No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this
world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's
and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various
concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man
with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and
multiply in a drop of water.
It was just as I remembered it, every word, just as it was in the Verne. I
couldn't begin to explain it.
A robutler swung out of its niche with a sheaf of papers. I startled at the
noise, then reflexively stuck the book in my jumpsuit. The roboutler delivered
them to Pondicherry, who stuffed them in a briefcase.
"The embassy will be able to return you home by courier route in three hours.
Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of waiting around here until then. I have
an important meeting to attend -- you'll have to come along."
"Yes, sir," I said, trying to sound eager and helpful.
"Don't say anything, don't touch anything. This is very sensitive."
"No, sir, I won't. Thank you, sir."
#
The meeting was in a private room in a fancy restaurant, one that I'd been to
before for an embassy Christmas party. Mama had drunk two glasses of sherry, and
had flushed right to the neck of her dress. We'd had roast beef, and a goose
wrapped inside a huge squash, the size of a barrel, like they grew on the Moon.
Pondicherry whisked through the lobby, and the main dining room, and then up a
narrow set of stairs, without checking to see if I was following. I dawdled a
little, remembering Pa laughing and raising his glass in toast after toast.
I caught up with Pondicherry just as he was ordering, speaking brusquely into
the table. Another man sat opposite him. Pondicherry looked up at me and said,
"Have you dined, boy?"
"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 damned 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 glass 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 glass a milk, willya?"
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 title 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
assignment, 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-bitch, 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 cocktails, 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.