by Simon Hawke
Marian's eyes grew wide when Mick put it on the table. "S'trewth!" he exclaimed, immediately recognizing the grips for what they were. And when Mick displayed the knife's many-bladed functions, the peddlar's eyes grew wider still.
"Never in all my days have I seen such a marvelous device!" he exclaimed. "It would seem to have more uses than the mind could conceive! You created this?"
"I crafted it," said Mick, "but to be truthful, 'twas not I who created it, but a great and wondrous armorer from a far-off land, whose name was Victorinox. The original many-bladed knife was shown to me by the sorcerer I told you of, and together we made some changes to the pattern, until we arrived at the design for this knife here."
"A most useful and marvelous design," said Harlan, turning the knife over and over in his hands. "You can make more of these?"
"Aye," said Mick. "As many as you like."
"But 'twould take a long time, surely, to forge a great number of these blades," said Harlan.
"I can craft as many as you like," said Mick, "and in less time than you might think."
"If I were to commission, say, a dozen such many-bladed knives," said Harlan speculatively, "how long would it take you to make them?"
"Oh, a day or two, at most," said Mick.
"A day or two!" The peddlar was astonished. "How is that possible?"
"Through a secret process we employ known as manufacturing," said Bloody Bob, then cried out as Mick kicked him under the table.
"A secret process, eh?" said Harlan. "Well, I must admit I'm very curious, but I shall not press you for details. 'Tis enough for me to have these blades to sell, and ensure that no one else has them to sell but me."
" 'Tis possible we might come to some sort of an arrangement," Mick said, "provided everything works out well for all concerned."
"What sort of grips would you employ for the knives that you would make for me?" asked Harlan.
"The same as you see there," said Mick. " Tis a rare and special knife, and as such, it deserves rare and special grips."
Marian raised his eyebrows. "But these are nickallirium! And of an uncommon purity, to boot. Surely, the cost would be prohibitive."
"You might be surprised," said Mick. "The knives are very fine, and would undoubtedly be costly, yet not so costly that only the nobility could afford to purchase them. Nor so costly that it would preclude a good profit from the sale."
Harlan pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Indeed? One might very well infer from such a remark that you might have access to a supply of nickallirium from a source that is, shall we say, unauthorized?"
"I am not certain what you mean," said Mick evasively.
"Well, merely for the sake of argument," said the peddlar, "let us suppose that you did not come by your supply through any of the usual means. That is, you did not melt down any coins, nor did you purchase a supply from the Treasury Department of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild, which occasionally allows the purchase of unminted nickallirium by selected craftsmen, albeit at a kingly price, for the making of such things as precious jewelry and ornamented weapons for the nobility.
"Speaking, once again, purely for the sake of argument," the peddlar continued, "one might, therefore, suppose that you came by your supply through means which would be called somewhat irregular. Such a transaction would, of course, be against the law and, as such, it could result in certain problems for a certain vendor, if you get my meaning."
"Perhaps it would," said Mick, "if such was the nature of the source."
"Aye," said Harlan cautiously. "Again, speaking purely for the sake of argument, you understand, one could not help but wonder at a source for unminted nickallirium that was not acquired through the Guild. Certain persons-not speaking for myself, you understand-might suspect that it was stolen."
"I can assure you that it was not stolen," Mick replied.
"And I, of course, would not think of questioning your word," the peddlar said. "But certain individuals might insist on proof of such assurances."
Mick and Robie exchanged glances. Pikestaff Pat cleared his throat. Bloody Bob just looked confused.
"There is another source of nickallirium that you did not take into account," said Mick after a moment's pause, with a significant look at the peddlar.
Harlan simply stared at him, then he looked around at Robie, Pikestaff Pat, and Bloody Bob, before turning back to Mick again.
"Do you seriously mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that you actually possess the secret of the Philosopher's Stone?"
"Well, let us simply say that we can supply as many knives with grips of nickallirium as the market will demand," said Mick.
