The Lotus Eaters

'The jefe called his contact a chumbo once.'

'A prick? The world is full of pricks.'

'No, no, senor. In Santander a chumbo is a prick. But I think my jefe was using local slang for a chumbo, a black man.'

The POW could see from Fernandez's scowl that this, too, was not very helpful. The Balboans have black folk just like we do. Shit. Torture and death. Torture and death. He stretched for something, anything that might be useful.

Esteban offered, doubtfully and nervously, 'He . . . the jefe, I mean . . . he always said that payment was a mix of money and usually a single bag of the stuff, sometimes two, for his contact.'

Fernandez tilted his head sideways even as his mouth formed a little quizzical expression. After a few moments' thought, he straightened his head and said, 'Please, work with me here, Esteban; if a shipment's just gone through—you said these were big shipments?

'Si, senor,' the Santandern agreed. 'Often more than a ton. Twenty tons, once. I know because I helped load it.'

'Okay. So a shipment that size gets cut by ninety percent or more before being sold on the streets of the Federated States or the Tauran Union, right?'

'Si, senor, that's my understanding.'

Fernandez stopped speaking long enough to go to his desk and make a telephone call. He asked a few questions, got a few answers, said, 'Thanks. Goodbye,' and hung up.

'That was an acquaintance of mine,' Fernandez said, 'at the Federated States Drug Interdiction Team at their embassy. He says that a big shipment usually depresses prices in the FSC and TU. See, the dealers have a hard time hanging on to a large inventory and so they sell as quickly as they can. It's a supply-demand issue, much complicated by a the-police-are-looking-for-this-shit issue.'

Esteban nodded, eager to please and avoid, Torture and death. Torture and death.

'Now,' Fernandez mused, 'if I had a small quantity of something, would I want to transship it on to someplace where the price was depressed?'

Esteban shook his head vigorously, no.

'So think I,' the legate agreed. He seemed almost genial, too. 'Especially if there's a substantial number of just plain rich folks locally I could sell it to. But to whom would I sell it, and how would I get my product to market?'

Before Esteban could formulate an answer, Fernandez touched an intercom and said, 'Come get the prisoner.'

Oh, God. Torture and death. Torture and death.

Two fierce looking guards came in. Fernandez told them, 'Take this man to a holding cell. Feed him if he'll eat. Treat him well. He's been most cooperative.'

As Esteban was led away he heard Fernandez speaking into a telephone again. 'Patricio,' he heard the legate ask, 'just how far do your war powers extend? No, I don't mean outside of the country, actually.'

Old Balboa City, Balboa, Terra Nova

The neighborhood was old and picturesque, built upon the charred remains of the original settlement in the then United Nations-supervised colony of Balboa.

Up the narrow, cobblestoned street, between the close-packed rows of five story mansions, most of them converted to upscale apartments or condominiums, walked a young man of perhaps twenty to twenty-five years. That young man was slight of build; light complexioned and prosperously dressed. He walked from the area of the Old City toward a neighborhood that was everything the Old City was not . . . everything bad, that is.

Rats scampered quickly and furtively across garbage strewn streets, leery of the antaniae that clustered on leaky roofs. From glassless, unscreened windows came the sounds of tuberculoid coughing and wailing babies. Even so, far worse than the moonbats and the rats were the human filth that preyed on the barrio's inhabitants.

This was the city's open social sewer. And despite Legate Cheatham's comments to Carrera, full employment —honest work for everyone—had not quite yet come to Balboa.

The young man continued to walk, pretending not to notice the nondescript, aged automobile that passed him on the street every few minutes. The vehicle's four occupants, as well, tried not to observe the young man too obviously.

As the young man turned a corner, a hand from an unseen assailant reached out to grab him by the back of his collar. He felt the point of a knife pressed against his back.

'What have we here? A rabiblanco coming home from visiting his sweetheart. Empty your pockets, white ass.'

The young man did as he was told, but in doing so he dropped a handful of loose change, apparently from nervousness. A fist lanced out at the pit of his stomach. The young man bent over, reflexively. Another blow knocked him to the ground. A shutter in an upper story apartment closed at the sound.

Kicks followed. Unnoticed by the assailants, the same nondescript car that had shadowed the young man pulled serenely past his prostrate form. The car stopped. Three men, armed and masked, emerged from the car and closed on the scene of the crime. The beating of the young man stopped when the leader of the street toughs felt the cold metal of a pistol silencer press against his neck. All four of the thugs were forced to lie down by two of the men from the car. 'On your bellies, assholes.' The third helped the young man back to his feet.