Free Undersea City by Frederik & Williamson Pohl Page A

so, many times.
    “But it looks as if he learned his lesson at last.”
    “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
    “Ah, Jim!” He grinned shrewdly. “He has the inside drift now, boy! Everybody knows it. His brokers cleaned up millions for him on the quake last night. Millions! I know—he caught me for a nice slice of it!” He made a little face, but his keen eyes never left me. “Harley told me that a friend of yours knew that quake was coming. Would that have anything to do with your uncle, Jim?”
    I said stiffly: “I’m not allowed to discuss quake forecasting sir.” And I almost added: “And neither is Harley.”
    “I see. Well, Jim,” Danthorpe said, “I sympathize with that. I really do. But when you see your friend again, give him the inside drift. Tell him to come to see me.” He nodded wisely. “If he can really call his shots, I’ll make him as rich as Davy Jones!”
    I said urgently, “Mr. Danthorpe, I really must find my uncle. Can you help me?”
    Ben Danthorpe squinted at me sharply, as though he were wondering if he had said too much.
    “Perhaps I can, Jim. At least, I know your uncle’s broker.”
    He excused himself and picked up a telephone. It had a hush mouthpiece; I could hear only a faint whisper. After a moment he put it down and frowned at me.
    “I’ve got your uncle’s broker’s address,” he said. Queerly, something had cooled his voice. He wasn’t quite as friendly. It’s down on Deck Four Plus, Radial Seven, Number Eighty-Eight. And if you’ll excuse me now, I had better get back to business.”
    And he hurried me out the door.
    When I got down to Deck Four Plus I soon guessed why he had rushed me out so coolly.
    Deck Four Plus was on the borderline between the financial district and the commercial sub-sea vessel docks. Most of the buildings were warehouses and shipping offices.
    For a broker’s office, it was definitely not impressive.
    But it meant something more than that to me. There were no pedestrian slidewalks, and the streets were crowded with rumbling cargo haulers. The air was rich with the fragrance of sea-coffee beans and the sour reek of sea-copra and the musty sharpness of baled sea-flax. Perhaps it didn’t smell like high finance, but it was all a rare perfume for me.
    It was the odor of the sea.
    Dodging the trucks, I walked to Number 88.
    It was a door between two warehouses, with a dark flight of stairs leading up inside. I climbed into a long empty corridor in the loft above the warehouses, which had been partitioned into office space. The only person I saw was a man in paint-spattered overalls, lettering a sign on the metal door at the end of the corridor.
    The sign read:
    EDEN ENTERPRISES, UNLIMITED
    I hurried down the dim hall toward him. Every door had a sign like it—signs that announced dubious and enigmatic enterprises: A. Yelverton, Consulting Benthologist and Siminski Submarine Engineering, next to The Sunda Salvage Company and Hong Lee, Oriental Importer. None of them looked very prosperous.
    But I didn’t care about that. Eagerly I spoke to the back of the painter’s head. “Excuse me. Is Mr. Eden here?”
    The painter turned around, fast, almost upsetting a paint can.
    “Jim,” he cried. “Jim, it’s good to see you!”
    It was Gideon Park!
    “Gideon!” I shouted and grabbed his hand. Gideon Park–my uncle’s faithful friend and associate—the man who had saved my life back in Marinia—the man who had been with us in our great adventures under the sea!
    He grinned at me out of his jet-black face, smudged with sea-green from the paint can. “Jim, boy,” he whooped. “I thought you were back at Bermuda!” He pulled his hand away from mine, looked at it and grinned again. “Here you are, Jim,” he said, offering me a rag while he scrubbed at the smears of paint on his own hands with another. “I’m afraid I’m not a very neat painter!”
    “That doesn’t matter, Gideon,” I said. “But what are you doing here?