"Of course, such knives could never be sold cheaply," Pikestaff Pat said.
"And they could not be sold for barter," Robie added. "The purchasers would have to pay in coin of nickallirium."
"And the profits would have to be equitably shared," said Mick. "Speaking, as you said, purely for the sake of argument, it wouldn't do to have a vendor taking more than his agreed-upon share. Such a happenstance could result in rather unpleasant repercussions."
"I think we understand one another," Harlan said, choosing his words with care, "but let us be absolutely certain of the agreement we are in the process of negotiating. For your part, you are saying that you are able to craft as many of these wondrous knives as the market will demand, exactly like the one I hold here in my hands, so that any orders I may take could easily be filled. And, not to put too fine a point on it, if I were to get greedy and be dishonest in my dealings with you, I would likely wind up lying somewhere with my throat cut, or my back broken, or some other such similar unpleasantness." He nodded. "Very well, I can accept this, as I am an honest peddlar, which is why, perhaps, I have never been a rich one.
"For my part," he continued, "I would require assurances that I would be the exclusive vendor for your products, so that my own profits would thus be safeguarded, and so that anyone wishing to purchase your goods would have to deal solely with me. I do not feel that this is an unreasonable request. Needless to say, should you find my performance wanting in any way, that is to say, should I prove unable to develop a proper market for your goods, with an acceptable profit for all concerned, you would, of course, be free at that point to negotiate some similar agreement with another vendor. But I must be given a reasonable length of time in order to develop such a market."
Mick nodded. "That is fair. I think we could live with that."
"And the same conditions would apply, of course, to any other products I might undertake to represent for you," said Harlan. "Such as this excellent tea, here. And you say you have others, as well?"
"Aye," said Mick. "There are a number of other teas we could supply you with. We could also negotiate an agreement for your representing my Mickey Finn."
"Ah, of course, the wine," said Harlan, nodding. He cleared his throat. "A unique libation, indeed. I imagine that The Stealers Tavern would pay a pretty price to offer such a potent beverage to its patrons. And you could assure me of adequate quantity in that commodity, as well?"
Mick nodded. "We could brew up as much Mickey Finn as you can sell."
"Excellent," said Harlan. "Excellent, indeed."
"What about the magic soap?" asked Pikestaff Pat.
"The magic soap?" asked Harlan.
"Aye, 'tis a wondrous dirt remover," Mick said, "that one can use for bathing and making oneself smell clean and fresh. I believe that no one else would have such a commodity to offer."
"So? Could I see some of this rare substance, and try it out myself?" the peddlar asked.
"Of course," said Mick. "We would not expect you to agree to handle our products purely on faith. You would be a better vendor for us if you believed in them yourself."
"Aye, quite so, quite so," agreed the peddlar. "Well, gentlemen, I must say, this has been quite a productive evening thus far. I have been searching for unique products to offer to my customers, and you have been in need of an aggressive v
endor to market your goods. I think we could help each other. Aye, I do think so, indeed."
"Then perhaps we should proceed to the finer points of our agreement," Mick said.
"Aye, let's do that," said the peddlar with a smile. "But first, I would like another cup of this fine tea."
The CEO of EnGulfCo International was a forceful and dynamic man, accustomed to making decisions and delegating authority. He was a powerful man, but he did not wield his power conspicuously. Heads of state frequently dropped whatever they were doing just to take his phone calls, and captains of industry looked up to him as a paragon of everything to which they aspired. Success, wealth, power, and influence. For all that, he was not a very famous man, certainly not one who would be easily recognized on the streets.
Though his name was quite well-known in business circles, and always published on those lists of the wealthiest and most successful people that the magazines come out with every year, he went to great lengths to preserve his privacy and avoided being photographed. Once, when a notorious paparazzi popped up out of the bushes and snapped his picture on the golf course, then successfully eluded his bodyguards, the CEO had managed to avoid having the photograph published by putting out some discreet feelers, finding out which magazine had bought the rights to it, and then snapping up the magazine in a masterstroke of corporate raiding. He had then fired the editor who bought the photograph, brought in a new staff, and tripled the publication's circulation. There had been several successful attempts to photograph him after that, but for some reason, the photographers could not find buyers for the prints.
