Free The Merchant's War by Frederik Pohl

opening another bottle out of curiosity.
    “You been campbelled. You shoulda listened,” he said virtuously, “but, say, long as you didn’t, you mind if I walk along with you wherever you’re going?”
    Poor old guy! I felt so sorry for him that I split the six-pack as we headed for the address the Agency had given me. Three shots apiece. He thanked me with tears in his eyes but, all the same, out of the second six-pack I only gave him one.
    The Agency had done well by me. When we got to my new home I shook Ernie off and hurried in. It was a new sea-condo just towed in from the Persian Gulf—former oil tanker—nearly a hundred square feet of floor space with kitchen privileges just for me, and it was about as convenient to the Agency building as you could hope, moored right off Kip’s Bay, only three ships out into the river.
    Of course, the bad side was what it cost. All the savings I’d accumulated on Venus went to the down payment, and I had to sign a mortgage for three years’ pay. But that wasn’t so bad. I’d served the Agency well on Venus. There was little doubt in my mind that I was due for a raise—not only a raise, but a promotion—not only a promotion, but maybe a corner office! Altogether I was well satisfied with the world (not counting a couple little questions that nagged at my mind, like that damned lawsuit I hadn’t been invited to join) as I relished a Mokie-Koke and gazed around my new domain.
    But to work! There was so much to do! Until they located my bags, if that ever happened, I needed clothes and food and all the other necessities of life. So I spent the rest of the day shopping and lugging packages back to the sea-condo, and by dinner time I was just about settled in. Picture of G. Washington Hill over the foldaway bed. Picture of Fowler Schocken on the hideaway bureau. Clothes in one place, toilet stuff in my personal locked cabinet in the bath—it took all day, and it was tiring, too, because the heat was on full blast in my room and there didn’t seem to be any way to turn it off. I had a Moke and sat down to think it over, enjoying the spaciousness and the quiet luxury. There was a special condo-only band on the vid, and I watched it reel off the many attractions available to us lucky tenants. The condo had its own pool, with seating for six at a time, and a driving range. I made a note to sign up for that as soon as I got my own cue. The future looked bright. I dialed back to the pool—gallons and gallons of sparkling pure water, nearly armpit deep—and sentimental thoughts began to steal into my mind; me and Mitzi side by side in the pool … me and Mitzi sharing the big foldout bed … me and Mitzi — But even if Mitzi decided after all to share my life, with six megabucks of her own to throw around she’d probably want to share it in some fancier place than even the sea-condo …
    Well, rework that daydream. Leave Mitzi out for a minute: the future was still bright. Even though I’d signed up for heavy money to get the condo, I should still have spare purchasing power. A new car? Why not? And which kind of car—a direct-drive model where you kneel one leg on the seat and push with the other, or some fancy geared-up make-out wagon?
    It was getting very hot. I tried again to turn off the heat, and failed again.
    I found myself drinking Mokes one after another. And, actually, for a moment I thought seriously about pulling out the bed and getting a good night’s sleep.
    Tired or not, I couldn’t spend my first night home that way! It called for a celebration.
    A celebration called for somebody to celebrate with. Mitzi? But when I called Agency personnel they didn’t have a home number for her yet, and she had already left the office. And all the other dates I could think of were either years stale, or millions of miles away. I didn’t even know which were the in places to celebrate in any more!
    That part, anyway, could be handled. I had a neat Omni-V console that came