Of Death What Dreams

4

The dog-eared, seam-cracked maps of the city which Bailey’s employer supplied dated from a time when the streets had been open to the sky, when unfiltered sunlight had fallen on still-new pavements and facades. Two centuries had passed since those wholesome, innocent days, but the charts still reflected faithfully each twist and angle of the maze of streets and alleys. Each night, he quartered the city, north to south, river wall to river wall. In the motley costume which Aroon had given him, he passed unremarked in the crowds.

Off-duty, he undertook the cleaning of Aroon’s rubbish-filled rooms. After feeding the accumulated debris of decades into a municipal disposer half a block from the house, he set about sweeping, scrubbing, polishing the plastron floor and walls until their original colors emerged from under the crusts of age. After that, he procured pen and paper, spent hours absorbed in calculations. Aroon watched, grunted, and left him to his own devices.

“You’re a funny guy, Bailey,” he said after a month of near-silent observation. “I got to admit at first I didn’t know about you. But you had plenty chances to angle, and passed ’em. You’re smart, and a hard worker. You never spend a chit. You work, you eat, you sleep, and you scribble numbers. I got no complaint—but what you after, Bailey? You’re a hounded guy if I ever see one.”

Bailey studied the older man’s face. “You and I are going to make some money, Gus,” he said.

Aroon looked startled. His thick eyebrows crawled up his furrowed forehead.

“How much do you make a week, booking the ‘stats?” Bailey put the question boldly.

Aroon frowned. “Hell, you know: Three, four hundred after expenses—if I’m lucky.”

“How much do the big boys make? The books?”

“Plenty!” Gus barked. “But—wait a minute, kid. You ain’t getting ideas—”

“They don’t rely on luck,” Bailey said. “They know. Figure it out for yourself. The play is based on the midnight census read-outs. But the figures for production, consumption, the growth indices and vital statistics—they all vary in accordance with known curves.”

“Not to me, they ain’t known. Listen, Bailey, don’t start talking chisel to me—”

Bailey shook his head. “Nothing like that. But we do all the work. Why pass all the profits along to them?” He pointed with his head in the general direction of the booker’s present temporary HQ in a defunct hotel half a mile south.

“You slipped your clutch? That’s murder—”

“We won’t cut corners on anybody. But tonight we’re going to roll our own book.”

Aroon’s mouth hung open.

“I’ve worked out the major cycles, and enough minor ones to show a profit. It wasn’t too hard. I minored in statan, back in my kid days.”

“Wise up, kid,” Aroon growled. “What do I use for capital?”

“We’ll start out small. We won’t need much: just a little cash money to cover margins. I’ve got three hundred to contribute. I’d estimate another seventeen hundred ought to do it.”

Aroon’s tongue touched his lips. “This is nuts. I’m a drop man, not a book—”

“So now you’re a book. You’ve already got the work list, your steady customers. We’ll just direct a few lays into our private bank, on these lines.” Bailey passed a sheet of paper across; it was filled with columns of figures.

“I can’t take no chance like this,” Gus breathed. “What if I can’t cover? What if—”

“What have you got to lose, Gus? This?” Bailey glanced around the room. “You could have a Class Three flat, wear issue ’alls, eat at the commess—if you went up there.” He glanced ceilingward. “You picked Preke country instead. Why? So you could lock into another system—a worse one?”

“I got enough,” Gus said hoarsely. “I get along.”

“Just once,” Bailey said. “Take a chance. Take it, or face the fact that you spend the rest of your life in a one-way dead end.”

Gus swallowed hard. “You really think… ?”

“I think it’s a chance. A good chance.”

For long seconds, Aroon stared into Bailey’s face. Then he hit the table with his fist. He swore. He got to his feet, a big, burly man with sweat on his face.

“I’m in, Bailey,” he croaked. “Them guys ain’t no better than me and you. And if a man can’t ride a hunch once in his life, what’s he got anyway, right?”

“Right,” Bailey said. “Now better get some cash ready. It’s going to be a busy night.”