He drank the drink.

“Now listen carefully,” I said. “We are building a new hospital. It will be in full operation in about two months. We have new techniques of plastic surgery. We can change fingerprints, dental plates, larynxes, facial bones.”

“No (bleep)?”

“Absolutely. Nobody else can do it but us. Nobody will know. Hippocratic oath and so forth.”

“Is that like the Fifth Amendment?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “But down to business. You know the Atlantic City mob. You know lots of mobs. Right?”

“Right,” he said.

“Now, those mobs have people hiding out all over the place. Those people can’t show their faces because they are in all the fingerprint and police files of the FBI and Interpol. Right?”

“Right.”

“If those people are smuggled in here to the World United Charities Mercy and Benevolent Hospital, we will physically change their identity, give them new birth certificates and passports, all for a stiff fee, of course, and you personally will get twenty percent of what they pay.”

He found a paper napkin and laboriously started figuring. Finally, he said, “I’d be rich.”

“Right.”

“There’s one thing wrong,” he said. “I can spread the word. I can get big names in here in droves. But I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a job. There’s a contract out.”

“I know,” I said. “Gunsalmo Silva.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I got sources.” I fixed him with a lordly stare-down the nose. “Gunny Silva won’t be back here for seven weeks. So you got six weeks to recruit some trade for the hospital.”

“I’d need money for expenses. I can’t hang this on Babe.”

“Take your expenses out of the advance payments,” I said.

“Hey!” he said, smiling.

“And,” I said, “if you bring in lots of trade and payments ready to begin in two months, I’ll throw something else in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll give you Gunsalmo Silva on a silva platter!”

“No (bleep)?”

“Set him up for you like a clay pigeon!”

With tears of gratitude in his eyes, he held out his hand, “Buster, you got yourself a deal!”

Ah, psychology works every time!

A bit later I returned to my car, fought my way through the crowd protesting the street blockage, cranked up and drove away.

I felt I was driving on air!

Soltan Gris, a.k.a. Sultan Bey, was on his road to becoming filthy rich!

And, after all, hadn’t the Grand Council said to spread a little technology around on this planet? Where it would really do some good?

The sun was hot, the sky was clear, as I hurtled down the road.

Then I remembered that I even had a dancing girl coming today!

My prospects seemed so brilliant that I could not help doing a thing I almost never do. I burst into song:

Frankie and Johnny were lovers. Oh, my Gods, how they could love. They swore to be true to each other.

As true as the stars above…

There was an obstruction. It was a string of ten laden camels. They were humping and grumbling along, but I didn’t see any driver. The horn of the Renault was busted so I had to veer out into the other lane to see what was at the head of this parade.

Aha! I thought so!

Around here they sometimes put a lead rope on a donkey and the animal apparently knows where to go and he just leads the hooked-up string of camels to their destination. Shows you how dumb camels are when even a jackass is brighter than they are!

Here was my chance!

I resumed singing at the top of my voice:

He was my man! But he done me wrong!

I swerved in tight past the donkey. It was either my bump on his nose or it may have been the singing.

He dropped the lead rope, brayed and took off!

Ten camels exploded. They went bucking off the road into the sunflower field, spraying packs in all directions, trying to follow the donkey.

Oh, did I laugh!

I drew up at the International Agricultural Training Center for Peasants, knocked over a No Parking sign that shouldn’t have been there and bounced into the base commander’s office.

The contrast between his face and my mood was extreme.

He moaned; he held his head in his hands a moment. Then he looked up. “Officer Gris, can’t we possibly have a little less commotion around here?”

“What’s a No Parking sign?” I said, loftily.

“No. Not that. Last night there was that fight and today our agents in town tell us there are complaints from cart drivers, complaints from the police on your double-parking and just a moment ago I had a call that you and some gangster were shooting up a hotel. Please, Officer Gris. We’re not supposed to be so visible here. Before you came, it was all—”

“Nonsense!” I cut him off sharply. “You were not in tune with this planet! You were becoming hicks and hayseeds! You weren’t keeping up to it — you weren’t with it. You leave such things to me. I am the expert on Blito-P3 sociological behaviorism! You should watch their movies. You should even go to see some of the movies they make in Turkey! They do nothing but shoot people and blow things up! But I have no time now to educate you in the psychological cultural cravings of this place. I’m here on business.”

I threw the pack of contracts down on his desk and he picked them up wearily with a what-now shake of his overpadded head.

“Hospital?” he said. “A half a million dollars?”

“Exactly,” I said. “You leave the statecraft to me, Faht Bey.”

“This hasn’t been passed by our local Officer’s Council. Our financial agent will faint!”

I knew that financial agent. He was a refugee from Beirut, Lebanon, one of their top bankers before a war wrecked the banking industry there and ran him out. A very wily Lebanese. “Tell him to get his hands out of the money box before I cut them off,” I said. “And that reminds me. I’m low on lira. Give me thirty thousand this time.”

He quivered his way into the back room and returned with thirty thousand Turkish lira. He made a notation in a book and then he stood right there and counted off ten thousand lira and put it in his pocket!

“Hold it!” I yelled at him. “Where did you get a license to steal our government’s money?” It made me pretty cross, I can tell you.

He handed over the twenty thousand. “I had to give it to the girl. Out of my own cash.”

“The girl? What for? Why?”

“Officer Gris, I don’t know why you had her sent back to Istanbul. Our agent there said she was clean. And I saw her. She was actually a very pretty girl. She closed out her room and she flew all the way down here. Oh, she was mad! But I handled it. I went up into town: she was standing right on the street making an awful row. I gave her ten thousand lira for you — it’s only ninety dollars American — and I put her on a bus so she could get back to Istanbul.”

“I didn’t order her sent back!” I screamed at him.

“Your friend the taxi driver said you did.”

Believe me, I was mad! I stalked out of there and got the Renault started, ran over another No Parking sign just to show they couldn’t trifle with me and drove toward home lickety-split, expecting that taxi driver would be there.

The Renault didn’t make it. It ran out of gas. I left it in the road and walked to the villa which was only about an eighth of a mile, planning all the way what I was going to tell that taxi driver.

He wasn’t there.

I gave Karagoz what-for about the car and sent him and the gardener to push it home and refused to let them push it with another car, I was so mad.

No girl.

Nothing to do.

I barricaded my door. I sulked for quite a while. And then, needing something more to get mad about, I went into the real room back of the closet and turned on the viewer.

Heller couldn’t go anywhere: he didn’t have any money. Heller was really no worry to me now. In a couple of days, I’d hear from Raht; we’d use the tug to take Heller to the U.S., and shortly after, he’d be arrested as an imposter and jailed. It didn’t make any difference now, what he was doing. But maybe it was something I could find fault with.