Subtlety. The CEO believed in subtlety. Practiced on a big-time scale.
In this case, the CEO felt, subtlety was much more than a matter of management style. It was absolutely imperative to preserve the secret of Brewster's discovery, if indeed, what Pamela Fairburn claimed was true. And it wasn't very long before the CEO had satisfied himself that either it was absolutely true, or Marvin Brewster had somehow managed to pull off the hoax of the century. Frankly, the CEO thought, Marvin Brewster just wasn't that clever. He was smart, yes, a genius... but clever? No, not in that sense. As intelligent as Marvin Brewster was, the CEO thought, he was no con man. His mind simply didn't work that way. Besides, it just didn't add up.
If it was some sort of hoax or con, then what could be his motive? Money? Hardly. Marvin Brewster was an unpretentious sort of man, a man of simple tastes and with no vices that he knew of. Marvin Brewster didn't care much about money. He didn't even understand money. Besides, if money had been the issue, Brewster could have easily demanded much more than the highly substantial salary he already received, and he would have gotten it, no questions asked. He was worth that much to the company and more.
If not money, what then? Fame? Quite possibly, though Brewster didn't seem to be the type to court that fickle mistress. Recognition for his work? Ah, yes, the CEO thought, that would make sense, but for a man like Marvin Brewster, that recognition would have to be genuine, for work that was genuine. He would not measure himself against the pop icons of the time, but against men such as Galileo, da Vinci, Einstein... and the pride of being able to measure up to such men would preclude the possibility of attempting to fake it with a hoax.
No, thought the CEO, Brewster was too honest, sincere, and disingenuous to pull off such a stunt. And there was no way he could see how Brewster could have done it. He had simply disappeared into thin air, under the watchful eyes of guards and cameras. Houdini or David Copperfield might have found a way to do it, but not Marvin Brewster. The tapes had all been thoroughly reviewed, the laboratory had been thoroughly searched, Pamela Fairburn's phone had been thoroughly tapped... there was just no way that Brewster could have done it. Which meant he really did it. Disappeared, that is. Somehow, uncannily, Marvin Brewster had discovered time travel.
Of course, there was no real evidence of that, the CEO reminded himself, just to keep things in perspective. It was also entirely possible that Marvin Brewster had found a way to vaporize himself and his machine without a trace. However, in that case, the discovery could still be useful. EnGulfCo had a lot of government contracts.
Either way, the CEO was determined that no one else would have the secret. Whatever in hell the secret was. There was money to be made here. The CEO could smell it. His olfactory sense in that regard had always been unusually acute. The problem now was how to keep a lid on it.
There were only a few people in a position to blow the thing wide open. One was the head of security at EnGulfCo, however, the CEO had discovered a few things about his war record, in addition to some of his extracurricular activities in such places as Cambodia, Thailand, Rhodesia, and Belize, and there was now very little danger of the head of security stepping out of line. Another potential source of trouble was the vice-president in charge of research and development, along with his secretary. The CEO took care of that one by having the secretary transferred to a geological exploration station in Antarctica and getting his hands on certain interesting photos of the vice-president of R and D with a girl named Mavis, a black leather mask, and a bull whip. The vice-president of R and D was married to a woman from Virginia whose father was a highly placed official in the CIA, and the CEO expected no trouble on that front.
Finally, there was the executive vice-president of EnGulfCo, a fairly powerful man in his own right, and not someone to be trifled with. Therefore, the CEO wisely chose not to trifle with him, and instead increased his stock options, sponsored him to membership in his own club, introduced him to his attractive twenty-three-year-old daughter, and promised to cut him in for a full share of the profits, which meant bringing him in on the whole deal. However, that was perfectly acceptable, for it meant he now had someone to delegate authority to. The CEO would not have liked to handle the whole thing by himself. It would have cut into his golf game.
