his Guild taxes remitted for a year."
"Jeepers!" the secretary sat bolt upright. "Can you do that?"
"I think I'm big enough in Council to swing it."
"This'll make the grapevine jump."
"I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I
want that girl."
Quizzard's Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break...
the only break in a gambler's day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the
Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In
crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier's
desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked
in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and
Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with
flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.
"Your price," Reich told Church, "you know already. And I'm warning you, Jerry.
If you know what's good for you, don't try to peep me. I'm poison. If you get
into my head you're getting into Demolition. Think about it."
"Jesus," Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. "As bad as that? I don't banker
for a Demolition, Reich."
"Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?"
"A question." Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of
sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. "Listen
to what I hanker for."
"Name the best price you can figure, Keno."
"What's it for?"
"To hell with that. I'm buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me
how much I've got to put up to get it---guaranteed."
"That's a lot of service."
"I've got a lot of money."
"You got a hundred Ms laying around?"
"One hundred thousand. Right? That's the price."
"For the love of..." Church popped upright and stared at Reich. "A hundred
thousand?"
"Make up your mind, Jerry," Reich growled. "Do you want money or reinstatement?"
"It's almost worth---No. Am I crazy? I'll take reinstatement."
"Then stop drooling." Reich turned to Quizzard. "The price is one hundred
thousand."
"In sovereigns?"
"What else? Now, d'you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to
work right off?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Reich," Quizzard protested.
"Frab that," Reich snapped. "I know you, Keno. You've got an idea you can find
out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right
now. That's why I let you set the price."
"Yeah," Quizzard said slowly. "I had that idea, Reich." He smiled and the
milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. "I still got that idea."
"Then I'll tell you right now who'll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell.
Trouble is, I don't know what he'd pay."
"Whatever it is, I don't want it." Quizzard spat.
"It's me against Powell, Keno. That's the whole auction. I've placed my bid. I'm
still waiting to hear from you."
"It's a deal," Quizzard replied.
"All right," Reich said, "now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name
is Barbara D'Courtney."
"The killing?" Quizzard nodded heavily. "I thought so."
"Any objections?"
Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.
"I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows
where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her."
Quizzard nodded.
"She's about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds.
Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs..."
The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.
"Yellow hair. Black eyes. Heart shaped face. Full mouth and a kind of aquiline
nose... She's got a face with character. It jabs out at you. Electric."
"Clothes?"
"She was wearing a silk dressing gown last time I saw her. Frosty white and
translucent... like a frozen window. No shoes. No stockings. No hat. No jewelry.
She was off her beam... Crazy enough to tear out into the streets and disappear.
I want her." Something compelled Reich to add: "I want her undamaged.
Understand?"
"With her hauling a freight like that? Have a heart, Reich." Quizzard licked his
fat lips. "You don't stand a chance. She don't stand a chance."
"That's what a hundred Ms are for. I stand a good chance if you get her fast
enough."
"I may have to slush for her."
"Then slush. Check every bawdy house, bagnio, Blind Tiger, and frab-joint in the
city. Pass the word down the grapevine. I'm willing to pay. I don't want any
fuss. I just want the girl. Understand?"
Quizzard nodded, still jingling the gold. "I understand."
Suddenly Reich reached across the table and slashed Quizzard's fat hands with
the edge of his palm. The sovereigns chimed into the air and clattered into the
four corners.
"And I don't want any double-cross," Reich growled in a deadly voice. "I want
the girl."
8
Seven days of combat.
One week of action and reaction, attack and defense, all fought on the surface
while deep below the agitated waters Powell and Augustus Tate swam and circled
like silent sharks awaiting the onset of the real war.
A patrol officer, now in plainclothes, believed in the surprise attack. He
waylaid Maria Beaumont during a theater intermission, and before her horrified
friends bellowed: "It was a frame. You were in cahoots with the killer. You set
up the murder. That's why you was playin' that Sardine game. Go ahead and answer
me."
The Gilt Corpse squawked and ran. As the Rough Tail set off in hot pursuit, he
was peeped deeply and thoroughly.
Tate to Reich: The cop was telling the truth. His department believes Maria was
an accomplice.
Reich to Tate: All right. We'll throw her to the wolves. Let the cops have her.
In consequence, Madame Beaumont was left unprotected. She took refuge, of all
places, in the Loan Brokerage mat was the source of the Beaumont fortune. The
patrol officer located her there three hours later and subjected her to a
merciless grilling in the office of the peeple Credit Supervisor. He was unaware
that Lincoln Powell was just outside the office, chatting with the Supervisor.
Powell to staff: She got the game out of some ancient book Reich gave her.
Probably purchased at Century. They handle that stuff. Pass the word. Did he ask
for it specifically? Also, check Graham, the appraiser. How come the only intact
game in the book was `Sardine'? Old Man Mose'll want to know. And where's that
girl?
A traffic officer, now in plainclothes, was going to come through on his Big
Chance with the suave approach. To the manager and staff of the Century
Audio-bookstore, he drawled: "I'm in the market for old game books... The kind
my very good friend, Ben Reich, asked for last week."
Tate to Reich: I've been peeping around. They're going to check that book you
sent Maria.
Reich to Tate: Let 'em. I'm covered. I've got to concentrate on that girl.
