"I didn't figure it was," replied the gangster, "but sit down anyway."
Gingerly Stutsman sat down on the edge of a chair, hunched forward.
Scorio resumed his seat and waited.
"I have a job for you," Stutsman announced bluntly.
"Fine. It isn't often you have one for me. Three-four years ago, wasn't
it?"
"We may be watched," warned Stutsman.
The mobster started from his chair, his eyes darting about the room.
Stutsman grunted disgustedly. "If we're watched, there isn't anything we
can do about it."
"We can't, huh?" snarled the gangster. "Why not?"
"Because the watcher is on the West Coast. We can't reach him. If he's
watching, he can see every move we make, hear every word we say."
"Who is it?"
* * * * *
"Greg Manning or Russ Page," said Stutsman. "You've heard of them?"
"Sure. I heard of them."
"They have a new kind of television," said Stutsman. "They can see and
hear everything that's happening on Earth, perhaps in all the Solar
System. But I don't think they're watching us now. Craven has a machine
that can detect their televisor. It registers certain field effects they
use. They weren't watching when I left Craven's laboratory just a few
minutes ago. They may have picked me up since, but I don't think so."
"So Craven has made a detector," said Greg calmly. "He can tell when
we're watching now."
"He's a clever cuss," agreed Russ.
"Take a look at that machine now," urged Scorio. "See if they're
watching. You shouldn't have come here. You should have let me know and
I would have met you some place. I can't have people knowing where my
hideout is."
"Quiet down," snapped Stutsman. "I haven't got the machine. It weighs
half a ton."
Scorio sank deeper into his chair, worried. "Do you want to take a
chance and talk business?"
"Certainly. That's why I'm here. This is the proposition. Manning and
Page are working in a laboratory out on the West Coast, in the
mountains. I'll give you the exact location later. They have some papers
we want. We wouldn't mind if something happened to the laboratory. It
might, for example blow up. But we want the papers first."
* * * * *
Scorio said nothing. His face was quiet and cunning.
"Give me the papers," said Stutsman, "and I'll see that you get to any
planet you want to. And I'll give you two hundred thousand in
Interplanetary Credit certificates. Give me proof that the laboratory
blew up or melted down or something else happened to it and I'll boost
the figure to five hundred thousand."
Scorio did not move a muscle as he asked: "Why don't you have some of
your own mob do this job?"
"Because I can't be connected with it in any way," said Stutsman. "If
you slip up and something happens, I won't be able to do a thing for
you. That's why the price is high."
The gangster's eyes slitted. "If the papers are worth that much to you,
why wouldn't they be worth as much to me?"
"They wouldn't be worth a dime to you."
"Why not?"
"Because you couldn't read them," said Stutsman.
"I can read," retorted the gangster.
"Not the kind of language on those papers. There aren't more than two
dozen people in the Solar System who could read it, perhaps a dozen who
could understand it, maybe half a dozen who could follow the directions
in the papers." He leaned forward and jabbed a forefinger at the
gangster. "And there are only two people in the System who could write
it."
"What the hell kind of a language is it that only two dozen people could
read?"
"It isn't a language, really. It's mathematics."
"Oh, arithmetic."
"No," Stutsman said. "Mathematics. You see? You don't even know the
difference between the two, so what good would the papers do you?"