“Explain just one thing to me, Scott,” he said. “What difference does it make to anybody if it turns out that—”
He broke off as the outer door of the office slid open to admit a man and a woman. Nicklin at once recognised Rick Renard, whose ostentatious style of dress made him a focal point for the drab room, but although the woman’s face seemed familiar there was a delay before he remembered having seen her on television. It had been in the Whites’ living room, all that time ago, on the day Orbitsville was supposed to have made its Big Jump. That had also been the day Corey Montane and his entourage had come to town and Nicklin’s private world had made a Big Jump of its own. In his mind he could hear Zindee White’s voice: Her name is Silvia London.
“I’ve always wanted to be in London,” he said under his breath, his eyes taking in the woman’s full-bosomed figure, the voluptuous lines of which alerted his sexual instincts in spite of being modestly swathed in a charcoal grey coatdress. His amatory bouts with Christine McGivern were becoming too perfunctory and he had a hankering for something fresh.
Hepworth leaned closer to him. “What was that?”
“I think our presence is required, don’t you?” Nicklin moved towards Montane and Voorsanger to become part of the little group which welcomed the visitors. Renard introduced the woman as his wife, a fact which in Nicklin’s eyes added a certain spice toj her appeal.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Renard went on when the formalities had been completed, smiling in the oddly challenging manner which Nicklin had noticed before, even via television, and which rendered the apology meaningless.
Montane nodded. “The weather…”
“No, the snow didn’t hold me back at all, but when I got here I couldn’t resist having a stroll around the outside of your ship,” Renard said. “It doesn’t look much, does it?”
“It looks good to me,” Nicklin said quickly.
Renard smiled directly at him. “I doubt if you’re qualified to adjudicate.”
“Adjudication runs in my family,” Nicklin replied. “Why, I learned to adjudicate at my mother’s knee.” And I adjudicate that you need a good kick up the balls, you arrogant bastard. He smiled in return as he projected the thought with all the vehemence he could muster, but the only outcome of the telepathic attempt was a flicker of satisfaction in Renard’s blue eyes.
“Why don’t we sit down and talk in comfort?” Montane cut in. He gestured towards the cheap table, used mainly for in-office meals, which was the only piece of furniture at all suitable for a conference.
“Why not?” The amusement in Renard’s eyes grew more evident as the chair he had selected emitted a metallic protest when he sat down.
For one instant Nicklin wished that Montane had not been so miserly over renting office space and equipment. Then it came to him that he was being lured into a personality duel. Renard was a man for whom every meeting had to be a skirmish, and every relationship a contest. I’m not playing that game, he thought, his antagonism towards Renard fading. He glanced at Renard’s wife and caught a hint of what seemed to be resignation and embarrassment in her expression. She doesn’t think much ofit as a spectator sport, either—perhaps she’s in the market for a little diversion. He moved quickly to ensure getting a seat next to Silvia at the table.
“I have another appointment this morning, so let’s get on with what we have to do,” Renard said to Montane. “I’m ready to give you four million monits for the ship as she sits. Your team can walk out and mine will walk in, and you won’t even have to turn off the lights.”
“Rick, I have already told you that the Tara isn’t for sale,” Montane replied. He was impressively cool, Nicklin thought, for someone who was refusing to become a millionaire.
“If you’re planning to hold on, waiting for the price to go up, you’re making a mistake.” Renard was equally emotionless. “An interstellar ramjet isn’t really suitable for interportal work, so the offer is a generous one.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not interested.”
“It won’t be all that long before the first of the new short-range jobs start coming off the line—and when that happens the value of your old tub will drop.”
Montane sighed. “I hate to appear discourteous, Rick, but you’re not the only person whose diary is full- so let’s not waste each other’s time. The Tara is not for sale. All right?”
“I can only offer you the jam—I can’t force you to eat it.” Unperturbed, Renard leaned back in his seat, drawing more creaks from it.
“Now that we’ve got my dietary preferences out of the way,” Montane said drily, “what was the other proposal you had in mind?”
“How many target stars have you selected?”
“Eight within a thousand light years.”
“Good prospects?”
“I’m assured that they are very good.” Montane glanced expectantly at Scott Hepworth.
“Omnirad analyses from the Garamond Institute show that three of them have an eighty per cent probability of yielding an Earth-type planet,” Hepworth said in his grandest tones.
Renard raised his eyebrows, looking unexpectedly boyish in his surprise. “That’s better than you would have got back home, isn’t it?”
Nicklin, who had been taking heady draughts of Silvia’s perfume, renewed his interest in the conversation as he realised that “back home” meant a different universe. The use of the phrase showed that Renard, hard-headed and materialistic as they come, had accepted the Big Jump hypothesis. Furthermore, he evidently saw the ethereal never-never land of the astrophysicists and cosmologists as a place where it was possible to turn a profit.
“It’s a lot better,” Hepworth said. “Worlds for the picking, you might say.”
Renard addressed Montane again. “We can still do a deal. Let rne put two or three scientific people on the ship, plus a spare flight crew to bring it back when you have finished with it—and you can still have the four million.”
Corey, this is the proverbial offer you can’t refuse, Nicklin thought, and almost winced as he saw Montane’s patient smile of rejection.
“My conscience wouldn’t allow me to go along with that,” Montane said. “It would mean denying places to some of my own people. You must realise that I’m answerable to God in this matter.”
“All right, I tell you what we’ll do,” Renard said. “When the ship gets back here I’ll lease it out to you for a second round trip. That way you’ll be saving two lots of souls.”
Montane’s smile became more patient, more condescending. “The Tara will make one flight, and only one flight. There will be no time for another. No second chance.”
“Who told you that?”