

"Instructions she carries out the way she carries out your injunction not to call you Frankie during working hours. Look, Mr. Mosby, you started discussing classified matters under not-secure conditions. If you want her to be part of this conference, bring her in. If not, get her out of the circuit. But let's have no more breaches of security."

He drummed on his desk, then got up very suddenly, went into his outer office. The door was not totally soundproof; I heard angry voices, muffled. He came back in, looking annoyed. "She's gone to lunch. Now don't give me any more guff. If you are who you say you are, Friday Jones, also known as Marjorie Baldwin, formerly a courier for KettleÄfor Dr. Baldwin, managing director of System Enterprises, you have a pouch created by surgery back of your navel. Show it to me. Prove your identity."

I thought about it. A requirement that I prove my identity was not unreasonable. Fingerprint identification is a joke, at least inside the profession. Clearly the existence of my courier's pouch was now a broached secret. It would never be useful againÄexcept that right now it could be used to prove that I was me. I was I? It sounds silly either way. "Mr. Mosby, you paid a kilobuck to interview me."

"I certainly did! So far I've had nothing from you but static."

"I'm sorry. I've never been asked to show my trick bellybutton before, because up to recently it has been a closely held secret. Or so I thought. Evidently it is no longer a secret, since you know of it. That tells me that I can no longer use it for classified work. If the job you have for me requires the use of it, perhaps you had better reconsider. A secret just a little bit broached is like a girl just a little bit pregnant."

"Well... yes and no. Show me."

I showed him. I keep a smooth nylon sphere one centimeter in diameter in my pouch so that the pouch won't shrink between jobs.

I popped out the sphere, letting him watch, and then replaced itÄ then let him see that it was not possible to tell my navel from a normal navel. He studied it carefully. "It doesn't hold very much."

"Maybe you would rather hire a kangaroo."

"It's big enough for the purposeÄbarely. You'll be carrying the most valuable cargo in the galaxy, but it won't occupy much space. Zip up and adjust your clothing; we're going to lunch and we mustn'tÄmust notÄbe late."