"I can offer five thousand dollars," Norman Hamlin said. "It's yours just for coming out to Wading River tonight and listening to what I have to say."
"You mean you'll pay five thousand dollars just for the privilege of talking to me?"
Hamlin nodded. "You listen to what I tell you. Then, if you aren't interested, you pick up your five thousand and leave. It's as easy as that."
Keating reached across the desk and scanned the envelope. "I have the address," he said. "I'll be right out."
It was the peak of the rush hour when he left the apartment. Overhead, a congested swarm of copter traffic buzzed like an angry beehive. A block away was a monorail kiosk. Ever conscious of the strange feel of his new civvies, Keating entered it and boarded a Huntington express. From there it was only ten minutes to Wading River by copter-cab. Dr. Hamlin had left the lawn lights burning, and even before he'd paid his fare, was standing at his elbow. He extended a hand in greeting. "You made good time," he said.
Keating gripped the other man's hand. "You made a good offer."
Hamlin gestured him through an opening in the dura-glass ell of the house. The room was a library, the same one he'd seen over Hamlin's shoulder during the phone conversation. In the center of the book-bordered room was a rectangular table. A man sat at the head of it.
"Sit down," the man said.
Carl sat down. The man at the head of the table was robust, almost to the point of flabbiness. He was probably in his late twenties, but the pink flush on his cheekbones and a pair of broad-arched eyebrows gave him a mannequin appearance.