The manager and staff carefully explained matters at great length in response to
the Rough Tail's suave questions. Many clients lost patience and left the store.
One sat quietly in a corner, too wrapt in a crystal recording to realize he was
left unattended. Nobody knew that Jackson Beck was completely tone-deaf.
Powell to staff: Reich apparently found the book accidentally. Stumbled over it
while he was looking for a present for Maria Beaumont. Pass the word. And
where's that girl?
In conference with the agency that handled copy for the Monarch Jumper ("the
only Family Air-Rocket on the market"), Reich came up with a new advertising
program.
"Here's the slant," Reich said. "People always anthropomorphize the products
they use. They attribute human characteristics to them. They give 'em pet names
and treat 'em like family pets. A man would rather buy a Jumper if he can feel
affectionate toward it. He doesn't give a dame for efficiency. He wants to love
that Jumper."
"Check, Mr. Reich. Check!"
"We're going to anthropomorphize our Jumper," Reich said. "Let's find a girl and
vote her the Monarch Jumper Girl. When a consumer buys one, he's buying the
girl. When he handles one, he's handling her."
"Check!" the account man cried. "Your idea has a sense of solar scope that
dwarfs us, Mr. Reich. This is a wrap-up and blast!"
"Start an immediate campaign to locate the Jumper Girl. Get every salesman onto
it. Comb the city. I want the girl to be about twenty-five. About five-five
tall; weighting a hundred and twenty pounds. I want her built. Lots of appeal."
"Check, Mr. Reich. Check."
"She ought to be a blonde with dark eyes. Full mouth. Good strong nose. Here's a
sketch of my idea of the Jumper Girl. Look it over, have it reproduced and
passed out to your crew. There's a promotion for the man who locates the girl I
have in mind."
Tate to Reich: I've been peeping the police. They're sending a man into Monarch
to dig up collusion between you and that appraiser, Graham.
Reich to Tate: Let 'em. There isn't anything, and Graham's left town on a buying
spree. Something between me and Graham! Powell couldn't be that dumb, could he?
Maybe I've been overrating him.
Expense was no object to a squadman, now in plainclothes, who believed in the
disguises of plastic surgery. Freshly equipped with mongoloid features, he took
a job in Monarch Utilities' Accounting-city and attempted to unearth Reich's
financial relations with Graham, the appraiser. It never occurred to him that
his intent had been peeped by Monarch's Esper Personnel Chief, reported
upstairs, and that upstairs was quietly chuckling.
Powell to staff: Our stooge was looking for bribery recorded in Monarch's books.
This should lower Reich's opinion of us by fifty per cent; which makes him fifty
per cent more vulnerable. Pass the word. Where's that girl?
At the board meeting of "The Hour," the only round-the-clock paper on earth,
twenty-four editions a day, Reich announced a new Monarch charity.
"We're calling it `Sanctuary'," he said. "We offer aid and comfort and sanctuary
to the city's submerged millions in their time of crisis. If you've been
evicted, bankrupted, terrorized, swindled... If you're frightened, for any
reason and don't know where to turn... If you're desperate... Take Sanctuary."
"It's a terriffic promotion," the managing editor said, "but it'll cost like
crazy. What's it for?"
"Public Relations," Reich snapped. "I want this to hit the next edition. Jet!"
Reich left the board room, went down to the street and located a public phone
booth. He called "Recreation" and gave careful instructions to Ellery West. "I
want a man placed in every Sanctuary office in the city. I want a full
description and photo of every applicant relayed to me at once. At once, Ellery.
As they come in."
"I'm not asking any questions, Ben, but I wish I could peep you on that."
"Suspicious?" Reich snarled.
"No. Just curious."
"Don't let it kill you."
As Reich left the booth, a man clothed in an air of inept eagerness accosted
him.
"Oh, Mr. Reich. Lucky I bumped into you. I just heard about Sanctuary and I
thought a human interest interview with the originator of this wonderful new
charity might---"
Lucky he bumped into him! The man was the "Industrial Critic's" famous peeper
reporter. Probably tailed him down and---Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said
the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissention have begun.
"No comment," Reich mumbled. Eight, sir; seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir...
"What childhood episode in your life brought about the realization of this
crying need for---"
Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one...
"Was there ever a time when you didn't know where to turn? Were you ever afraid
of death or murder? Were---"
Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and
dissention have begun.
Reich dove into a Public Jumper and escaped.
Tate to Reich: The cops are really after Graham. They've got their entire Lab
looking for the appraiser. God knows what kind of red-herring Powell's
following, but it's away from you. I think the safety margin's increasing.
Reich to Tate: Not until I've found that girl.
Marcus Graham had left no forwarding address and was pursued by half a dozen
impractical tracer-robots dug up by the police lab. They were accompanied by
their impractical inventors to various parts of the solar system. In the
meantime, Marcus Graham had arrived on Ganymede where Powell located him at an
auction of rare primitive books conducted at break-neck speed by a peeper
auctioneer. The books had been part of the Drake estate, inherited by Ben Reich
from his mother. They had been unexpectedly dumped on the market.
Powell interviewed Graham in the foyer of the auction room, before a crystal
port overlooking the arctic tundra of Ganymede with the belted red-brown bulk of
Jupiter filling the black sky. Then Powell took the Fortnighter back to Earth,