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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
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«It was a cargo you don't know about,» Dagenham said confidentially. «'Nomad' was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank. Every so often, banks have to adjust accounts. Normally, enough trade goes on between planets so that accounts can be balanced on paper. The war's disrupted normal trade, and Mars Bank found that Presteign owed them twenty odd million credits without any way of getting the money short of actual delivery. Presteign was delivering the money in bar platinum aboard the 'Nomad.' It was locked in the purser's safe.»
«Twenty million,» Foyle whispered.
«Give or take a few thousand. The ship was insured, but that just means that the underwriters, Bo'ness and Uig, get the salvage rights and they're even tougher than Presteign. However, there'll be a reward for you. Say twenty thousand credits.»
«Twenty million,» Foyle whispered again.
«We're assuming that an O.S. raider caught up with 'Nomad' somewhere on course and let her have it. They couldn't have boarded and looted or you wouldn't have been left alive. This means that the purser's safe is still…Are you listening, Foyle?»
But Foyle was not listening. He was seeing twenty million. . . not twenty thousand . . . twenty million in platinum bullion as a broad highway to «Vorga.» No more petty thefts from lockers and labs; twenty million for the taking and the razing of «Vorga.»
«Foyle!»
Foyle awoke. He looked at Dagenham. «I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing,» he said.
«What the hell's got into you now? Why're you dummying up again?»
«I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«I'm offering a fair reward. A spaceman can go on a hell of a tear with twenty thousand credits . . . a one-year tear. What more do you want?»
«I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«It's us or Intelligence, Foyle.»
«You ain't so anxious for them to get me, or you wouldn't be flipping through all this. But it ain't no use, anyway. I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«You son of a…” Dagenham tried to repress his anger. He had revealed just a little too much to this cunning, primitive creature. «You're right,» he said. «We're not anxious for Intelligence to get you. But we've made our own preparations.» His voice hardened. «You think you can dummy up and stand us off. You think you can leave us to whistle for 'Nomad.' You've even got an idea that you can beat us to the salvage.»
«No,» Foyle said.
«Now listen to this. We've got a lawyer waiting in New York. He's got a criminal prosecution for piracy pending against you; piracy in space, murder, and looting.
«It was a cargo you don't know about,» Dagenham said confidentially. «'Nomad' was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank. Every so often, banks have to adjust accounts. Normally, enough trade goes on between planets so that accounts can be balanced on paper. The war's disrupted normal trade, and Mars Bank found that Presteign owed them twenty odd million credits without any way of getting the money short of actual delivery. Presteign was delivering the money in bar platinum aboard the 'Nomad.' It was locked in the purser's safe.»
«Twenty million,» Foyle whispered.
«Give or take a few thousand. The ship was insured, but that just means that the underwriters, Bo'ness and Uig, get the salvage rights and they're even tougher than Presteign. However, there'll be a reward for you. Say twenty thousand credits.»
«Twenty million,» Foyle whispered again.
«We're assuming that an O.S. raider caught up with 'Nomad' somewhere on course and let her have it. They couldn't have boarded and looted or you wouldn't have been left alive. This means that the purser's safe is still…Are you listening, Foyle?»
But Foyle was not listening. He was seeing twenty million. . . not twenty thousand . . . twenty million in platinum bullion as a broad highway to «Vorga.» No more petty thefts from lockers and labs; twenty million for the taking and the razing of «Vorga.»
«Foyle!»
Foyle awoke. He looked at Dagenham. «I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing,» he said.
«What the hell's got into you now? Why're you dummying up again?»
«I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«I'm offering a fair reward. A spaceman can go on a hell of a tear with twenty thousand credits . . . a one-year tear. What more do you want?»
«I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«It's us or Intelligence, Foyle.»
«You ain't so anxious for them to get me, or you wouldn't be flipping through all this. But it ain't no use, anyway. I don't know about 'Nomad,' nothing.»
«You son of a…” Dagenham tried to repress his anger. He had revealed just a little too much to this cunning, primitive creature. «You're right,» he said. «We're not anxious for Intelligence to get you. But we've made our own preparations.» His voice hardened. «You think you can dummy up and stand us off. You think you can leave us to whistle for 'Nomad.' You've even got an idea that you can beat us to the salvage.»
«No,» Foyle said.
«Now listen to this. We've got a lawyer waiting in New York. He's got a criminal prosecution for piracy pending against you; piracy in space, murder, and looting.