Reaching, Miss Fugate picked up a small, oddly shaped piece and cradled it against her bosom almost tenderly. “This one in particular. I receive very powerful emanations from it. This one will be the most successful of all.”
In a quiet voice Barney Mayerson said, “You’re out of your mind, Roni.” He seemed really angry, now; his face was violent and dark. “I’ll vid you,” he said to Richard Hnatt. “When I’ve made my final decision. I see no reason why I should change my mind, so don’t be optimistic. In fact don’t bother to leave them.” He shot a hard, harsh glance toward his assistant, Miss Fugate.
2
In his office at ten that morning Leo Bulero, chairman of the board of directors of P. P. Layouts, received a vidcall—which he had been expecting—from Tri-Planetary Law Enforcement, a private police agency. He had retained it within minutes of learning of the crash on Pluto by the intersystem ship returning from Prox.
He listened idly, because despite the momentousness of the news he had other matters on his mind.
It was idiotic, in view of the fact that P. P. Layouts paid an enormous yearly tribute to the UN for immunity, but idiotic or not a UN Narcotics Control Bureau warship had seized an entire load of Can-D near the north polar cap of Mars, almost a million skins’ worth, on its way from the heavily guarded plantations on Venus. Obviously the squeeze money was not reaching the right people within the complicated UN hierarchy.
But there was nothing he could do about it. The UN was a windowless monad over which he had no influence.
He could without difficulty perceive the intentions of the Narcotics Control Bureau. It wanted P. P. Layouts to initiate litigation aimed at regaining the shipload. Because this would establish that the illegal drug Can-D, chewed by so many colonists, was grown, processed, and distributed by a hidden subsidiary of P. P. Layouts. So, valuable as the shipload was, better to let it go than to make a stab at claiming it.
“The homeopape conjectures were correct,” Felix Blau, boss of the police agency, was saying on the vidscreen. “It is Palmer Eldritch and he appears to be alive although badly injured. We understand that a UN ship of the line is bringing him back to a base hospital, location of course undisclosed.”
“Hmm,” Leo Bulero said, nodding.
“However, as to what Eldritch found in the Prox system—”
“You’ll never find that out,” Leo said. “Eldritch won’t say and it’ll end there.”
“One fact has been reported,” Blau said, “of interest. Aboard his ship Eldritch had—still has—a carefully maintained culture of a lichen very much resembling the Titanian lichen from which Can-D is derived. I thought in view of—” Blau broke off tactfully.
“Is there any way those lichen cultures can be destroyed?” It was an instinctive impulse.
“Unfortunately Eldritch employees have already reached the remains of the ship. They undoubtedly would resist efforts in that direction.” Blau looked sympathetic. “We could of course try… not a forceful solution but perhaps we could buy our way in.”
“Try,” Leo said, although he agreed; it was undoubtedly a waste of time and effort. “Isn’t there that law, that major UN ordinance, against importing life forms from other systems?” It would certainly be handy if the UN military could be induced to bomb the remains of Elditch’s ship. On his note pad he scratched a memo to himself: call lawyers, lodge complaint with UN over import of alien lichens. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said to Blau and rang off. Maybe I’ll complain directly, he decided. Pressing the tab on his intercom he said to his secretary, “Get me UN, top, in New York. Ask for Secretary Hepburn-Gilbert personally.”
Presently he found himself connected with the crafty Indian politician who last year had become UN Secretary. “Ah, Mr. Bulero.” Hepburn-Gilbert smiled slyly. “You wish to complain as to the seizure of that shipment of Can-D which—”
“I know nothing about any shipment of Can-D,” Leo said. “This has to do with another matter completely. Do you people realize what Palmer Eldritch is up to? He’s brought non-Sol lichens into our system; it could be the beginning of another plague like we had in ‘98.”
“We realize this. However, the Eldritch people are claiming it to be a Sol lichen which Mr. Eldritch took with him on his Prox trip and is now bringing back… it was a source of protein to him, they claim.” The Indian’s white teeth shone in gleeful superiority; the meager pretext amused him.
“You believe that?”
“Of course not.” Hepburn-Gilbert’s smile increased. “What interests you in this matter, Mr. Bulero? You have an, ah, special concern for lichens?”
“I’m a public-spirited citizen of the Sol system. And I insist that you act.”
“We are acting,” Hepburn-Gilbert said. “We have made inquiries… we have assigned our Mr. Lark—you know him—to this detail. You see?”
The conversation droned to a frustrating conclusion and Leo Bulero at last hung up, feeling irked at politicians; they managed to take forceful steps when it came to him but in connection with Palmer Eldritch… ah, Mr. Bulero, he mimicked to himself. That, sir, is something else again.
Yes, he knew Lark. Ned Lark was chief of the UN Narcotics Bureau and the man responsible for the seizure of this last shipment of Can-D; it had been a ploy on the part of the UN Secretary, bringing Lark into this hassle with Eldritch. What the UN was angling for here was a quid pro quo; they would drag their feet, not act against Eldritch unless and until Leo Bulero made some move to curtail his Can-D shipments; he sensed this, but could not of course prove it. After all, Hepburn-Gilbert, that dark-skinned sneaky little unevolved politician, hadn’t exactly said that.
That’s what you find yourself involved in when you talk to the UN, Leo reflected. Afro-Asian politics. A swamp. It’s run, staffed, directed by foreigners. He glared at the blank vidscreen.
While he was wondering what to do his secretary Miss Gleason clicked on the intercom at her end and said, “Mr. Bulero, Mr. Mayerson is in the outer office; he’d like a few moments with you.”
“Send him in.” He was glad for a respite.
A moment later his expert in the field of tomorrow’s fashions came in, scowling. Silently, Barney Mayerson seated himself facing Leo.
“What’s eating you, Mayerson?” Leo demanded. “Speak up; that’s what I’m here for, so you can cry on my shoulder. Tell me what it is and I’ll hold your hand.” Re made his tone withering.
“My assistant. Miss Fugate.”
“Yes, I hear you’re sleeping with her.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Oh, I see,” Leo said. “That’s just a minor aside.”
“I just meant I’m here about another aspect of Miss Fugate’s behavior. We had a basic disagreement a little while ago; a salesman—”
Leo said, “You turned something down and she disagreed.”
“Yes.”
“You precogs.” Remarkable. Maybe there were alternate futures. “So you want me to order her in the future always to back you up?”
Barney Mayerson said, “She’s my assistant; that means she’s supposed to do as I direct.”
“Well… isn’t sleeping with you a pretty fair move in that direction?” Leo laughed. “However, she should back you up while salesmen are present, then if she has any qualms she should air them privately later on.”
“I don’t even go for that.” Barney scowled even more.
Acutely, Leo said, “You know because I take that E Therapy I’ve got a huge frontal lobe; I’m practically a precog myself, I’m so advanced. Was it a pot salesman? Ceramics?”
With massive reluctance Barney nodded.
“They’re your ex-wife’s pots,” Leo said. Her ceramics were selling well; he had seen ads in the homeopapes for them, as retailed by one of New Orleans’ most exclusive art-object shops, and here on the East Coast and in San Francisco. “Will they go over, Barney?” He studied his precog. “Was Miss Fugate right?”