The only change, Kilgour would be delighted to inform the man, was that his superiors had authorized an increase in the small retainer paid to the dispatch clerk. And once final victory over the Empire had been achieved, appropriate medals would be awarded to men and women like him, who performed vital duties far from the fighting front but were as responsible for that soon-to-arrive victory as the most decorated hero.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Certainly there was no need to confuse the poor man with reality. If he felt happy being a fink for Tahn CI on his fellow workers, Kilgour would offer nothing but support.
So it was up the emergency slide, pick the window's friction catch, and inside. Perhaps, he hoped, the man would have a bit of alk chilled. Spymasterin't, Kilgour thought, could get thirsty.
There was a half-empty container of something that tasted like soya wine. Kilgour gagged but continued sipping as he wandered around the apartment, gloved hands routinely lifting, moving, and checking.
He lifted a lamp and tsked sadly. Then he replaced the flask in the reefer and went back out the window, leaving no trace that he had ever been in the room.
Kilgour wandered back toward the nearest transit dump point, considering possibilities.
Most interestin', he thought. Thae's little if any safety here. An th' puir workers boil out frae th' tubes like salmon up a weir.
Pity should a wee dispatch clerk who just happens to hae a bug in his apartment which nae should be there happen to come a gainer in front ae the outgoing.
It was. He did.
And Kilgour headed for the next address. Nae two shabby. Thirty agents so far. Five gone, three lost nerve, and two doubled. The rest were all humming away, happily back in harness, reporting what they were told to, to whichever spy service Alex thought appropriate for them to be employed by.
Sten briefly admired his reflection in the large mirror. He looked rather dashing, he thought, in evening wear, even if it was a shade too flashy for his personal tastes. But big-time gangsters were never known for their subtlety. He minutely adjusted a shirt stud, sipped brandy, and leaned back, waiting for Connl to make the next move.
It appeared to be a straightforward deal. Connl had a warehouse, custom-sealed, full of the high-protein glop the Tahn military used to augment its ship rations.
Sten wished to purchase said glop.
A straightforward deal—on the black market.
How Connl had come into possession of the glop was not Sten's concern.
Sten had made his offer, calculated to be several units per kilo above what Connl could get from other black market commodity dealers and far above what the Tahn would be willing to pay.
He was also willing to pay in hard Imperial credits.
The details of Durer still were not known. But the entrepreneurs had heard bad things. Plus they were not particularly thrilled doing deals in the already inflationary and good-faith-based Tahn currency. Even if the Tahn managed to win, would Imperial credits be worthless? No one thought that would happen.
Plus Imperial credits were weatherproof. Buried under the gazebo in one's estate, they would be safe from wear, tear, and rodents. The fact that possession of those credits made the owner subject for the high jump worried no one. At worst, bribery would be called for.
Connl ran a fingertip around his snifter. "Interesting offer you've made. May I ask an intrusive question?"
"You may ask."
"There have been some interesting stories about your background."
"I've heard some of them."
"Connections straight into the Tahn Council itself, I've heard. A man with a private army, somebody told me. Very, very interesting."
"Perhaps one or two of them might be factual," Sten suggested.
"Perhaps." Connl did not press it; he had asked merely to gauge Sten's reaction. He had gotten, of course, none.
"To return to business. You don't have the reputation of being foolish. So I assume you have an idea of the actual market value of my hi-pro."
"I do. Quoted this morning, for delivery, of seventy-five units per kiloton."
"Yet you offer eighty. Interesting. If you are not a fool, then neither am I. Offer accepted."
Connl was paid within the hour and went on his way, somewhat delighted. He had made a huge profit, and he had never had to put his hands on that slimy hi-pro to make it. He also had figured out what Sten's game was. The man was actually trying to corner the market. Once he had a sufficiency, he would turn the screws.
Connl determined to reinvest. His half-mill warehouse of hi-pro was, of course, worth nearly three-quarters. He would adjust his price accordingly.
The end result of Sten's maneuver: Even less high-protein additive was available to the Tahn at any price. Plus he had done his bit to destabilize the currency. Those credits, if not buried, would go back into circulation and further devaluate the Tahn unit.
L'n was curled up on a silken pillow, looking terminally cute and asleep. Her ear sonared on the conversation at the table next to her.
The four Tahn officers were playing an incredibly complex game with counters, multiple sets of dice, and variable rules, a game that could only have been invented, let alone played to the point of expertise, by military types trying to while away long, boring hours on patrol.
Such was the case.
And it made the game a status symbol—anyone who knew the rules, let alone how to win, was of course intelligent, part of the Tahn hierarchy, and probably noble to boot.
The game went on.
And the officers talked, paying no attention to St. Clair's pet napping beside them.
The conversation was most interesting. Such and so had been relieved through no fault of her own. X Unit would never be deployed to Y Sector on time, not with the shortage in medium weapons. And did you hear about poor Admiral Whoosis? His new flagship's the Sabac. That's the first of the Amtung class, y' know. What a pile! TA can't pick up more than six targets without going into program reject. Power room, he told me's got leaks from the drive. Good thing he's a hero sort.
There was laughter, and the game and conversation droned on, L'n filing every bit of the hard intelligence for transmission to the Empire.
Kilgour dropped from the skylight onto the top crate in the huge stack. He looked around the deserted warehouse, laid out his tactics, and went into motion.
The warehouse was a ration outshipping point. Each crate contained fifty cases of rations. Each case held one day's rations for ten combatants.
Kilgour had in his overall pockets six cans. Each of them would be inserted into a different ration case, and the case and crate would be resealed without notice.
The poor sod getting that particular can would not be happy. Not that there was anything lethal in the cans. Each of them contained exactly what it was supposed to and was as edible as military food ever became. There was, however, a small addition to each can.
Puir, wee, slikit beastie, Alex thought sentimentally.
Not that the cans contained an entire mouse.
Just its tail.
Kilgour wondered how long the rumor would take to spread as to just what those war profiteerin' clots were feeding the poor frontline fighters.
Not long at all, he knew.
"A pint, cheena?" Sten suggested.
Chetwynd, feeling most proud, merely looked up and smiled. "I'm drinking brandy these days."
"Life's been good to you?"