by Keith Laumer
Bailey shook his head. "Nothing like that. But we do all the work. Why pass all the profits along to them?" He pointed with his head in the general direction of the booker's present temporary HQ in a defunct hotel half a mile south.
"You slipped your clutch? That's murder-"
"We won't cut corners on anybody. But tonight we're going to roll our own book."
Aroon's mouth hung open.
"I've worked out the major cycles, and enough minor ones to show a profit. It wasn't too hard. I minored in statan, back in my kid days."
"Wise up, kid," Aroon growled. "What do I use for capital?"
"We'll start out small. We won't need much: just a little cash money to cover margins. I've got three hundred to contribute. I'd estimate another seventeen hundred ought to do it."
Aroon's tongue touched his lips. "This is nuts. I'm a drop man, not a book-"
"So now you're a book. You've already got the work list, your steady customers. We'll just direct a few lays into our private bank, on these lines." Bailey passed a sheet of paper across; it was filled with columns of figures.
"I can't take no chance like this," Gus breathed. "What if I can't cover? What if-"
"What have you got to lose, Gus? This?" Bailey glanced around the room. "You could have a Class Three flat, wear issue 'alls, eat at the commess-if you went up there." He glanced ceilingward. "You picked Preke country instead. Why? So you could lock into another system-a worse one?"
"I got enough," Gus said hoarsely. "I get along."
"Just once," Bailey said. "Take a chance. Take it, or face the fact that you spend the rest of your life in a one-way dead end."
Gus swallowed hard. "You really think…?"
"I think it's a chance. A good chance."
For long seconds, Aroon stared into Bailey's face. Then he hit the table with his fist. He swore. He got to his feet, a big, burly man with sweat on his face.
"I'm in, Bailey," he croaked. "Them guys ain't no better than me and you. And if a man can't ride a hunch once in his life, what's he got anyway, right?"
"Right," Bailey said. "Now better get some cash ready. It's going to be a busy night."
5
For the first three hours, it was touch and go. They paid off heavily on the twenty-one hours read-out, showed a modest recoup on the twenty-two, cut deeply into their tiny reserve at twenty-three.
"We ain't hacking it, kid," Aroon muttered, wiping at his bald forehead with a yard-square handkerchief. "At this rate we go under on the next read."
"Here's a revised line," Bailey said. "One of the intermediate composites is cresting. That's what threw me off."
"If we pull out now, we can pay off and call it square."
"Play along one more hour, Gus."
"We'll be in too deep! We can't cover!"
"Ride it anyway. Maybe we can."
"I'm nuts," Gus said. "But OK, one more pass."
On the midnight reading, the pot showed a profit of three hundred and thirty-one Q's. Aroon proposed getting out then, but half-heartedly. At one hundred, the stake more than doubled. At two, in spite of a sharp wobble in the GNP curve, they held their own. At three, a spurt sent them over the two thousand mark. By dawn, the firm of Aroon and Bailey had a net worth of forty-one hundred and sixty-one credit units, all in hard tokens.
"I got to hand it to you, Bailey," Aroon said in wonderment, spreading the bright-colored plastic chips on the table with a large, hairy hand. "A month's take-in one night!"
This is a drop in the bucket, Gus," Bailey said. "I just wanted to be sure my formulas worked. Now we really start operating."
Gus looked wary. "What's that mean, more trouble?"
"I've been keeping my eyes open since I've been here in Four Quarters. It's a pretty strange place, when you stop to think about it: a whole sub-culture, living outside the law, a refuge for criminals and misfits. Why do the Greenies tolerate it? Why don't they stage a raid, clean out the Prekes once and for all, put an end to the lawbreakers and the rackets? They could do it any day they wanted to."
Gus looked uncomfortable. "Too much trouble, I guess. We keep to our own. We live off the up graders' scraps-"
"Uh-uh," Bailey said. "They live off ours-some of them, even at the top."
"Crusters and Dooses-live off Prekes?" Gus wagged his head. "Your drive is slipping, Bailey."
"Who do you think backs the big books? There's money involved-several million every night. Where do you think it goes?"
