Heinlein, Robert A – Friday

“Georges,” I said. “American Express.” Then she drew the last lucky ticket; the master of ceremonies read off the numbers and they appeared in blazing light above his head. “Mr. Zee!” he shouted. “Has the owner registered thi~ number?”

“One moment- No, not registered.”

“We have a Cinderella! We have an unknown winner! Somewhere in our great and wonderful Confederacy someone is two hundred thousand bruins richer! Is that child of fortune listening now? Will she-or he-call in and let us put her on the air before this program ends? Or will he wake up tomorrow morning to be told that she is rich? There is the number, folks! It will shine up there until the end of this program, then it will be repeated every news break until fortune’s darling claims her prize. And now a message-”

“Friday,” Georges whispered, “let me see your ticket.”

“Not necessary, Georges,” I whispered back. “That’s it, all right.”

Mr. Chambers stood up. “Show’s over. Nice that one of our little family won something. Been a pleasure to have you with us, Miss Baldwin and Mr. Karo-and don’t hesitate to call on me if we can help you.”

“Mr. Chambers,” I asked, “can MasterCard collect this for me? I don’t want to do it in person.”

Mr. Chambers is a nice man but a touch slow. He had to compare the numbers on my lottery ticket with the numbers still shining on the screen three times before he could believe it. Then Georges had to stop him when he was about to run in all directions, to order a photographer, call National Lottery headquarters, send for a holovision crew-and just as well that Georges stopped him because I might have been rough about it. I get annoyed by big males who won’t listen to my objections.

“Mr. Chambers!” Georges said. “Didn’t you hear her? She does not want to do it in person. No publicity.”

“What? But the winners are always in the news; that’s routine! This won’t take a moment if that’s what’s worrying you because- you remember the girl who won earlier?-about now she is being photographed with J. B. and her cake. Let’s go straight to his office and-”

Georges is not slow-and I wouldn’t mind marrying him if Janet ever turned him loose. “Mr. Chambers,” he said quickly, “what is the address of the San Jose main office of American Express?”

Chambers’ four-winds flight stopped abruptly. “What did you say?”

“Can you tell us the address of American Express? Miss Baldwin will take her winning ticket there for collection. I will call ahead and make sure that they understand that banking privacy is a requisite.

“But you can’t do that. She won it here.”

“We can and we will. She did not win it here. She simply happened to be here when the drawing took place elsewhere. Please stand aside; we’re leaving.”

Then we had to do it all over again for J.B. He was a dignified old duck with a cigar in one side of his mouth and sticky white cake icing on his upper lip. He was neither slow nor stupid but he was in the habit of seeing his wishes carried out and Georges had to mention American Express quite loudly before he got it through his skull that I would not hold still for any publicity whatever (Boss would faint!) and that we were about to go to those Rialto moneychangers rather than deal with his firm.

“But Miss Bulgrin is a MasterCard client.”

“No,” I disagreed. “I had thought that I was a MasterCard client but Mr. Chambers refused to honor my credit. So I’ll start an account with American Express. Without photographers.”

“Chambers.” There was the knell of doom in his voice. “What Is This?”

Chambers explained that my credit card had been issued through the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis.

“A most reputable house,” J.B. commented. “Chambers. Issue her another card. On us. At once. And collect her winning ticket for her.” He looked at me and took his cigar out of his mouth. “No publicity. The affairs of MasterCard’s clients are always confidential. Satisfactory, Miss Walgreen?”

“Quite, sir.”

“Chambers. Do it.”

“Yes, sir. What credit limit, sir?”