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started to close the door. Bailey jammed it with his foot.
"I want a job," he said quickly. "You need runners, don't you?"
The swarthy man's foot paused an inch from grinding into Bailey's ankle. His blunt features settled into
wariness.
"You're on a bum pitch, Clyde. What I need a runner for?"
"This is a drop shop. You can use me. How about letting me in off the street before somebody gets
eyes?"
Reluctantly, the door eased back; Bailey slipped through into an odor of nesting mice. By the light
coming through from a back hall he saw a clutter of ancient furniture, a battered computer console. Then
a meaty hand had caught his tunic-front, slammed him back against the wall. A six-inch knife blade
glinted in the fist held under his nose.
"I could cut your heart out," a garlic-laden voice growled in his face.
"Sure you could," Bailey said impatiently. "But why take a wipe for nothing?"
"Who told you about me?"
"Look, I just arrived an hour ago. The first drifter I met led me here. Everybody must know this place."
"Bugs send you here?" The hand shook him, rattling his head against the wall.
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"For what? The Greenies know all about you. You must have paid bite money, otherwise you wouldn't
be operating."
The knife touched Bailey's throat. "You take some chances, Clyde."
"Put the knife away. You need me and I need money."
"I need you why?"
"Your biggest problem is transmitting bets and pay-off information. You can't use Pubcom or two-way.
I've got a good memory and I like to walk. For a hundred a week in hard tokens I'll cover all of Mat'n
for you."
The silence lengthened. The knife moved away; the grip on Bailey's blouse slackened slightly.
"Bugs got something on you?"
"Not that I know of."
"Why you need money?"
"To buy new papers and other things."
"You got no cards?"
"Not even an ID."
"How do I know you're not dogging for the Bugs?"
"Get some sense. What would I get out of that?"
The man made a guttural noise and stepped back. "Tell it, Clyde. All of it."
Bailey told. When he finished, the swarthy man rubbed his chin with a sound like a wood rasp cutting
pine.
"How'd you do it? Bust out, I mean?"
"I don't know. The girl found me in an alley mumbling about a pain in my chest. My wrists were a little
raw, as if I'd forced the straps. After all, it isn't as if they expected anybody to try to leave."
The dark man grunted. "You're scrambled," he said. "But there could be something in it at that. OK,
you're on, Jack. Fifty a week and you sleep in the back."
"Seventy-five and I eat here, too."
"Push your luck, don't you? All right. But don't expect no lux rations."
"Just so I eat," Bailey said. "I'll need my strength for what I've got to do."
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4
The dog-eared, seam-cracked maps of the city which Bailey's employer supplied dated from a time
when the streets had been open to the sky, when unfiltered sunlight had fallen on still-new pavements and
facades. Two centuries had passed since those wholesome, innocent days, but the charts still reflected
faithfully each twist and angle of the maze of streets and alleys. Each night, he quartered the city, north to
south, river wall to river wall. In the motley costume which Aroon had given him, he passed unremarked
in the crowds.
Off-duty, he undertook the cleaning of Aroon's rubbish-filled rooms. After feeding the accumulated
debris of decades into a municipal disposer half a block from the house, he set about sweeping,
scrubbing, polishing the plastron floor and walls until their original colors emerged from under the crusts
of age. After that, he procured pen and paper, spent hours absorbed in calculations. Aroon watched,
grunted, and left him to his own devices.
"You're a funny guy, Bailey," he said after a month of near-silent observation. "I got to admit at first I
didn't know about you. But you had plenty chances to angle, and passed 'em. You're smart, and a hard
worker. You never spend a chit. You work, you eat, you sleep, and you scribble numbers. I got no
complaint but what you after, Bailey? You're a hounded guy if I ever see one."
Bailey studied the older man's face. "You and I are going to make some money, Gus," he said.
Aroon looked startled. His thick eyebrows crawled up his furrowed forehead.
"How much do you make a week, booking the 'stats?" Bailey put the question boldly.
Aroon frowned. "Hell, you know: Three, four hundred after expenses if I'm lucky."
"How much do the big boys make? The books?"
"Plenty!" Gus barked. "But wait a minute, kid. You ain't getting ideas "
"Theydon't rely on luck," Bailey said. "Theyknow . Figure it out for yourself. The play is based on the
midnight census read-outs. But the figures for production, consumption, the growth indices and vital
statistics they all vary in accordance with known curves."
"Not to me, they ain't known. Listen, Bailey, don't start talking chisel to me " [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]