is no longer able to pay
forty-five centisols a pound. This price is being scaled down to
thirty-five centisols. I want you to understand that Kapstaad Chemical
wants to give you every cent they can, but business conditions no
longer permit them to pay the old price. Thirty-five is the absolute
maximum they can pay and still meet competition--"

"Aaah, knock it off, Belsher!" somebody shouted. "We heard all that
rot on the screen."

"How about our contract?" somebody else asked. "We do have a contract
with Kapstaad, don't we?"

"Well, the contract will have to be re-negotiated. They'll pay
thirty-five centisols or they'll pay nothing."

"They can try getting along without wax. Or try buying it somewhere
else!"

"Yes; those wonderful synthetic substitutes!"

"Mr. Chairman," Oscar Fujisawa called out. "I move that this
organization reject the price of thirty-five centisols a pound for
tallow-wax, as offered by, or through, Leo Belsher at this meeting."

Ravick began clamoring that Oscar was out of order, that Leo Belsher
had the floor.

"I second Captain Fujisawa's motion," Mohandas Feinberg said.

"And Leo Belsher doesn't have the floor; he's not a member of the
Co-operative," Tom Kivelson declared. "He's our hired employee, and as
soon as this present motion is dealt with, I intend moving that we
fire him and hire somebody else."

"I move to amend Captain Fujisawa's motion," Joe Kivelson said. "I
move that the motion, as amended, read, '--and stipulate a price of
seventy-five centisols a pound.'"

"You're crazy!" Belsher almost screamed.

Seventy-five was the old price, from which he and Ravick had been
reducing until they'd gotten down to forty-five.

Just at that moment, my radio began making a small fuss. I unhooked
the handphone and brought it to my face.

"Yeah?"

It was Bish Ware's voice: "Walt, get hold of the Kivelsons and get
them out of Hunters' Hall as fast as you can," he said. "I just got a
tip from one of my ... my parishioners. Ravick's going to stage a riot
to give Hallstock's cops an excuse to raid the meeting. They want the
Kivelsons."

"Roger." I hung up, and as I did I could hear Joe Kivelson shouting:

"You think we don't get any news on this planet? Tallow-wax has been
selling for the same price on Terra that it did eight years ago, when
you two crooks started cutting the price. Why, the very ship Belsher
came here on brought the quotations on the commodity market--"

I edg