The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch Read Online Free

Sol lichen which Mr. Eldritch took with him on his Prox trip and is now bringing back…it was a source of protein to him, they claim.” The Indian’s white teeth shone in gleeful superiority; the meager pretext amused him.
    “You believe that?”
    “Of course not.” Hepburn-Gilbert’s smile increased. “What interests you in this matter, Mr. Bulero? You have an, ah, special concern for lichens?”
    “I’m a public-spirited citizen of the Sol system. And I insist that you act.”
    “We are acting,” Hepburn-Gilbert said. “We have made inquiries…we have assigned our Mr. Lark—you know him—to this detail. You see?”
    The conversation droned to a frustrating conclusion and Leo Bulero at last hung up, feeling irked at politicians; they managed to take forceful steps when it came to
him
but in connection with Palmer Eldritch…ah, Mr. Bulero, he mimicked to himself. That, sir, is something else again.
    Yes, he knew Lark. Ned Lark was chief of the UN Narcotics Bureau and the man responsible for the seizure of this last shipment of Can-D; it had been a ploy on the part of the UN Secretary, bringing Lark into this hassle with Eldritch. What the UN was angling for here was a quid pro quo; they would drag their feet, not act against Eldritch unless and until Leo Bulero made some move to curtail his Can-D shipments; he sensed this, but could not of course prove it. After all, Hepburn-Gilbert, that dark-skinned sneaky little unevolved politician, hadn’t exactly
said
that.
    That’s what you find yourself involved in when you talk to the UN, Leo reflected. Afro-Asian politics. A swamp. It’s run, staffed, directed by foreigners. He glared at the blank vidscreen.
    While he was wondering what to do his secretary Miss Gleason clicked on the intercom at her end and said, “Mr. Bulero, Mr. Mayerson is in the outer office; he’d like a few moments with you.”
    “Send him in.” He was glad for a respite.
    A moment later his expert in the field of tomorrow’s fashions came in, scowling. Silently, Barney Mayerson seated himself facing Leo.
    “What’s eating you, Mayerson?” Leo demanded. “Speak up; that’s what I’m here for, so you can cry on my shoulder. Tell me what it is and I’ll hold your hand.” He made his tone withering.
    “My assistant. Miss Fugate.”
    “Yes, I hear you’re sleeping with her.”
    “That’s not the issue.”
    “Oh I see,” Leo said. “That’s just a minor aside.”
    “I just meant I’m here about another aspect of Miss Fugate’s behavior. We had a basic disagreement a little while ago; a salesman—”
    Leo said, “You turned something down and she disagreed.”
    “Yes.”
    “You precogs.” Remarkable. Maybe there were alternate futures. “So you want me to order her in the future always to back you up?”
    Barney Mayerson said, “She’s my assistant; that means she’s supposed to do as I direct.”
    “Well…isn’t sleeping with you a pretty fair move in that direction?” Leo laughed. “However, she should back you up while salesmen are present, then if she has any qualms she should air them privately later on.”
    “I don’t even go for that.” Barney scowled even more.
    Acutely, Leo said, “You know because I take that E Therapy I’ve got a huge frontal lobe; I’m practically a precog myself, I’m so advanced. Was it a pot salesman? Ceramics?”
    With massive reluctance Barney nodded.
    “They’re your ex-wife’s pots,” Leo said. Her ceramics were selling well; he had seen ads in the homeopapes for them, as retained by one of New Orleans’ most exclusive art-object shops, and here on the East Coast and in San Francisco. “Will they go over, Barney?” He studied his precog.
“Was Miss Fugate right?”
    “They’ll never go over; that’s God’s truth.” Barney’s tone, however, was leaden. The wrong tone, Leo decided, for what he was saying; it was too lacking in vitality. “That’s what I foresee,” Barney said doggedly.
    “Okay.” Leo