A Place so Foreign Part 9

"No, sir."

He ordered me a plate of calf livers in cream sauce, which is about the worst thing you can feed a boy, if you ask me, which he didn't. "Sit down," he said.

"Mr Nussbaum, Master James Nicholson. I am temporarily in _loco parentis_, until he can be sent home."

Nussbaum smiled and extended his hand. He was wearing a grey suit, with a strange cut, and a black tie. His fingers dripped with heavy gold rings, and his hair, while short, still managed to look fancy and a little sissy-fied. "Good to meetcha, son. You Lester's boy?"

"Yes, sir, he was my Pa."

"Good man. A d.a.m.ned shame. What are you doing here? Playing hooky?"

"I guess I just got lost. I'm going home, soon as they can get me there."

"Is that so? Well, I'll be sad to see you go. You look like a smart kid. You like chocolate cake, I bet."

"Sometimes," I said.

"Like when?"

"When my mama makes it, with a gla.s.s of milk, after school," I said.

He laughed, a strangled har-har-har. "You guys kill me. Your mama, huh? Well, they make some fine chocolate cake here, though it may not be as good as the stuff from home." He thumbed the table. "Sweetie, send up the biggest piece of chocolate cake you got down there, and a gla.s.s a milk, w.i.l.l.ya?"

The table acknowledged his request with a soft green light.

"Thank you, sir," I said.

"That's quite enough, I think," Pondicherry said. "I didn't come here to watch you rot young James's teeth. Can we get to business?"

Pondicherry started talking, in rapid, clipped sentences, punctuated by vicious bites of his food. I tried to follow what it was about -- trading buffalo steaks for rare metals, I got that much, but not much more. The calves' livers were worse than I imagined, and I hid as much of them as I could under the potatoes, then pushed the plate away and dug into the cake.

I sneaked a look up and saw that Nussbaum was grinning slyly at me. He hadn't said much, just ate calmly and waited for Pondicherry to run out of steam. He caught my eye and slipped a wink at me. I looked over at Pondicherry, who was noisily cudding a piece of steak, oblivious, and winked back at Nussbaum.

Pondicherry daubbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Excuse me," he said, "I'll be right back." He stood and walked towards the WC.

Nussbaum suddenly jingled. Distractledly, he patted his pockets until he located a tiny phone. He flipped it open and grunted "Nussbaum," into it.

"Jules!" he said a moment later. "How're things?"

He scowled as he listened to the answer. "Now, you and I know that there's a difference between _smart_ and _greedy_. I think it's a bad idea."

He listened some more and drummed his fingers on the table.

"Because it's not _credible_, dammit! Even the t.i.tle is anachronistic: no one in 1902 is going to understand what _Neuromancer_ means. Think about it, wouldya?

Why don't you do some of Twain's stuff? Those books've got _legs_."

My jaw dropped. Nussbaum was talking to the Frenchman -- and he was helping him to _cheat_! To steal from Mark Twain! I was suddenly conscious of "War of the Worlds," down the front of my jumpsuit. I thought back to Mr Adelson's a.s.signment, and it all made sudden sense. Verne was a _plagiarist_.

Nussbaum hung up just as Pondicherry re-seated himself. He took a sip of his drink, then held up a hand. Pondicherry eyed him coldly.

"Look," Nussbaum said. "We've gone over this a few times, OK? I know where you stand. You know where I stand. We're not standing in the same place. Much as I enjoy your company, I don't really wanna spend the whole day listening to you repeating yourself. All right?"

"Really, I don't think --" Pondicherry started, but Nussbaum held up his hand again.

"That's all right, I'm a rude son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h, and I know it. Let's just take it as read that you and me spent the whole afternoon letting the other fella know how sincere our positions are. Then we can move onto c.o.c.ktails, and compromise, and maybe have some of the day left over." Pondicherry started to talk again, but Nussbaum plowed over him. "I'll go to six troy ounces per steer. You won't get a better offer. 98% pure ores. Better than anything you'd ever refine back home. It's as far as I go."

"Sir, is that an ultimatum?" Pondicherry asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Call it whatever you please, buster. It's my final, iron-clad offer. You don't like it, I can talk to the Chinaman. He seemed pretty eager to get some good metal home to the Emperor."

"You wouldn't -- he's too far back, it would violate the protocols."

"That's what you say. It may be what the trade court decides. I'll take my chances."

"Six and a half ounces," Pondicherry said, in a spoiled-brat voice.

"You don't hear so good, do you? Six ounces is the offer on the table; take it or leave it." Nussbaum pushed some papers across the table.

Pondicherry stared at them for a long moment. "I will sign them, sir, but it is with the expectation of continued trade opportunities. This is a good-will gesture, do you understand?"

Nussbaum snorted and reached for his papers. "This is about steaks and metals.

This isn't about the future, it's about today, now. That's what's on the table.

You can sign it, or you can walk away."

Pondicherry blew air out his nose like a crazy horse, and signed. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the WC again." He rose and left the room, purple from the collar up.

"What a maroon," Nussbaum said to the closed door. "This's gotta be a real blast for you, huh?" he said.

I grinned. "It's not so bad. I liked watchin' you hogtie him."

He laughed. "I never would've tried that on your father, kid. He was too sharp.

But fatso there, he's terrified the Chinaman will give the Middle Kingdom an edge when it faces down his Royal Navy. All it takes is the slightest hint, and he folds like a cheap suit."

That made me chuckle -- a cheap suit!

I gave him my best innocent look. "Who else knows about the Frenchman?" I asked him.

Nussbaum grinned like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I realised about halfway through that conversation that being Lester's boy, you've probably read just about every word old Jules 'wrote.'"

"I have," I said. I took out "War of the Worlds." "How does Mr Wells feel about this?" I asked.

"I imagine he's pretty mystified," Nussbaum said. "Would you believe, you're the first one who's caught on?"

I believed it. I knew enough to know that the agencies that policed the protocols had their hands full keeping track of art and gold smugglers. I'd never even thought of smuggling _words_. If the trade courts found out. . .

Well, hardly a week went by that someone didn't propose shutting down the amba.s.sadorships; they'd talk about how the future kept on leaking pastwards, and if we thought 1975 looked bad, imagine life in 1492 once the future reached it!

The amba.s.sadors had made a lot of friends in high places, though: they used their influence to keep things on an even keel.

Nussbaum raised an eyebrow and studied me. "I think your father may've figured it out, but he kept it to himself. He and Jules got along like a house on fire."