Gently, he slid open the desk drawer and looked down at the handgun that lay there. It was one of a pair, the other of which was concealed inside his belt, covered by his vest.
They were handsome weapons, lovingly made, a fine pair of the few handguns in existence. The rifle had become a fairly common weapon in recent years; some student at the Earthmen's school had invented it for use by the farmers in the days of the Great Depression, when, because of the superabundance of crops, the herbivorous forest animals had multiplied like wildfire. The farmers had needed something to hold them off when they became hungry in the second year.
They were expensive because they had to be made of specially treated iron; bronze would be much too weak to withstand the violence of the powder unless the weapon were reinforced—in which case it would be too heavy to carry easily. And there was, of course, no need for a weapon like that. What good is a gun so big you can't carry it?
The pistol was Norvis peKrin's idea. Instead of one charge, it carried four in a little revolving cylinder, each with its own cap. Norvis had been very careful about allowing that secret to leak out.
Thus far, very few people had realized the effectiveness of such weapons against men — although there were undoubtedly a few farmers in Dimay who were learning fast, and certainly the Peacemen had recognized it.
Since the rifle was designed to kill at long range, it was necessarily long enough to give proper distance to the copper projectile. But Norvis' idea had been to make a short-range gun for personal protection. It didn't need to be as big or as heavy, because it carried less powder and had a shorter barrel.
Someone else might think of the idea—but unless he had Norvis peKrin's ingenuity, the gun would only fire one shot without reloading —not four. As he studied the gun, Kris reflected that perhaps he had been underestimating Norvis a little.
Suddenly he heard footsteps in the corridor. He pushed the desk drawer closed and looked up.
There was a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass, and then a timid knock.
"Come in," Kris said.
The short, stocky man who opened the door was obviously a farmer. His hands were calloused, and he wore the heavy cloth of a field worker. In his belt was a long peych-knife.
"Are you Kris peKym Yorgen?" he asked cautiously.
Kris flashed his most winning smile. "I am. What can I do for you?"
"Well ... well—" The man took a deep breath. "I heard somebody say that you were redeeming Bank of Dimay notes. Is that so?" His tone was querulous, timid, as though he was certain he was about to be called a liar.
"Perfectly true, my dear fellow," Kris said. "A ten-weight Dimay note will bring you a five-weight note of Pelvash."
Without hesitation, the farmer pulled a wad of bills from his belt pouch. "These ain't no good at all. Nobody will take them. I got two hundred weights here, but I can't spend them."
Kris opened the drawer in his desk. On top of a huge pile of Pelvash notes lay the heavy pistol, which he pushed casually aside. He took out twenty-five weight notes and counted them ostentatiously.
"Here you are, sir. One hundred good Pelvash notes for your Dimay money. May I see them?"
He took the Dimay notes, leafed through them, and dropped them into another drawer. Then he handed the Pelvash bills to the farmer. "It's a pleasure to do business with you, sir."
"And you, sir," the farmer said. His eyes glittered; obviously he still did not quite believe such a windfall could occur. He mumbled his thanks, suspiciously counted the notes, and left hurriedly.
Kris watched him go, and chuckled in amusement. It was a good business, he reflected. If only it worked the right way!
At this very moment, Kris thought, Dran peDran is roaming around the town telling people of the fabulous fool who was buying up the worthless Dimay scrip at two-to-one. And now there was a farmer who would also spread the tale. Before long, how worthless would the Dimay currency be?
By mid-afternoon, there was a line forming that stretched out of Kris peKym's office, down the stairs, and out into the street. Business was booming. The word was getting around Tammulcor rapidly.
One at a time, Kris took care of each customer, ushering him into the office, giving them a winning smile and half their money back—in cobalt-backed notes of the Bank of Pelvash.
It was a long day. By the time the Great Light had begun to fade, he had collected nearly sixty thousand weights in Dimay bills, and had paid out half that in Pelvash scrip. The drawer that held the redeemed Dimay currency was overflowing.
And then it happened—the thing that Kris had been half expecting all day. Two men stepped into the office. One of them, a swarthy one with a heavy scar drooping over one eye, walked up to Kris' desk and suddenly jerked a heavy peych-knife out of his belt. The two-foot blade, with its blunt end and razor-keen edge, was poised six inches from Kris' throat.
At the same time, the second man drew his knife and stationed himself at the door, facing the crowd outside.
"Nobody's going to get hurt if they behave themselves," he said roughly. There were several men in the crowd who were carrying the heavy knives, but none of them did anything except shrink back from the doorway.
The man with the scar held his knife steady. Kris stared evenly at the thin edge before him. He could be decapitated with one flick of the stranger's wrist, and it was not a pleasant sensation.
"Give me your Pelvash notes!"
"Certainly, sir," Kris said. His voice was not loud, but it carried to the crowd outside. There were murmurs, but the people on line still did nothing. Tammulcor was used to this sort of violence by now.
"You may have the notes," Kris continued. "I don't care to lose my life." He reached toward the drawer.
"It's obvious that you need the money, or you wouldn't take such desperate measures. Of course, it's a shame that all those people out there won't be able to get the money they deserve, but—"
There was a sudden low growl from the crowd outside. They had heard Kris' words. They knew what was going on.
The man holding the peych-knife at Kris' throat turned his head just a fraction as he heard the sound from outside. That was all Kris needed. One hand hit the robber's wrist, sending the heavy knife ringing across the room. The other hand, balled into a hard fist, slammed against the man's ear.
The robber dropped soggily.
With a leap, Kris cleared the desk and landed on the back of the second man, who had heard the noise but hadn't dared turn his back on the crowd.
Kris wrenched the knife from his hand and slammed him up against the wall. The man shook his head groggily as Kris whirled him around and grasped him by both lapels of his vest.
"Now, what's the idea?" Kris' voice was oddly gentle.
Helpless in Kris' grasp, the would-be robber said, "We ... we're longshoremen. We're out of money. No ships have loaded for a week!"
"Here! What's going on here?" bellowed a voice from the door.
Kris jerked the man he was holding, spinning him around. He grabbed an arm and twisted it sharply behind the man's back, at the same time turning to face the door.
Two Peacemen were pushing their way through the crowd. One customer armed with a peych-knife was standing over the other robber, who was just regaining his senses.
"Come in, Peacemen," Kris said, without releasing his hold on his adversary. Then, to the customer with the peych-knife: "Thank you, friend. You may step outside; the Peacemen are here now."
The man glared at the fallen robber and then walked back into the corridor with the crowd.