J. Beckworth touched the phone disconnect button and the voxfax machine behind him instantly sprang to life, humming lightly as it disgorged the printed record of their conversation. His words were in black, while Mura’s were in red for instant identification. The translation system had been programmed well, and as he glanced through it he saw no more than the usual number of errors. His secretary would file this voxfax record for immediate use. The Megalobe staff translator would later verify the correctness of the translation the computer had made.

“What is it all about?” Bill McCrory asked, puzzled. He was a whiz at electronics, but found the arcane lore of the stock market a complete mystery.

J. J. Beckworth shrugged. “Don’t know — may never know. Perhaps it was some high-flying broker out for a quick profit, or a big bank changing its mind. In any case it is not important — now. I think we can see what your resident genius has come up with. Brian, you said his name was?”

“Brian Delaney, sir. But I’ll have to phone first, it’s getting late.” It was dark outside; the first stars were appearing and the office lights had automatically come on.

Beckworth nodded agreement and pointed to the telephone on the table across the room. While the engineer made his call, J. J. punched his appointment book up on the screen and cleared away his work for the day, then checked the engagements for tomorrow. It was going to be a busy one — just like every other day — and he pushed his memory watch against the terminal. The screen said WAIT and an instant later read FINISHED as it downloaded his next day’s appointments into the watch. That was that.

Every evening at this time, before he left, he usually had a fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie Scotch malt whisky. He glanced in the direction of the hidden bar and smiled slightly. Not quite yet. It would wait.

Bill McCrory pressed the mute button on the phone before he spoke. “Excuse me, J. J., but the labs are closed. It’s going to take a few minutes to set up our visit.”