“Thanks for the tip,” Hnatt said, rising; carrying his case of ceramics he made his way down the aisle to the exit. He sighed. It was going to be tough, possibly even hopeless; he wasn’t going to be able to lick the circumstances which long predated his relationship with Emily and her pots, and that was that.
Fortunately he managed to snare a cab; as it carried him through downtown cross-traffic he read his own morning ’pape, in particular the lead story about the ship believed to have returned from Proxima only to crash on Pluto’s frozen wastes–an understatement! Already it was conjectured that this might be the well-known interplan industrialist Palmer Eldritch, who had gone to the Prox system a decade ago at the invitation of the Prox Council of humanoid types; they had wanted him to modernize their autofacs along Terran lines. Nothing had been heard from Eldritch since. Now this.
It would probably be better for Terra if this wasn’t Eldritch coming back, he decided. Palmer Eldritch was too wild and dazzling a solo pro; he had accomplished miracles in getting autofac production started on the colony planets, but–as always he had gone too far, schemed too much. Consumer goods had piled up in unlikely places where no colonists existed to make use of them. Mountains of debris, they had become, as the weather corroded them bit by bit, inexorably. Snowstorms, if one could believe that such still existed somewhere… there were places which were actually cold. Too cold, in actual fact.
“Thy destination, your eminence,” the autonomic cab informed him, halting before a large but mostly subsurface structure. P. P. Layouts, with employees handily entering by its many thermal-protected ramps.
He paid the cab, hopped from it, and scuttled across a short open space for a ramp, his case held with both hands; briefly, naked sunlight touched him and he felt– or imagined–himself sizzle. Baked like a toad, dried of all life-juices, he thought as he safely reached the ramp.
Presently he was subsurface, being allowed into Mayerson’s office by a receptionist. The rooms, cool and dim, invited him to relax but he did not; he gripped his display case tighter and tensed himself and, although he was not a Neo-Christian, he mumbled a prolix prayer.
“Mr. Mayerson,” the receptionist, taller than Hnatt and impressive in her open-bodice dress and resort-style heels, said, speaking not to Hnatt but to the man seated at the desk. “This is Mr. Hnatt,” she informed Mayerson. “This is Mr. Mayerson, Mr. Hnatt.” Behind Mayerson stood a girl in a pale green sweater and with absolutely white hair. The hair was too long and the sweater too tight. “This is Miss Fugate, Mr. Hnatt. Mr. Mayerson’s assistant. Miss Fugate, this is Mr. Richard Hnatt.”
At the desk Barney Mayerson continued to study a document without acknowledging the entrance of anyone and Richard Hnatt waited in silence, experiencing a mixed bag of emotions; anger touched him, lodged in his windpipe and chest, and of course Angst, and then, above even those, a tendril of growing curiosity. So this was Emily’s former husband, who, if the living necktie salesman could be believed, still chewed mournfully, bitterly, on the regret of having abolished the marriage. Mayerson was a rather heavy-set man, in his late thirties, with unusually–and not particularly fashionable–loose and wavy hair. He looked bored but there was no sign of hostility about him. But perhaps he had not as yet–
“Let’s see your pots,” Mayerson said suddenly.
Laying the display case on the desk Richard Hnatt opened it, got out the ceramic articles one by one, arranged them, and then stepped back.
After a pause Barney Mayerson said, “No.”
“‘No’?” Hnatt said. “No what?”
Mayerson said, “They won’t make it.” He picked up his document and resumed reading it.
“You mean you decided, just like that?” Hnatt said, unable to believe that it was already done.
“Exactly like that,” Mayerson agreed. He had no further interest in the display of ceramics; as far as he was concerned Hnatt had already packed up his pots and left.
Miss Fugate said, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayerson.”
Glancing at her Barney Mayerson said, “What is it?”
“I’m sorry to say this, Mr. Mayerson,” Miss Fugate said; she went over to the pots, picked one up and held it in her hands, weighing it, rubbing its glazed surface. “But I get a distinctly different impression than you do. I feel these ceramic pieces will make it.”
Hnatt looked from one to the other of them.
“Let me have that.” Mayerson pointed to a dark gray vase; at once Hnatt handed it to him. Mayerson held it for a time. “No,” he said finally. He was frowning, now. “I still get no impression of this item making it big. In my opinion you’re mistaken, Miss Fugate.” He set the vase back down. “However,” he said to Richard Hnatt, “in view of the disagreement between myself and Miss Fugate–” He scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Leave this display with me for a few days; I’ll give it further attention.” Obviously, however, he would not.
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.
TWO
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–”