"Into the bookers' pockets, I guess. What about it? I don't like this kind of talk. It makes me nervous."
"The big books want you to be nervous," Bailey said. "They don't want anyone asking questions, rocking the boat. But let's ask some anyway. Where does the money go? It goes upstairs, Gus. That's why they let us alone, let us spend our lives cutting each other's throats-so they can bleed off the cream. It's good business."
"You're skywriting, Bailey."
"Sure, I admit it's guesswork. But I'm betting I'm right. And if I am, we can cut ourselves as big a slice as we've got the stomach for."
"Look, we're doing OK, we play small enough maybe they don't pay no attention-"
"They'll pay attention. Don't think we're the first to ever get ideas. Staying small is the one thing we can't do. It will be a sure tip-off that we're just a pair of mice in the woodwork. We have to work big, Gus. It's the only bluff we've got."
"Big-on four M." Gus stared scornfully at the chips he had been fondling.
"That's just seed," Bailey said. "Tonight we move into the big time."
"How?"
"We borrow."
Gus stared. "You nuts, Bailey? Who-"
"That's what I want you to tell me, Gus. Here." He slid a sheet of paper across the table. "Write down the names of every man in the Quarters that might be good for a few hundred. I'll take it from there."
6
The dark-eyed man sat with his face in shadow, his long-fingered hands resting on the table before which Bailey stood, waiting.
"Why," he asked in a soft, sardonic drawl, "would I put chips in a sucker play like that?"
"Maybe I made a mistake," Bailey said loudly. "I thought you might want a crack at some important money. If you'd rather play it small and safe, I'll be on my way."
"You talk big, for a nothing from noplace."
"It's not where I'm from-it's where I'm going," Bailey said offhandedly.
"You think you're at the bottom now," the man snarled. "You can drop another six feet-into dirt."
"What would that prove?" Bailey inquired. "That you're too big a man to listen to an idea that could make you rich-if you've got the spine for a little risk?"
"I take chances when the odds are right-"
"Then take one now. Buy in an M's worth-or half an M. You get it back tomorrow-with interest. If you don't-I guess you'll know what to do about it."
The man leaned back; the light glinted from his deep-set eyes. He rubbed the side of his thin beaked nose. "Yeah. I guess I'd think of something at that. Let me get this straight: Aroon is selling slices of a book that will pay twenty-five percent for twenty-four hours' action…"
"That's tonight. Investors only. Tomorrow's too late."
"How do I know you don't hit the lifts with the bundle?"
"You think I could make it-with all the eyes that will be watching me?"
"Who else is in?"
"You're the first. I've got a lot of ground to cover before sunset, Mr. Farb. Are you in or out?"
The hawk-nosed man touched his fingertips together, scratched his chin with a thumb.
"I'll go four M," he said. "Better have five ready by sunset tomorrow."
Bailey accepted the stack of gold chips. "You've made a smart move, Mr. Farb. Tell your man to tail me from close enough to move in if some sharpie tries to play rough."
Six hours and forty-one calls later, Bailey returned to the Aroon pad with twenty-six M in chips. His reluctant partner goggled, hastened to sweep the loot i
nto a steel box.
"It's safe," Bailey said, sinking wearily into a chair. "We bought plenty of protection along with the cash. Every investor on the list has a man or two out there keeping an eye on his stake."
"Bailey," Aroon's voice had a faint quaver. "What if we bomb out? They won't leave enough of us to tie a tag on."
"Then we'd better not bomb out. Just give me time for a cup of feen, and we'll start booking them."
Aroon sweated heavily during the first hour of the night's play. Of the ten thousand or so that was the normal wager on the twenty-three hundred hour readouts, Bailey diverted two to the private book, scattering the bets so as to disturb the normal pattern as little as possible.
"The longer we can keep the big boys off our necks at this stage, the better," he pointed out. "We'll feed them enough to keep 'em happy until we've built up some steam."
"They're bound to tip after a while," Gus protested.
"We'll be ready. Jack the ante to thirty percent next hour."
