Bish Ware seemed a little troubled. “I think,” he said, “that I shall make a circuit of my diocese, and see what can be learned from my devoted flock. Should I turn up anything significant, I will call it in.”
With that, he went tottering over to the elevator, stumbling on the way and making an unepiscopal remark. I watched him, and then turned to Dad.
“Did he have anything to drink after I left?” I asked.
“Nothing but about five cups of coffee.”
I mentally marked that: Add oddities, Bish Ware. He’d been at least four hours without liquor, and he was walking as unsteadily as when I’d first seen him at the spaceport. I didn’t know any kind of liquor that would persist like that.
Julio had at least an hour’s tape to transcribe, so Dad and Joe and Tom and Oscar and I went to the living room on the floor below. Joe was still being bewildered about Bish Ware.
“How’d he manage to come for us?” he wanted to know.
“Why, he was here with me all evening,” Dad said. “He came from the spaceport with Walt and Tom, and had dinner with us. He called a few people from here, and found out about the fake riot and police raid Ravick had cooked up. You’d be surprised at how much information he can pick up around town.”
Joe looked at his son, alarmed.
“Hey! You let him see—” he began.
“The wax on Bottom Level, in the Fourth Ward?” I asked. “He won’t blab about that. He doesn’t blab things where they oughtn’t be blabbed.”
“That’s right,” Dad backed me up. He was beginning to think of Bish as one of the Times staff, now. “We got a lot of tips from him, but nothing we give him gets out.” He got his pipe lit again. “What about that wax, Joe?” he asked. “Were you serious when you made that motion about a price of seventy-five centisols?”
“I sure was!” Joe declared. “That’s the real price, and always has been, and that’s what we get or Kapstaad doesn’t get any more wax.”
“If Murell can top it, maybe Kapstaad won’t get any more wax, period,” I said. “Who’s he with—Interstellar Import-Export?”
Anybody would have thought a barbwire worm had crawled onto Joe Kivelson’s chair seat under him.
“Where’d you hear that?” he demanded, which is the Galaxy’s silliest question to ask any newsman. “Tom, if you’ve been talking—”
“He hasn’t,” I said. “He didn’t need to. It sticks out a parsec in all directions.” I mentioned some of the things I’d noticed while interviewing Murell, and his behavior after leaving the ship. “Even before I’d talked to him, I wondered why Tom was so anxious to get aboard with me. He didn’t know we’d arranged to put Murell up here; he was going to take him to see that wax, and then take him to the Javelin. You were going to produce him at the meeting and have him bid against Belsher, only that tread-snail fouled your lines for you. So then you thought you had to stall off a new contract till he got out of the hospital.”
The two Kivelsons and Oscar Fujisawa were looking at one another; Joe and Tom in consternation, and Oscar in derision of both of them. I was feeling pretty good. Brother, I thought, Sherlock Holmes never did better, himself.
That, all of a sudden, reminded me of Dr. John Watson, whom Bish perceived to have been in Afghanistan. That was one thing Sherlock H. Boyd hadn’t deduced any answers for. Well, give me a little more time. And more data.
“You got it all figured out, haven’t you?” Joe was asking sarcastically. The sarcasm was as hollow as an empty oil drum.
“The Times,” Dad was saying, trying not to sound too proud, “has a very sharp reportorial staff, Joe.”
“It isn’t Interstellar,” Oscar told me, grinning. “It’s Argentine Exotic Organics. You know, everybody thought Joe, here, was getting pretty high-toned, sending his daughter to school on Terra. School wasn’t the only thing she went for. We got a letter from her, the last time the Cape Canaveral was in, saying that she’d contacted Argentine Organics and that a man was coming out on the Peenemünde, posing as a travel-book author. Well, he’s here, now.”
“You’d better keep an eye on him,” I advised. “If Steve Ravick gets to him, he won’t be much use to you.”
“You think Ravick would really harm Murell?” Dad asked.
He thought so, too. He was just trying to comfort himself by pretending he didn’t.
“What do you think, Ralph?” Oscar asked him. “If we get competitive wax buying, again, seventy-five a pound will be the starting price. I’m not spending the money till I get it, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see wax go to a sol a pound on the loading floor here. And you know what that would mean.”
“Thirty for Steve Ravick,” Dad said. That puzzled Oscar, till I explained that “thirty” is newsese for “the end.” “I guess Walt’s right. Ravick would do anything to prevent that.” He thought for a moment. “Joe, you were using the wrong strategy. You should have let Ravick get that thirty-five centisol price established for the Cooperative, and then had Murell offer seventy-five or something like that.”
“You crazy?” Joe demanded. “Why, then the Coop would have been stuck with it.”
“That’s right. And as soon as Murell’s price was announced, everybody would drop out of the Cooperative and reclaim their wax, even the captains who owe Ravick money. He’d have nobody left but a handful of thugs and barflies.”
“But that would smash the Cooperative,” Joe Kivelson objected. “Listen, Ralph; I’ve been in the Cooperative all my life, since before Steve Ravick was heard of on this planet. I’ve worked hard for the Cooperative, and—”
You didn’t work hard enough, I thought. You let Steve Ravick take it away from you. Dad told Joe pretty much the same thing:
“You don’t have a Cooperative, Joe.
