Read Online Job: A Comedy of Justice by Robert A. Heinlein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert A. Heinlein
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Otherwise we do nothing! —and I report to Number-One that you blew the deal. Understand? Right now! Or go back and tell them the deal is off.”
He hesitated, then spoke rapidly in French that I could not follow, my French being mostly of the La plume de ma tante sort. The gorilla seemed to hesitate but the gun type shrugged and started toward the gangway door. I said to the little wart, “Come on! Don’t waste time; the ship is about to sail!” I headed aft without looking to see whether or not he was following. I set a brisk pace that forced him to follow or lose me. I was as much taller than he as that ape was taller than I; he had to trot to stay at my heels.
I kept right on going aft and outside, onto the weather deck, past the open bar and the tables, clear to the swimming pool.
It was, as I expected, unoccupied, the ship being in port. There was the usual sign up, CLOSED WHILE SHIP IS IN PORT, and a nominal barrier around it of a single strand of rope, but the pool was still filled. I stepped over the rope and stood with my back to the pool. He followed me; I held up a hand. “Stop right there.” He stopped.
“Now we can talk,” I said. “Explain yourself, and you’d better make it good! What do you mean, calling attention to yourself by bringing that muscle aboard? And a Danish ship at that! Mr. B. is going to be very, very angry with you. What’s your name?”
“Never mind my name. Where’s the package?”
“What package?”
He started to sputter; I interrupted. “Cut the nonsense; I’m not impressed. This ship is getting ready to sail; you have only minutes to tell me exactly what you want and to convince me that you should get it. Keep throwing your weight around and you’ll find yourself going back to your boss and telling him you failed. So speak up! What do you want?”
“The package!”
I sighed. “My old and stupid, you are stuck in a rut. We’ve been over that. What sort of a package? What’s in it?”
He hesitated. “Money.”
“Interesting. How much money?”
This time he hesitated twice as long, so again I interrupted. “If you don’t know how much money, I’ll give you a couple of francs for beer and send you on your way. Is that what you want? Two francs?”
A man that skinny shouldn’t have such high blood pressure. He managed to say, “American dollars. One million.”
I laughed in his face. “What makes you think I’ve got that much? And if I had, why should I give it to you? How do I know you are supposed to get it?”
“You crazy, man? You know who am I.”
“Prove it. Your eyes are funny and your voice sounds different. I think you’re a ringer.”
“‘Ringer’?”
“A fake, a phony! An impostor.”
He answered angrily—French, I suppose. I am sure it was not complimentary. I dug into my memory, repeated carefully and with feeling the remark that a lady had made last night which had caused her husband to say that she worried too much. It was not appropriate but I intended simply to anger him.
Apparently I succeeded. He raised a hand, I grabbed his wrist, tripped myself, fell backwards into the pool, pulling him with me. As we fell I shouted, “Help!”
We splashed. I got a firm grip on him, pulled myself up as I shoved him under again. “Help! He’s drowning me!”
Down we went again, struggling with each other. I yelled for help each time my head was above water. Just as help came I went limp and let go.
I stayed limp until they started to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. At that point I snorted and opened my eyes. “Where am I?”
Someone said, “He’s coming around. He’s okay.”
I looked around. I was flat on my back alongside the pool. Someone had done a professional job of pulling me out with a dip-and-jerk; my left arm felt almost dislocated. Aside from that I was okay. “Where is he? The man who pushed me in.”
“He got away.”
I recognized the voice, turned my head. My friend Mr. Henderson, the purser.
“He
He hesitated, then spoke rapidly in French that I could not follow, my French being mostly of the La plume de ma tante sort. The gorilla seemed to hesitate but the gun type shrugged and started toward the gangway door. I said to the little wart, “Come on! Don’t waste time; the ship is about to sail!” I headed aft without looking to see whether or not he was following. I set a brisk pace that forced him to follow or lose me. I was as much taller than he as that ape was taller than I; he had to trot to stay at my heels.
I kept right on going aft and outside, onto the weather deck, past the open bar and the tables, clear to the swimming pool.
It was, as I expected, unoccupied, the ship being in port. There was the usual sign up, CLOSED WHILE SHIP IS IN PORT, and a nominal barrier around it of a single strand of rope, but the pool was still filled. I stepped over the rope and stood with my back to the pool. He followed me; I held up a hand. “Stop right there.” He stopped.
“Now we can talk,” I said. “Explain yourself, and you’d better make it good! What do you mean, calling attention to yourself by bringing that muscle aboard? And a Danish ship at that! Mr. B. is going to be very, very angry with you. What’s your name?”
“Never mind my name. Where’s the package?”
“What package?”
He started to sputter; I interrupted. “Cut the nonsense; I’m not impressed. This ship is getting ready to sail; you have only minutes to tell me exactly what you want and to convince me that you should get it. Keep throwing your weight around and you’ll find yourself going back to your boss and telling him you failed. So speak up! What do you want?”
“The package!”
I sighed. “My old and stupid, you are stuck in a rut. We’ve been over that. What sort of a package? What’s in it?”
He hesitated. “Money.”
“Interesting. How much money?”
This time he hesitated twice as long, so again I interrupted. “If you don’t know how much money, I’ll give you a couple of francs for beer and send you on your way. Is that what you want? Two francs?”
A man that skinny shouldn’t have such high blood pressure. He managed to say, “American dollars. One million.”
I laughed in his face. “What makes you think I’ve got that much? And if I had, why should I give it to you? How do I know you are supposed to get it?”
“You crazy, man? You know who am I.”
“Prove it. Your eyes are funny and your voice sounds different. I think you’re a ringer.”
“‘Ringer’?”
“A fake, a phony! An impostor.”
He answered angrily—French, I suppose. I am sure it was not complimentary. I dug into my memory, repeated carefully and with feeling the remark that a lady had made last night which had caused her husband to say that she worried too much. It was not appropriate but I intended simply to anger him.
Apparently I succeeded. He raised a hand, I grabbed his wrist, tripped myself, fell backwards into the pool, pulling him with me. As we fell I shouted, “Help!”
We splashed. I got a firm grip on him, pulled myself up as I shoved him under again. “Help! He’s drowning me!”
Down we went again, struggling with each other. I yelled for help each time my head was above water. Just as help came I went limp and let go.
I stayed limp until they started to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. At that point I snorted and opened my eyes. “Where am I?”
Someone said, “He’s coming around. He’s okay.”
I looked around. I was flat on my back alongside the pool. Someone had done a professional job of pulling me out with a dip-and-jerk; my left arm felt almost dislocated. Aside from that I was okay. “Where is he? The man who pushed me in.”
“He got away.”
I recognized the voice, turned my head. My friend Mr. Henderson, the purser.
“He
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