Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 2 Part 88

'A corporation, in which he would hold a block of stock and be president. One of our bright young men would be chairman of the board.' Clare thought of Carson. 'There would be stock enough to go around,' he added, and watched Beaumont's face.

Beaumont ignored the bait. 'I suppose that this corporation would be under contract to the Government - its sole customer?'

'That is the idea.'

'Mmmm . . . yes, it seems feasible. Perhaps I had better speak with Doctor O'Neil.'

'Help yourself.'

Beaumont got O'Neil on the screen and talked with him in low tones. Or, more properly, Beaumont's tones were low. 0 Neil displayed a tendency to blast the microphone. Clare sent for Francis and Grace and explained to them what had taken place.

Beaumont turned away from the screen. 'The Doctor wishes to speak with you, Mr Clare.'

O'Neil looked at him frigidly. 'What is this claptrap I've had to listen to, sir? What's this about the O'Neil effect being your property?'

'It was in your contract, Doctor. Don't you recall?'

'Contract! I never read the d.a.m.ned thing. But I can tell you this: I'll take you to court. I'll tie you in knots before I'll let you make a fool of me that way.'

'Just a moment, Doctor, please!' Clare soothed. 'We have no desire to take advantage of a mere legal technicality, and no one disputes your interest. Let me outline what I had in mind - ' He ran rapidly over the plan. O'Neil listened, but his expression was still unmollified at the conclusion.

'I'm not interested,' he said gruffly. 'So far as I am concerned the Government can have the whole thing. And I'll see to it.'

'I had not mentioned one other condition,' added Clare.

'Don't bother.'

'I must. This will be just a matter of agreement between gentlemen, but it is essential. You have custody of the "Flower of Forgetfulness".'

O'Neil was at once on guard. 'What do you mean, "custody". I own it. Understand me - own it.'

'"Own it,"' repeated Clare. 'Nevertheless, in return for the concessions we are making you with respect to your contract, we want something in return.'

'What?' asked O'Neil. The mention of the bowl had upset his confidence.

'You own it and you retain possession of it. But I want your word that I, or Mr Francis, or Miss Cormet, may come look at it from time to time - frequently.'

O'Neil looked unbelieving. 'You mean that you simply want to come to look at it?'

'That's all.'

'Simply to enjoy it?'

'That's right.'

O'Neil looked at him with new respect. 'I did not understand you before, Mr Clare. I apologize. As for the corporation nonsense - do as you like. I don't care. You and Mr Francis and Miss Cormet may come to see the "Flower" whenever you like. You have my word.'

'Thank you, Doctor O'Neil - for all of us.' He switched off as quickly as could be managed gracefully.

Beaumont was looking at Clare with added respect, too. 'I think,' he said, 'that the next time I shall not interfere with your handling of the details. I'll take my leave, Adieu, gentlemen - and Miss Cormet.'

When the door had rolled down behind him Grace remarked, 'That seems to polish it off.'

'Yes,' said Clare. 'We've "walked his dog" for him; O'Neil has what he wants; Beaumont got what he wanted, and more besides.'

'Just what is he after?'

'I don't know, but I suspect that he would like to be first president of the Solar System Federation, if and when there is such a thing. With the aces we have dumped in his lap, he might make it. Do you realize the potentialities of the O'Neil effect?'

'Vaguely,' said Francis.

'Have you thought about what it will do to s.p.a.ce navigation? Or the possibilities it adds in the way of colonization? Or its recreational uses? There's a fortune in that alone.'

'What do we get out of it?'

'What do we get out of it? Money, old son. Gobs and gobs of money. There's always money in giving people what they want.' He glanced up at the Scottie dog trademark.

'Money,' repeated Francis. 'Yeah, I suppose so.'

'Anyhow,' added Grace, 'we can always go look at the "Flower".'

YEAR OF THE JACKPOT.

At first Potiphar Breen did not notice the*girl who was undressing.

She was standing at a bus stop only ten feet away. He was indoors but that would not have kept him from notic- ing; he was seated in a drugstore booth adjacent to the bus stop; there was nothing between Potiphar and the young lady but plate gla.s.s and an occasional pedestrian.

Nevertheless he did not look up when she began to peel.

Propped up in front of him was a Los Angeles Times; beside it, still unopened, were the Herald-Express and the Daily

News. He was scanning the newspaper carefully but the headline stories got only a pa.s.sing glance. He noted the maximum and minimum temperatures in Brownsville, Texas and entered them in a neat black notebook; he did the same with the closing prices of three blue chips and two dogs on the New York Exchange, as well as the total number of shares. He then began a rapid sifting of minor news stories, from time to time entering briefs of them in his little book; the items he recorded seemed randomly unrelated among them a publicity release in which Miss National

Cottage Cheese Week announced that she intended to marry and have twelve children by a man who could prove that he had been a life-long vegetarian, a circ.u.mstantial but wildly unlikely flying saucer report, and a call for prayers for rain throughout Southern California.

Potiphar had just written down the names and addresses of three residents of Watts, California who had been miracu- lously healed at a tent meeting of the G.o.d-is-AII First Truth

Brethren by the Reverend d.i.c.kie Bottomley, the eight-year- old evangelist, and was preparing to tackle the Herald-Ex- press, when he glanced over his reading gla.s.ses and saw the amateur ecdysiast on the street comer outside. He stood up, placed his gla.s.ses in their case, folded the newspapers and put them carefully in his right coat pocket, counted out the exact amount of his check and added twenty-five cents. He then took his raincoat from a hook, placed it over his arm, and went outside.

By now the girl was practically down to the buff. It seemed to Potiphar Breen that she had quite a lot of buff.

Nevertheless she had not pulled much of a house. The cor- ner newsboy had stopped hawking his disasters and was grinning at her, and a mixed pair of transvest.i.tes who were apparently waiting for the bus had their eyes on her. None of the pa.s.sers-by stopped. They glanced at her, then with the self-conscious indifference to the unusual of the true South- ern Californian, they went on their various ways. The trans- vest.i.tes were frankly staring. The male member of the team wore a frilly feminine blouse but his skirt was a conservative

Scottish kilthis female companion wore a business suit and

Homburg hat; she stared with lively interest.

As Breen approached the girl hung a sc.r.a.p of nylon on the bus stop bench, then reached for her shoes. A police of- ficer, looking hot and unhappy, crossed with the lights and came up to them. "Okay," he said in a tired voice, "that'll be all, lady. Get them duds back on and clear out of here."