“Your honor, sir,” Mundin said formally to Don Lavin. Don acknowledged with an ironic bow and light-heartedly tapped out his first “sell” order:
333, 100 shares, market
The Big Board flickered and hummed, and the pari-mutuel computers totaled, subtracted, divided, and spat out their results. Mundin and Don had their glasses fixed to line 333; it
flashed:
333, off ¥2
“Congratulations,” said Mundin. “You have just thrown away a thousand bucks.”
“My privilege,” said Don, grinning. “Your turn, I believe.”
The thirty-second warning bell sounded, and Mundin tapped out his own order—a hundred shares of Old 333, G.M.L. Homes, at the market. And they lopped off another half-point.
Don had been computing with a pencil and paper, thoughtfully. “At one movement every three minutes,” he said, “and three hundred trading minutes in the day, at the present rate of progress we will bust G.M.L. right off the board in forty working days.” They gravely shook hands.
A somberly dressed school teacher, showing her young civics class a first-rate example of The American Way in action, shepherded the kids past the line of betting windows where Don and Mundin were sitting. The investors on either side of the two conspirators were getting curious; the one next to Don leaned over and hissed, “Say buster—why pay the Exchange commission? You want to unload G.M.L. I can take you to a guy who’ll make a private deal.
“Beat it,” said Don, and punched out his order. 333, off Vi •
“Slow and steady,” Mundin said philosophically.
A petulant little man, escorted by a grim guard, came stamping down the aisle. “K-81, K-82, K-83—oh, you must be the one,” he counted. “You there, window K-85. And you. Are you aware of the penalties for non-delivery of stock sold through the pari-mutuel——”
“Take a look,” said Mundin, shoving the stock certificates into his hands.
The petulant man looked, and giggled weakly. “Oh,” he said fussily. “Well, of course—— Come along, Haynes. There certainly wasn’t anything to that complaint, was there? Terrible how these stories get started. . . .”
Haynes paused and leaned over Mundin. “I’m watching you,” he said. “The exit door is right over there—next to the cashier’s area. I’ll be there, when you deposit that stock.” He lumbered, casually threatening, away.
“Green, Charlesworth,” whispered Mundin, and Don nodded. What else? Green, Charlesworth themselves, or one of their satellites; just checking, so far.
And once they had checked, they would know.
The thirty-second bell was ringing. Mundin started to punch out his order; then pressed the cancel plate. “Better step it up,” he said over his shoulder to Don:
333, 500 shares, market
They lopped off a full point that time. . ..
The Exchange had been going for half an hour, and already the buzz of whispers was louder than the calls of the speculators. Somebody was dumping G.M.L.
After the first drop, the market had firmed. Mundin, sweating doggedly over his punch keys, guessed that Green, Charles-worth’s buying pool had orders to let the price drop a hah1 point or a point at a time—no more. They could afford to watch and wait. They had plenty of time. And plenty of money. And plenty of resources.
And if the time and the money and the resources weren’t enough—they had plenty of other ways to handle trouble.
Don Lavin was whispering something. Irritably Mundia looked up. “What?”
“I said, take a look at Belt Transport.”
Mundin flicked his glasses over the Big Board. Belt Transport was off ten points, and he hadn’t even noticed it. This was
a hefl of a time to get foggy-brained, he cursed himself. But he hadn’t expected anything like that so soon; it had to be hunch players, two-bit investors getting worried and getting out. If that kept up, the big boys would be at the windows before long.
“You’re right,” Mundin told Don. “Give Norvie the nod.”
Across the room, Norvie acknowledged the signal and began placing inconspicuous “buy” orders on the faltering stocks— all but G.M.L. He punched the keys as though he were punching Green, Charlesworth themselves, with a controlled, joyous rage. It had taken him a long time to realize that he was, after all, alive; and a longer time to get over the first wretched resentment that Shep had stolen his big scene, and died thf death that Norvell had reserved for himself. But he was all over it now—and exulting at the chance to fight, however weakly, however ineffectually. . . .