So Kinnison waited—and waited—and waited. When he got tired of waiting he gave a few more lessons in snobbishness and in the gentle art of self-preservation to the promising young Lonabarian thug whom he had selected to inherit the business, lock, stock, and barrel—including good will, if any—if, as, and when he was done with it. Then he waited some more; waited, in fact, until Bleeko was forced, by his silent pressure, to act.
It was not an overt act, nor an unfriendly—he simply called him up on the visiphone.
"What do you think you're trying to do?" Bleeko demanded, his darkly handsome face darker than ever with wrath.
"You." Kinnison made succinct answer. "You should have taken my advice about pondering the various aspects of an iceberg."
"Bah!" the other snorted. "That silliness?"
"Not as silly as you think. It was a warning, Bleeko, that that which appears above the surface is but a very small portion of my total resources. But you could not or would not learn by precept; you had to have it the hard way. Apparently, however, you have learned. That you have not been able to locate my forces I am certain. I am almost as sure that you do not want to try me again, at least until you have found out what you do not know. But I can give you no more time—you must decide now, Bleeko, whether it is to be peace or war between us. I still prefer a peaceful settlement, with an equitable division of the spoils; but if you want war, so be it."
"I have decided upon peace," the big shot said, and the effort of it almost choked him. "I, Menjo Bleeko the Supreme, will give you a place beside me. Come to me here, at once, so that we may discuss the terms of peace."
"We will discuss them now," Kinnison insisted.
"Impossible! Barred and shielded as this room is—"