“That’s their business. I’m an agent. I just buy for them.”

“You work on a commission?”

“I’m not in business for my health.”

You sure as hell aren’t in it for your health, I thought. That cough, those tics and twitches—Then I realized what they meant. This wasn’t the kind of air he was used to. Like if I go up to Canada, right away I’m down with diarrhea. It’s the water or something.

The dirt on his face was a kind of suntan oil! A protection against our sunlight. Blinds pulled down, face smeared over—and dirt all over his clothes so they’d fit in with his face.

Eksar was no bum. He was anything but. I was the bum. Think, Bernie, I said to myself. Think and hustle and operate like you never did before in your whole life. This guy took you, and big!

“How much you work on—ten percent?” No answer: he leaned his chest against mine, and he breathed and he twitched, he breathed and he twitched. “I’ll top any deal you have, Eksar. You know what I’ll give you? Fifteen percent! I’m the kind of a guy, I hate to see someone running back and forth for a lousy ten percent.”

“What about ethics?” he said hoarsely. “I got a client.”

“Look who’s bringing up ethics! A guy goes out to buy the whole damn Earth for twenty-seven hundred! You call that ethics?”

Now he got sore. He set down the grip and punched his fist into his hand. “No, I call that business. A deal. I offer, you take. You go away happy, you feel you made out. All of a sudden, here you are back, crying you didn’t mean it, you sold too much for the price. Too bad! I got ethics: I don’t screw my client for a crybaby.”

“I’m not a crybaby. I’m just a poor schnook trying to scratch out a living. But who are you? You’re a big-time operator from another world with all kinds of gimmicks going for you, buttons you can press, angles I can’t even begin to figure.”