Flint led them silently toward his plane, grinning inwardly at the deal that by morning certainly should be well closed.
Lounging over the controls, Flint could see his guests behind him in the mirror. Rudely enough, he hadn't been introduced to the men but from their conversation he had determined that Mr. John Leggett—short, black-mustached, slick-haired—was Miss Vaun's legal advisor. Mr. Simon Hudson—short, bald, bug-eyed—was a fur expert.
The three faced each other around the two jump seats pulled down from the sides of the cabin. While they talked, Flint had whispered into his radio, "It's a woman, Greeno, not a man."
Through the plane's plexiglass nose and ceiling, the Ring sparkled in all its glory, like a bridge of jewels across the heavens. But its wonders were wasted on Karen Vaun. "I had no idea it was this far out," she said. Her pale face was bored.
"Increased shipping costs," the lawyer said.
"The heat, too," the fur expert added, mopping his bald head. "Have to watch out for deterioration."
Flint ground his teeth, looked at the clock. Thank Saturn he hadn't long to listen to this—Greeno should show up in a few minutes. But those few minutes were long and before two more of them had elapsed he found himself getting madder and madder.
"To make up for shipping rates and deterioration," the lawyer said, toying with his mustache, "we'll have to increase supply." He thumbed through a sheaf of papers in his lap. "At fifty-six ninety per hide—"
"One crew of hunters can take five hundred hides a day," Hudson interrupted him. "Think what a hundred crews could do."