--"

Marlowe picked up the folder on Holliday and gave Mead one weighty but
understanding look before he opened it.

"Your trouble, Chris, is that your viewpoint is fundamentally sane," he
said. "Now, about Holliday, Martin, options 062-26-8729, 063-108-1004. I
didn't get time to read the GenSurv on the Karlshaven planets, so I'll
ask you to brief me."

"Yes, sir."

"What's IV like?"

"Good, arable land. A little mountainous in spots, but that's good.
Loaded with minerals--industrial stuff, like silver. Some tin, but not
enough to depress the monetary standard. Lots of copper. Coal beds,
petroleum basins, the works. Self-supporting practically from the start,
a real asset to the Union in fifty-six years."

Marlowe nodded. "Good. Nice picking, Chris. Now--got a decoy?"

"Yes, sir. Karlshaven II's a False-E. I've got a dummy option on it in
the works, and we'll be able to undercut Holliday's prices for his land
by about twenty per cent."

"False-E, huh? How long do you figure until the colony can't stick on it
any longer?"

"A fair-sized one, with lots of financial backing, might even make it
permanently. But we won't be able to dig up that many loafers, and,
naturally, we can't give them that big a subsidy. Eventually, we'll have
to ferry them all out--in about eight years, say. But that'll give us
time enough to break Holliday."

Marlowe nodded again. "Sounds good."

"Something else," Mead said. "II's mineral-poor. It's near to being
solid metal. That's what makes it impossible to really live on, but I
figure we can switch the mineral companies right onto it and off IV."

Marlowe grinned approvingly. "You been saving this one for Holliday?"

"Yes, sir," Mead said, nodding slowly. He looked hesitantly at Marlowe.

"What's up, Boy?"

"Well, sir--" Mead began, then stopped. "Nothing important, really."

Marlowe gave him a surprising look full of sadness and brooding
understanding.

"You're thinking he's an old, frightened man, and why don't we leave him
alone?"

"Why ... yes, sir."

"Dave."

"Yes, Dave."

"You're quite right. Why don't we?"

"We can't, sir. I know that. But it doesn't seem fair--"

"Exactly, Chris. It ain't right, but it's correct."

The light on Marlowe's interphone blinked once. Marlowe looked at it in
momentary surprise. Then his features cleared, and he muttered
"Cabbage." He reached out toward the switch.

"We've got a visitor, Chris. Follow my lead." He reviewed his