Feeling hungry, he checked the time and went on past Wall Street to a crowded coffee shop. He had to wait for a stool at the counter; when a space opened up, he ordered coffee and Danish and leaned on his elbows. Half his mind picked up the conversation between two men on his right:

“… I made six points on it when it split last year.”

“You got in on the ground floor, then.”

“Aeah. I figure to hold on till it hits fifty, then unload and get into something else.”

“What makes you think it’ll go that high? Somebody buying into it?”

“Who knows? But I picked up a tip from one of our district managers, his wife’s an administrator out at Brookhaven Labs-there’s a lot of inside talk out there about government contracts. Even Standard and Poor’s says NCI’s expected to earn a buck and a half a share by the end of the year.”

Russ Hastings glanced toward them-both middle-aged, talking through clouds of cigar smoke, fat with the self-importance of the not-quite-competent who had been passed over by Big Fortune. He listened with more care. The man beside him went on: “Expecting a big rise in earnings because they’re getting in on all that government money going into police enforcement equipment. Stands to reason, Charlie. All this law-and-order talk, the crime rate zooming up, and the police market booming.”

“Who ever said crime didn’t pay?”

Some laughter in the cigar smoke. “Sure. Getting the kind of market play they used to give to tronic stocks and aerospace and the Pill. Well, hell, NCI’s already gone up six points this year-where’d it start, around twenty-five? Up to thirty-one yesterday at the close. One of the magazines I read says enforcement-equipment spending will keep going up by ten percent a year for five or ten years.”

“Come to think of it, I had lunch with Sol Weinstein last week. He’d just come in from Chicago-said Chicago Investment Mutual was buying NCI.”

“Then there you are.”

“On the other hand, you know, NCI’s involved in a lot of things besides law-enforcement supplies. When you look to invest in these conglomerates, you’ve got to see the whole picture. Now, take these shale oil stocks-they’re bound to start moving pretty soon now…”

Russ Hastings stopped eavesdropping then; he paid his check and pushed his way out of the place, squinting with thought. He picked up a Times at the corner stand and folded it back to the financial section and stood on the corner of Broadway and Wall Street running his eye down the columns.

197O Stocks and Div. Sales Net High Low in Dollars 100s High Low Last Change 31? 24? NorthEastCon 1.25 779 31? 30? 31? +1

He rolled the paper up and put it under his arm; his face had taken on the expression of a man not sure whether he had made a significant discovery. He turned into Wall Street, looking for a phone.

His cheeks stung in the heat from shaving rash. He rubbed his jaw and turned into a revolving door, found phones in the lobby, went into a stifling close booth, and dialed Quint’s number. As the connection whistled and clicked, he could picture Quint-the fattest man he had ever met-perched in his huge leather wingback chair, lapless, grunting as he counted candy wrappers in his abalone-shell ashtray.

The call, on Quint’s direct line, would not have to go through the switchboard; Hastings was spared the operator’s saccharin chirp, “Good morning? Securities and Exchange Commission? Whooooooom did you wish, please?” Instead, Quint’s private secretary came on the line, sterile and brisk, and put Hastings through.

“Gordon Quint here-Russ?” Quint’s slurred roar thundered in the earpiece, the London accent completely at odds with the hearty bellow of the voice. “How are things in the financial fleshpot?”

“I’m beginning to learn the language,” Hastings said, sweating in the airless booth. “Question for you. Have we got anybody working on Northeast Consolidated?”

“I very much doubt it. Why? Should we?”

“I’m picking up a few vibrations. The last week or so, all of a sudden every other tongue in Wall Street seems to be wagging about NCI.”

“Just rumors, or something firm?”

“Rumors-loose ones at that. But a lot of volume to them.”

The sound, like crackling flames, meant Quint was unwrapping another hard ball of low-cal candy. Quint said, in the cultivated English drawl he hadn’t relaxed a bit in the thirty-odd years he’d been in America, “I shouldn’t think too much of it if I were you. Perhaps you haven’t been in this job long enough to strike the proper balance. You’ve still got a bit to learn, you know. Rumors come and go-they’re all fads. Last month it was airlines, next month we’ll have another favorite; it might as well be the hit parade.”

“I haven’t heard one come up quite so fast before, with nothing at all behind it.”

“How do you know there’s nothing behind it?”

“I don’t-I’d like to find out.”

There was a pause; the creak of the burdened springs of Quint’s swivel chair; finally Quint said, “I should imagine your ears would be particularly sensitive to any mention of NCI, since your father-in-law occupies its throne. What if there were no personal involvement with Elliot Judd? What if this were a company whose board chairman you’d never heard of? I suppose you’ve given thought to that?”

“My ex-father-in-law,” Hastings corrected mildly. “Yes, I’ve taken that into account. I still think the vibrations are too strong for the usual run of things. There haven’t been any applications for merger clearance? Big stock options exercised? Insiders buying blocks of stock?”

“All I can tell you is, nothing’s come to my attention. I’m quite sure-”

“Then why did it sit still at twenty-six for four or five months and suddenly shoot up four points in the last two weeks?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t give you an answer to that off the top of the head, Russ, but it’s hardly a startling movement in the price. Perhaps a few of the big funds decided to pick up blocks of it-after all, it’s a sound security.”

“It always has been. But don’t you get suspicious when there’s a sudden flurry of excitement over a blue chip?”

“Mildly interested, perhaps. Suspicious? No-not unless there’s much more to go on. We’ve far too much work here to chase down every odd rumor. Have you any idea how far behind schedule we are in processing applications?”

Hastings pulled the booth door open an inch for air. “I’d like to look into it, Gordon. How about it?”

Quint hesitated. When the fat voice finally replied, it was as avuncular as a handpat on the head. “Look, old boy, don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you think it might be worthwhile for you to take a holiday-a week or two in the country to unwind and get your breath?”

Hastings closed his eyes briefly. “What I do not need right now is to take time off so I can brood.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

Quint chortled. “May the Lord save us from eager beavers.”

“How about it, then?”

“Oh, I suppose-all right, Russ. You’ll, ah, forgive me for saying so, but it should do you a bloody bit of good to work off some of that office fat.”

“Coming from you, that’s droll. Another twenty pounds and you’d have to wear license plates.”

“I am not overweight,” Quint purred, “I’m merely too short for my weight. According to the chart, I ought to be eleven-foot-eight. All right-just one thing. Are you certain you know how to handle this sort of investigation? It won’t do to trample unnecessarily.”

“I won’t step on any sore corns unless I have to. You’ll remember I did enough investigative work for Jim Speed to learn the ropes.”

“Ah, yes. But that was politics. This is finance.”

“The object of the game may be different but the rules are the same.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, Russ.”

“I’ll be circumspect,” Hastings said.

“Good luck-keep your pecker up, old boy.”