A muscular young man in a dapper uniform came in after the robot. “Mr. Gallegher?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Galloway Gallegher?”
“The answer’s still ‘yeah.’ What can I do for you?”
“You can accept this summons,” said the cop. He gave Gallegher a folded paper.
The maze of intricate legal phraseology made little sense to Gallegher. “Who’s Dell Hopper?” he asked. “I never heard of him.”
“It’s not my pie,” the officer grunted. “I’ve served the summons; that’s as far as I go.”
He went out. Gallegher peered at the paper. It told him little.
Finally, for lack of something better to do, he televised an attorney, got in touch with the bureau of legal records, and found the name of Hopper’s lawyer, a man named Trench. A corporation lawyer at that. Trench had a battery of secretaries to take calls, but by dint of threats, curses and pleas Gallegher got through to the great man himself.
On the telescreen Trench showed as a gray, thin, dry man with a clipped mustache. His voice was file-sharp.
“Mr. Gallegher? Yes?”
“Look,” Gallegher said, “I just had a summons served on me.”
“Ah, you have it, then. Good.”
“What do you mean, good? I haven’t the least idea what this is all about.”
“Indeed,” Trench said skeptically. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory. My client, who is soft-hearted, is not prosecuting you for slander, threat of bodily harm, or assault and battery. He just wants his money back—or else value received.”
Gallegher closed his eyes and shuddered. “H-he does? I… ah… did I slander him?”
“You called him,” said Trench, referring to a bulky file, “a duck-footed cockroach, a foul-smelling Neanderthaler, and either a dirty cow or a dirty cao. Both are terms of opprobrium. You also kicked him.”
“When was this?” Gallegher whispered.
“Three days ago.”
“And—you mentioned money?”
“A thousand credits, which he paid you on account.”
“On account of what?”
“A commission you were to undertake for him. I was not acquainted with the exact details. In any case, you not only failed to fulfill the commission, but you refused to return the money.”
“Oh. Who is Hopper, anyway?”
“Hopper Enterprises, Inc.—Dell Hopper, entrepreneur and impresario. However, I think you know all this. I will see you in court, Mr. Gallegher. And, if you’ll forgive me, I’m rather busy. I have a case to prosecute today, and I rather think the defendant will get a long prison sentence.”
“What did he do?” Gallegher asked weakly.
“Simple case of assault and battery,” Trench said. “Good-by.”
His face faded from the screen. Gallegher clapped a hand to his forehead and screamed for beer. He went to his desk, sucking at the plastibulb with its built-in refrigerant, and thoughtfully examined his mail. Nothing there. No clue.
A thousand credits— He had no recollection of getting them. But the cash book might show— It did. Under dates of several weeks back, it said:
Rec’d D. H.—com.—on acc’t—c 1,000
Rec’d J. W.—com.—on acc’t—c 1,500
Rec’d Fatty—com.—on acc’t—c 800.
Thirty-three hundred credits! And the bank book had no record of that sum. It showed merely a withdrawal of seven hundred credits, leaving about fifteen still on hand.
Gallegher moaned and searched his desk again. Under a blotter he found an envelope he had previously overlooked. It contained stock certificates—both common and preferred—for something called Devices Unlimited. A covering letter acknowledged receipt of four thousand credits, in return for which payment stock had been issued to Mr. Galloway Gallegher, as ordered—
“Murder,” Gallegher said. He gulped beer, his mind swirling. Trouble was piling up in triplicate D. H.—Dell Hopper—had paid him a thousand credits to do something or other. Someone whose initials were J. W. had given him fifteen hundred credits for a similar purpose. And Fatty, the cheapskate, had paid only eight hundred credits on account.
Why?
Only Gallegher’s mad subconscious knew. That brainy personality had deftly arranged the deals, collected the dough, depleted Gallegher’s personal bank account—cleaning it out—and bought stock in Devices Unlimited. Ha!
Gallegher used the televisor again. Presently he beamed his broker.
“Arnie?”
“Hi, Gallegher,” Arnie said, looking up at the tele-plate over his desk. “What’s up?”
“I am. At the end of a rope. Listen, did I buy some stock lately?”
“Sure. In Devices—DU.”
“Then I want to sell it. I need the dough, quick.”
“Wait a minute.” Arnie pressed buttons. Current quotations were flashing across his wall, Gallegher knew.
“Well?”
“No soap. The bottom’s dropped out. Four asked, nothing bid.”
“What did I buy at?”
“Twenty.”
Gallegher emitted the howl of a wounded wolf. “Twenty? And you let me do that?”
“I tried to argue you out of it,” Arnie said wearily. “Told you the stock was skidding. There’s a delay in a construction deal or something—not sure just what. But you said you had inside info. What could I do?”
“You could have beaten my brains out,” Gallegher said. “Well, never mind. It’s too late now. Have I got any other stock?”
“A hundred shares of Martian Bonanza.”
“Quoted at?”
“You could realize twenty-five credits on the whole lot.”
“What are the bugles blowin’ for?” Gallegher murmured.
“Huh?”
“I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch—”
“I know,” Arnie said happily. “Danny Deever.”
“Yeah,” Gallegher agreed. “Danny Deever. Sing it at my funeral, chum.” He broke the beam.
Why, in the name of everything holy and unholy, had he bought that DU stock?
What had he promised Dell Hopper of Hopper Enterprises?
Who were J. W. (fifteen hundred credits) and Fatty (eight hundred credits)?
Why was there a hole in place of his back yard?
What and why was that confounded machine his subconscious had built?
He pressed the directory button on the televisor, spun the dial till he located Hopper Enterprises, and called that number.
“I want to see Mr. Hopper.”
“Your name?”
“Gallegher,”
“Call our lawyer, Mr. Trench.”
“I did,” Gallegher said. “Listen—”
“Mr. Hopper is busy.”
“Tell him,” Gallegher said wildly, “that I’ve got what he wanted.”
That did it. Hopper focused in, a buffalo of a man with a mane of gray hair, intolerant jet-black eyes, and a beak of a nose. He thrust his jutting jaw toward the screen and bellowed, “Gallegher? For two pins I’d—” He changed his tune abruptly. “You called Trench, eh? I thought that’d do the trick. You know I can send you to prison, don’t you?”
“Well, maybe—”
“Maybe nothing! Do you think I come personally to see every crackpot inventor who does some work for me? If I hadn’t been told dver and over that you were the best man in your field, I’d have slapped an injunction on you days ago!”
Inventor?
“The fact is,” Gallegher began mildly, “I’ve been ill—”
“In a pig’s eye,” Hopper said coarsely. “You were drunk as a lord. I don’t pay men for drinking. Did you forget those thousand credits were only part payment—with nine thousand more to come?”
“Why… why, n-no. Uh… nine thousand?”
“Plus a bonus for quick work. You still get the bonus, luckily. It’s only been a couple of weeks. But it’s lucky for you you got the thing finished. I’ve got options on a couple of factories already. And scouts looking out for good locations, all over the country. Is it practical for small sets, Gallegher? We’ll make our steady money from them, not from the big audiences.”