That left only one loose end. Pamela Fairburn. And this was, as the British often said, where the wicket got a little sticky. Pamela's father was not only a wealthy and socially prominent man, he was also a close personal friend of the CEO's. This meant that any leverage exerted on Pamela had to be exerted very gently and very carefully. Unfortunately for the CEO, there just wasn't much leverage he could find to exert. Pamela was nothing if not a model of proper behavior and decorum. There was simply no dirt to be dug up on her. The CEO found that annoying. She also didn't work for him, which meant he couldn't give her orders. And she was very smart, which meant she couldn't be easily manipulated. That left him with only one string to pull. Her concern for Marvin Brewster.
He got off the elevator at the top floor and walked past the armed guards, who stiffened to attention at his approach. The special palm-scanner lock on the door to Brewster's laboratory had been changed. It now responded only to two palm patterns. His and Pamela Fairburn's. He pressed his hand flat against the scanner plate and the door slid open.
Pamela Fairburn was inside, bent over the papers spread out on Brewster's desk. She was dressed in a white lab coat over a sensible skirt and blouse and low-heeled pumps. She had pulled her hair back and fastened it with a barette, and behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed, with deep, dark bags beneath them. A half-empty pot of coffee stood on the warming plate of the drip percolator at the edge of the desk. The ash tray was full of cigarette butts.
"Pamela," said the CEO, coming up to the desk. She looked up at him. "You look terrible. Have you had any sleep at all?"
She shook her head and glanced toward the cot set back against the wall. "I had that cot brought in," she said. "I thought I could catch a few winks if I got tired, but I've been working straight through." She smiled wearily and shrugged. "Just became caught up, I suppose."
The CEO glanced at the overflowing ash tray and the red packages of Dunhills on the desk. "When did you start smoking?"
"Just started," she replied with a glance at the ash tray. "I'm getting rather good at it, I think."
The CEO shook his hea
d. "There's no point in driving yourself to exhaustion, Pamela. You're doing as much as anyone could do. Perhaps I should have some help brought in. Is there anyone you'd like to work with you on this?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't think Marvin would want that. You know how secretive he is about his special projects. Besides, the more people know about this, the greater the chance of a security leak, and you wouldn't want that now, would you?"
The CEO frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean. I'm anxious to take certain precautions about Marvin's work, of course, but-"
"You mean precautions such as having me followed and having my phone tapped?" she interrupted him. She waved off his protest with a casual gesture. "And don't bother to deny it, I'm not a fool, you know. Those casual strollers outside my window, the van parked down by the corner, those telltale little clickings on the line... I do have some knowledge of electronics, you know."
"Pamela, I-"
"Frankly, you're not really very good at this James Bond business. What did you do, hire some sort of seedy little private eye? Haven't you heard of laser scanners, dish mikes, and infinity transmitters? Honestly, if you're going to eavesdrop on somebody, the very least you could do was have the decency to be professional about it."
The CEO rapidly realized that a Pamela Fairburn stoked on nicotine and coffee was a force to be reckoned with. Clearly, he had underestimated her. And, just as clearly, it was undoubtedly going to cost him.
"Look, Pamela," he began, but that was about as far as he got.
"No, you look," she replied. "I resent your attitude. I resent it very much, indeed. What did you think I was going to do, for heaven's sake, call up the Daily Mirror and announce that an EnGulfCo scientist had discovered time travel? Or did you think, perhaps, that I was going to get on the phone to General Electric and ask for .bids on Marvin's notes? Quite aside from the fact that no one in their right mind would believe me without substantial proof of such a wild assertion, the thought I might have some sort of underlying motive of financial gain is positively insulting. I ought to box your ears for you!"