By midnight the traffic had risen to over twenty M in wagers on the numbers on the big board; customers, encouraged by the abnormally high rate of pay-off, were reinvesting their takes. Aroon wagged his heavy head as he paid out line after line.
"We ain't doing so good," he muttered, watching the digits flicker on the monitor screen. "I never paid off like this in six years of drop work."
"I'm keeping the balance as sweet as I can and still show a profit," Bailey reassured him. "We have to build our following fast."
"We're barely clearing enough to pay off our backers!"
"That's right. But I'm banking that they'll stay on for another whirl. We're going to need all the siders we can get when the squeeze comes."
In the following hours, the pot grew to fifty M, to seventy. Now Aroon was booking a full half of the offers on the new ledger.
"It can't go on long," he groaned. "We're cutting too big a slice! Bailey, we ought to take it slow, not make a wave-"
"Just the opposite. We're running a bluff, Gus. That means show all the muscle you can beg, borrow, or fake up out of foam rubber."
By dawn, the new book had turned a grand total of almost half a million in bets, for a pay-off of sixty-seven percent and a net profit of forty thousand Q's.
"We're clear," Aroon announced in wondering tones after the count. "We can square our stakers and clean seven and a half-" He broke off as a sharp sound came from the locked street door-a sound of breaking metal. The door jumped inward and three men came through without triggering the defense circuits. Gus came to his feet, started to bluster, but the small man leading the trio showed him the gleam of a slug pistol.
"Easy, Gus," Bailey said in a relaxed tone. "Let 'em snoop." Bailey and Aroon stood silent as the three cruised the room, aiming detector instruments at the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
"Clean," the two underlings reported. "There ain't no tap here, Buncey."
"That's good for you small-timers," the man called Buncey said in a soft tone. "If you were bleeding the wire, you'd wake up a long way from here-only you wouldn't wake up. The way it is, we just lift the take and close you down. You're lucky, see? Vince, Greaseball here will tell you where he keeps the loot."
"No he won't," Bailey said in a level tone. Buncey turned to look him up and down. He dandled the gun on his palm.
"Use it or put it away," Bailey said. "We don't bluff."
"Kid, listen-" Gus started.
"You tired of breathing?" the small man inquired softly, curling his fingers around the weapon.
"Don't play dumb," Bailey said. "You've been covered like a bashful bride ever since you came in here."
"Yeah?" the small man said tightly. "Maybe. But I could still blow you down, junior."
"Does your boss want to spend three chips for a couple of front men?"
"Our boss doesn't like small-time competish," the gunman growled.
Bailey showed him a crooked grin. "Dream on, Buncey. We booked in half a million tonight. Does that look like small time?"
"You're cutting your own throat, cheapie-"
"There won't be any throats cut," Bailey said. "Wake up, there's been a change. Our outfit is in-and we're not settling for small change. Our backers are taking a full share."
Buncey snorted. "You're showing your cuff, dummy. The play's backed from the top-all the way up. And it's a closed operation, all tied up, a tight operation. You got no backers. Your bluff is bust-"
"There's more," Bailey said. "Sure, your Cruster bosses have always cut the pie their way. But as of tonight, there's one more slice. And this one stays below decks, where it belongs."
"What are you pulling?" Buncey looked uneasy. "There's not a bundle under the floor that could roll a full book."
"Not until now," Bailey said. "The syndicate changes that."
"Syndicate?"
"That's right. Every operator in Mat'n is with us."
"You're lying," Buncey snapped. "No two Preke grifters could work together for longer than it takes to mug a zek on a string lay!" He brought the gun up with a sure motion. "I'm calling your bet, little man-"
He stiffened at a sound from the hall leading to the back room. A tall, lean man appeared, glancing casually about. He nodded at Aroon, ignoring the gunmen.
"I liked the night's play," Farb said easily. "I'm plowing my cut back in. So are the rest of us." He dropped a stack of fully charged cash cards on the table. Only then did he turn a look on the man called Buncey. "You can go now," he said. "Better put the iron away. We don't want any killing."
