doing here? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I was,” said Martin. “I got bounced by an alien,” he lied. “He wanted in and I had to get out.”
“Tough.” Tony rose from his chair. “That’s the worst of those toffee-nosed places,” he said. “No regard for thenatives.” He looked at the secretary. “How about some coffee, kitten?”
“Never mind,” said Martin.
“It won’t take a minute,” promised Lucile.
“Forget it.” Martin looked at his partner. “What’s the matter? No more debts to collect?”
“Sure, but —”
“You won’t collect them sitting down,” said Martin dryly. “No matter what the temptation.”
Tony swallowed then, to change the subject. “Your old man was in,” he said. “He didn’t know you were back. He wanted a grand. Said that it was money you were holding for him. I got him to sign for it. Did I do right?”
Martin frowned. “What did he want it for?”
“His treatment. He wanted to beat the deadline — haven’t you heard the news?” He explained as Martin shook his head. “It made good sense so I let him have it. I figured you wouldn’t object.”
“I don’t,” said Martin. He felt a sudden warmth for his father. He was thinking of me, he thought. He was trying to save me money.
“I’d have thought you’d have known about it,” said Tony. “It was on all the screens.”
Martin hadn’t been watching. All morning he’d been busy. At midday the rough handling he’d had from the ICPM had demanded either rest or treatment. He’d spent the afternoon in a Turkish bath. “All right,” he said. “As I’m back I may as well get on with the job. We both may as well,” he said meaningfully. “Dish them out, Lucile, and let’s get moving.”
Late afternoon found him in a sleazy quarter of the town with a half-dozen wasted calls behind him. This would be his last for the day. Outside a tenement he paused, checked a slip, examined the names stuck on peeling paper beside a row of pushbuttons. He scowled. It was just his luck that the man he wanted lived on the top floor. Jabbing his thumb against the button, he waited for the lock to click, thencommenced his climb.
Clancy was an old man with furtive eyes and a voice which held a built-in whine. He looked at Preston as he stood outside the door and cupped a hand behind his ear. “Hey?” he said. “What’s that again?”
Preston took a deep breath. “I’m from the Prestdale Collection Agency,” he yelled. “You owe money — I’ve come to collect it.”
“Money?” Clancy screwed up his face. He looked, thought Martin, like a monkey. He smelt like a zoo. “I’ve got no money.”
“Too bad.” Preston pushed past the old man and entered the apartment. He kicked the door shut behind him. “You alone?”
“Hey?”
“Are you — hell, never mind.” The apartment consisted of two rooms. He checked it in five seconds. The old man was alone. “Look, Pop,” he shouted. “There’s a court order against you for 20.70. You got it, I’ll go.”
“How much?”
Irritably Preston showed him the order. He blinked at it with his furtive eyes. “Hell, son,” he said in an aggrieved whine, “I ain’t got that much. Nowhere near that much.”
“Then I’ll take something to sell.” Preston looked around. There was a television set in one corner — too big and heavy if there was anything else. Some pots and pans, worthless. An electric fire; an oil-burning heater rusty and probably useless; a set of cutlery, stained and unused in a shabby leatherette case. Some moldering clothes. A battered clock. “Hell, Pop,” he said disgustedly. “Haven’t you got anything worth 20.70?”
“No, son. Like a drink?”
“I’d like 20.70,” said Preston. It’s another bust, he thought. Another crumb without a minim to his name. Why do shops give these old people credit when they know all the time they won’t be able to pay? But then, he told himself, they don’t have to
“I was,” said Martin. “I got bounced by an alien,” he lied. “He wanted in and I had to get out.”
“Tough.” Tony rose from his chair. “That’s the worst of those toffee-nosed places,” he said. “No regard for thenatives.” He looked at the secretary. “How about some coffee, kitten?”
“Never mind,” said Martin.
“It won’t take a minute,” promised Lucile.
“Forget it.” Martin looked at his partner. “What’s the matter? No more debts to collect?”
“Sure, but —”
“You won’t collect them sitting down,” said Martin dryly. “No matter what the temptation.”
Tony swallowed then, to change the subject. “Your old man was in,” he said. “He didn’t know you were back. He wanted a grand. Said that it was money you were holding for him. I got him to sign for it. Did I do right?”
Martin frowned. “What did he want it for?”
“His treatment. He wanted to beat the deadline — haven’t you heard the news?” He explained as Martin shook his head. “It made good sense so I let him have it. I figured you wouldn’t object.”
“I don’t,” said Martin. He felt a sudden warmth for his father. He was thinking of me, he thought. He was trying to save me money.
“I’d have thought you’d have known about it,” said Tony. “It was on all the screens.”
Martin hadn’t been watching. All morning he’d been busy. At midday the rough handling he’d had from the ICPM had demanded either rest or treatment. He’d spent the afternoon in a Turkish bath. “All right,” he said. “As I’m back I may as well get on with the job. We both may as well,” he said meaningfully. “Dish them out, Lucile, and let’s get moving.”
Late afternoon found him in a sleazy quarter of the town with a half-dozen wasted calls behind him. This would be his last for the day. Outside a tenement he paused, checked a slip, examined the names stuck on peeling paper beside a row of pushbuttons. He scowled. It was just his luck that the man he wanted lived on the top floor. Jabbing his thumb against the button, he waited for the lock to click, thencommenced his climb.
Clancy was an old man with furtive eyes and a voice which held a built-in whine. He looked at Preston as he stood outside the door and cupped a hand behind his ear. “Hey?” he said. “What’s that again?”
Preston took a deep breath. “I’m from the Prestdale Collection Agency,” he yelled. “You owe money — I’ve come to collect it.”
“Money?” Clancy screwed up his face. He looked, thought Martin, like a monkey. He smelt like a zoo. “I’ve got no money.”
“Too bad.” Preston pushed past the old man and entered the apartment. He kicked the door shut behind him. “You alone?”
“Hey?”
“Are you — hell, never mind.” The apartment consisted of two rooms. He checked it in five seconds. The old man was alone. “Look, Pop,” he shouted. “There’s a court order against you for 20.70. You got it, I’ll go.”
“How much?”
Irritably Preston showed him the order. He blinked at it with his furtive eyes. “Hell, son,” he said in an aggrieved whine, “I ain’t got that much. Nowhere near that much.”
“Then I’ll take something to sell.” Preston looked around. There was a television set in one corner — too big and heavy if there was anything else. Some pots and pans, worthless. An electric fire; an oil-burning heater rusty and probably useless; a set of cutlery, stained and unused in a shabby leatherette case. Some moldering clothes. A battered clock. “Hell, Pop,” he said disgustedly. “Haven’t you got anything worth 20.70?”
“No, son. Like a drink?”
“I’d like 20.70,” said Preston. It’s another bust, he thought. Another crumb without a minim to his name. Why do shops give these old people credit when they know all the time they won’t be able to pay? But then, he told himself, they don’t have to
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