"Thank you for bringing me news of Saint Annabelle, Mr. Drake. Even though it was bad. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Drake said, and left.
The offices of Pastelsilks, Inc. were as many as they were magnificent, and the building that houses them pre-empted almost an entire acre. The whispering of the worms was absent here, shut out by sound-proof construction or devoured by the sterile humming of air-conditioning units. "Right this way, Mr. Drake," a frightened office girl said. "Mr. Pompton is waiting for you."
The vice president of Pastelsilks, Inc. gave a start when Drake entered, but Drake was accustomed by this time to the reactions his appearance gave rise to and no longer paid them any heed. "Good news or bad news, Mr. Pompton?" he said.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. Please sit down, Mr. Drake."
Drake did so. "But surely my cargo must be worth something."
"Not to us, it isn't. Nor to Dernier Cri Garments. And there's no way it can be salvaged. But you just might be able to dispose of it on one of the more backward planets, and to this end Pastelsilks, Incorporated is willing to defer demanding restitution from your bonding company for six months."
"Six months doesn't give me very much time to peddle a thousand bolts of invisible silk," Drake said.
"I consider it a very handsome gesture on our part. Of course if you're not interested, we can—"