"I want to charter a ship for a trip to Proxima Centaur," I explained. "I want one of your late model cruisers which can go about ten times the speed of light. I want to get there quickly."
The clerk nodded. I have often wondered about the composure of clerks who never seem to be astonished at anything. "We have a ship available that could get you there in three months, that's sixteen times the speed of light. But to charter it would cost one million dollars."
He never batted an eye when he named the price. I doubt if the clerk was receiving more than forty a week.
"I should like to transact the deal directly with Mr. Keeshwar," I said.
"He will be pleased, I'm sure," the clerk replied. "What is your name?"
"Andrew J. Colt," I said, for lack of more originality.
The clerk disappeared into the sanctum. He returned presently with:
"Mr. Keeshwar will see you, Mr. Colt."
I had counted on Keeshwar being—or pretending to be very busy as I entered. I expected him to pay no attention to my entry, and not even to glance in my direction, as if a million dollars were a trifling matter, until we were alone.
I judged Keeshwar right. When at last he glanced at me he was unnerved by the presence of an automatic pistol which was pointed directly at his head.