Buncey slowly pocketed his gun. "You Prekes are serious," he said. "You think you can buck topside…"
"We know we can-as long as we don't get too greedy," Bailey said. "Try to strong-arm us, and the whole racket blows sky-high. Concede us our ten percent of the action and nobody gets hurt."
"I'll pass the word. If you're bagging air, better look for a hole-a deep one. These things can be checked."
"Check all you want," Farb said. "We like the idea of a little home industry. We're behind it all the way."
After the three had left, Gus slumped into a rump-sprung chair with a guttural sigh.
"Bailey, you walked the thin edge just now. How'd you know they wouldn't call you?"
"They're gamblers," Bailey said. "The percentages were against it." He looked at Farb. "You mean what you said?"
Farb nodded, the glint of honest greed in his eyes. "I don't know where you came from, Bailey, or why: but you worked a play that I wouldn't have given a filed chit for twelve hours ago. Keep it up; you'll have all the weight you want behind you."
7
Three months later, Bailey told Aroon he was leaving.
"The operation's all yours, Gus. I've got what I need. It's time to move on."
"I can't figure you, kid," the older man said, shaking his heavy head. "You take chances that no other guy would touch with a chip-rake-and when they pay off, you bow out. Why not stay on? On your split you could live like a king "Sure I could, here. But there are things that need doing that take more than a fat credit balance. I need a tag, to start with. Can you fix it?"
Gus grunted. "It'll cost you a slice of that pile you've been sitting on."
"That's what it's for."
"Class Three Yellow about right?"
Bailey shook his head. "Class One Blue."
"Are you outa your mind, Bailey?" Aroon yelled. "You can't bluff your way Topside!"
"Why not? I bluffed my way into Preke territory."
"Your roll won't carry you a week up there."
"All I need is the price of admission."
"Face it, Bailey. There's more to it than the loot. You don't look like a Cruster, you don't act like one. How could you? Those babies have all the best from the day they're born, the best food, the best education, the best training! They have their own way of walking and talking, sniffing flowers, making up to a frill! They've got class where it shows, and they can back it up! You can't fake it!"
> "Who said anything about faking it, Gus? You must know the name of a reliable tapelegger."
"A print man?" Aroon's voice had automatically dropped to a whisper. "Bailey, that ain't demi-chit stuff. Touch a wrong strip and it's a wiping rap!"
"If I'm caught."
"And anyway-a good tech line is worth a fortune! You couldn't touch even a Class Two tape job for under a quarter million."
"I don't want a tech education," Bailey said. "I want a background cultural fill-in-the kind they give a Cruster after a brain injury or wipe therapy."
"I guess there's no need my asking why you want to load your skull with fancy stuff you'll never use, that'll never buy you a night's flop?" Gus said hoarsely.
"Nope. Can you put me on to a right man?"
"If that's the way you want it."
"It's the way it's got to be for where I've got to go."
Aroon nodded heavily. "I owe you that much-and a lot more. You shook this whole lousy setup to bedrock, something that needed doing for a long time." He rose. "Come on. I'll take you there."
"I'll go alone, Gus. Just give me the name and address, and I'm on my way."
"You don't waste much time, do you, kid?"
"I don't have much time to waste."
"What is it you got to do that's eating at you?"
Bailey frowned. "I don't know. I just know the time is short for me to do it."
8
It was a narrow, high-ceilinged room, walled with faded rose and gold paper, furnished with glossy dark antiques perched around the edge of a carpet from which the floral pattern was almost worn away. An elaborate chandelier fitted with ancient flame-shaped incandescent bulbs hung from a black iron chain. Tarnished gilt lettering winked from the cracked leather spines of books in a glass-fronted case. The man who surveyed Bailey from the depths of a curve-legged wing chair was lean, withered, with a face like a fallen soufflй. Only his eyes moved, assessing his customer.
"Do you have any idea what it is you're asking?" he inquired in a voice like dry leaves stirred by the wind. "Do you imagine that by absorbing from an illegally transcribed cephalotape the background appropriate to a gentleman of birth and breeding, that you will be magically transformed from your present lowly state?"