"Yeah."
"All right, now I want to tell you something for your own personal good. I don't give a flying puke where you come from, you are not suppose to walk around in a outfit like that, you know what I mean? Elvis and them, if they see you one more time they going to cut you, and if they don't some other puker will. Listen to what I'm telling you."
"I'm listening, but I've got to wear this suit. It's kind of a trademark.''
"It is? It is, huh? Well, that's a problem." He drank half his beer and gestured to the bartender with two fingers.
Dick came over and poured another shot for Rong. Stone put his hand over his untouched glass. "Hey," said Dick, "what was it like in that spaceship?"
"Never mind spaceship," said Rong, "we got some heavy thinking here. Like, how is this man going to walk around in those clothes and not get hisself killed?"
The bartender's brow wrinkled. "Why can't you change your clothes?" he asked Stone.
"I could, but then people might not believe I'm from nineteen thirty-one."
"Oh, I get it. Uh-huh. All right, how's this? Say you walk over to Fourth and buy yourself a raincoat like the winos wear. Nobody mugs a wino, am I right? Lie it down in the street, let a couple cars run over it. The hat you can put in your pocket. Then when you go in an office, you take the raincoat off and put the hat on. What do you think, Rong?"
"Yeah, you got it. I don't know about that haircut, though. Maybe better to keep the hat on. Hey, Ed, you going to drink that shot?"
"No, I have to stay sober for when I talk to the architects."
"Well, no use letting it go to waste."
CHAPTER 6
The holo in the glass case in the lobby of the Mitsubishi Building was a sturdy Sikh with a white turban and black beard. It said, "What office are you visiting, sir?"
''Vallow and Moore. The architects."
"Are they expecting you?"
"No."
"Tell me your name, please, and the purpose of your visit. "
"Ed Stone. I want them to build something for me."
The guard fell silent. "They say they don't know you, sir, and they are not accepting any new clients."
"Well, could I just go up and talk to them?"
"No, sir. Step to one side, please."
The young man moved, and watched in bewilderment as two other people walked up, spoke to the guard, and were admitted.
The third was a young black man in a Greek fisherman's cap, who showed the guard a clipboard and a parcel. The guard let him in. Then there was a lull. The guard rotated to face the young man and said, "Sir, may I speak to you, please?" The young man came forward eagerly.
"You cannot remain here, sir," the guard said. "Go away now, or I will have to call for assistance."
The young man said, " Okay, but can I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, sir."
"That last guy, the one in the cap? How come you let him in without even phoning?"
"He is a messenger," the guard said.
"He is, huh? Listen, did you know I'm a messenger too?"
"May I see your ID, please?"
"I must of forgot it. I'll be back."
"Thank you, sir."
Rong saw the pilgrim coming out of the building, and fell in beside him. "Hey, my man," he said. "You talk to them architects?"
"No, I couldn't even get past the guard. Hi, Rong. Listen, uh, how do you get a job as a messenger?"
"They take anybody, because it don't pay puke, but they check your record first."
"Oh. How long does that take?"
"I don't know, man, a couple weeks?"
They stopped at the corner and turned their backs to the gritty wind that was blowing down 44th Street under the bottom of the dome. "You need to get in sooner than that, huh?" said Rong.
"Yeah."
"Well, this'll take some thought. That three hundred is all the crappo you got, right?"
"Right."
"Well, the way I'm thinking, we need more than that. If I lend you the other three hundred that you give me, can you pay me back sometime real soon?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Sure."
"All right, come on."
They walked back to the building entrance, and Rong leaned against the wall beside it. "Do like I do," he said, putting a toothpick between his teeth.
"What are we waiting for?"
"A messenger. Might take a while."
"And then what?"
"Depends what kind of messenger. Some you got to talk to one way, some another way, you know what I mean?"
Stone said, "You got another toothpick?"
"Sure, man." He handed it over; Stone put it in his mouth and leaned against the wall beside him.
"Here come one," Rong muttered after twenty minutes had passed. "Don't look, fool. Hang loose, be casual."
The messenger was a young white man in a checkered shirt. His face was carmine, and so was the bare hand that held the envelope and clipboard. As he started to enter, Rong stepped in front of him, turned him, and pushed him against the building.
"Hey, what's this?" The messenger looked left and right.
"No problem, we just want you to do us a favor, okay?"
"Yeah, what favor?" said the messenger. He looked at Stone, then away.
"We want to borrow your puke for half an hour, you know what I mean? The ID, the clipboard, the envelope."
"No way," said the messenger, holding the clipboard to his chest.
"Three hundred bucks, half an hour," said Rong. He took out the bills and fanned them where the messenger could see.
The messenger shifted his weight a little. "Nah, I couldn't do it for that."
"How much could you do it for?"
"I might consider, say, a thousand."
"No way, ofay. Five hundred."
"Eight."
"Six," said Rong, holding out his hand sideways. Stone got out his wallet and gave him the money.
"Seven," said the messenger.
"Six is all we got," said Rong, "and either you take it or, me and my friend are going to be real disappointed with you. You hear what I'm saying?" He slapped the money into the messenger's palm.
"Okay." The messenger handed over the clipboard and envelope. He took a plastic card out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Rong, who passed everything over to Stone. "Where do I get it back?" the messenger asked.
"Tony's, around the comer," Rong said. "Hey, I'll even wait there with you, my man, and you can buy the drinks."
"What office are you visiting, sir?" asked the Sikh in the cage.
"Bernice Fashions." The young man held up his parcel and ID.
The Sikh flickered. "Sir, the photograph in your ID does not appear to match your face."
"What do you mean, it doesn't match? Sure it matches."
"Sir, the photograph has dark hair and your hair is light."
"So I had it dyed."
The Sikh flickered again. "Your eye color is also different."
"Uh, I had an operation?"
The Sikh flickered and said, "I am calling for assistance."
"Ah, hell. That's all you guys know. Forget it, I'm leaving."
CHAPTER 7
The messenger, Sherman Cohen, was sitting with Rong at a table near the bar; Cohen was finishing a corned beef sandwich and Rong had just swallowed the last of his beer when Stone walked in, looking glum.
"No good, huh?" said Rong.
Stone sat down and put the clipboard on the table. "No, the ID didn 't match. The guard noticed that he has dark hair and I don't. And the eye color is different, too." He looked at Cohen and put out his hand. "Hey, thanks anyway."
Cohen shook hands and pulled the clipboard closer. "Well, sorry it didn't work out."
Stone said, "I was figuring once I was in, you know, I could borrow some money to pay you back, but I couldn't get in the door."