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  'Well…'

  'Well what!?'

  'Well, I'm sorry you think that. But I still think you're a natural. And I still think you'd understand…'

  'Hey buster, you're really pushing your luck now, you really are.'

  Madeleine's words were now wrapped in venom. But Renton decided it wasn't entirely deadly, and he pressed on.

  'OK. Forget the natural stuff and the balance bit. And you're right. Maybe it wasn't the best way to put it… But just think about it. I mean, you're in a fix, and so am I. And all I'm suggesting is that we do this together. You know, help each other. And that way… well, maybe it might work. You know, we might find a way out… Both of us. That's all. I mean, it's got to be worth a try, hasn't it?'

  Madeleine stared at him. She looked as though she was trying to decide whether to bite off his head or his balls - or maybe both… But he needn't have worried. None of his spheres were under imminent threat - as became apparent when she opened her mouth.

  'OK,' she said. 'Get on with it. But it better be worth it. And it better not take too long.'

  Her tone said more than her words, and Renton was beginning to doubt he was doing the right thing. But it was too late to change his mind. He switched on the console in the corner of the room, fed in the two discs, and began to bring up the first screen of data. And now Madeleine was standing at his shoulder, waiting for his impromptu presentation. And so he began.

  'Right. This graph here is taken from Spazum's monthly management reports, the stuff they send to head office. You know, the Echo place in Omoria. And basically what it shows is how well their sales have been holding up - and for quite some time now. In fact, how remarkably well they've been holding up, considering there's been such a huge dip in manufacturing… I mean, you do know that, don't you? That manufacturing's been on the slide for two or three years now - virtually everywhere?'

  'Yes, Mr Tenting. Traffic cops are still allowed to watch the news, you know. Even us women traffic cops…'

  'Yes, well I was just checking… because it's important. I mean Spazum might sell the odd can of body-paint, but the vast bulk of their sales are to carmakers and spaceship-builders, that sort of thing. You know, just the sort of outfits that have been in the doldrums recently. And really, you'd expect their own business to have dipped as well. But it hasn't. And it hasn't - according to the commentaries in the management reports - because there's been this heavy investment in marketing. And that way they've got themselves a bigger share of the market - and kept things going along very nicely indeed. And, incidentally, across all their major product groups. You know, spaceships, cars, commercial vehicles, the lot.'

  'So bully for them,' offered Madeleine.

  'Yes, well that's what the management reports say,' continued Renton. 'And all the rest of the stuff that's on that first disc - and gets seen by Echo management…'

  'Ah,' interrupted Madeleine. 'You're going to tell me that the second disc says something else, aren't you? Like they haven't made that level of sales at all. And all the time, they've been fibbing to their bosses in Omoria…'

  'Yes and no,' responded Renton. 'The second disc contains the raw accounting data that backs up the management stuff. All of it. And it does back it up. I mean, they have actually sold as much as they've reported to Echo - but only in total…'

  'Meaning?' encouraged Madeleine.

  'Meaning they're not giving their friends in Omoria quite the right picture.'

  And at this point Renton brought up an extract of data from the second disc. It was a moving column of assorted figures and references, a jumble of characters that moved from the bottom to the top of the screen in a never-ending procession, as incomprehensible as it was long.

  'They're all the detailed adjustments and journals they've applied to the raw sales figures - to get to the various sales totals in the management reports. Quite a lot of them, aren't there?'

  'I don't follow,' said Madeleine without hesitation. 'You've lost me completely.'

  'OK. The systems they use here will categorise sales automatically. If you make a sale to a carmaker, it will automatically go into the "sales to carmakers" category. And it's the same with sales to spaceship-builders and sales to the refinish market and even sales to body-paint weirdoes. You don't need to make all those adjustments. All that does is corrupt the original data. And you end up misreporting the sales by category - although they're still all correct in total.

  'Umm, I see. But why so many adjustments? I mean, wouldn't you get the same effect with just a few big ones?'

  'You would, but they'd be bound to attract attention. And if nobody else's, then certainly the auditors'. But if you do it this way, and make all these small adjustments, they won't get noticed - even though when you take them all together they have a pretty sizable impact…'

  'Which is?' enquired Madeleine,

  'Which is,' responded Renton, 'to mask completely the fact that Spazum's sales have dropped off across every major category of business over the last three years, except for spaceship paint, where sales have no less than rocketed - if you'll pardon the pun. And so much so that they've compensated entirely for all the shortfalls elsewhere.'

  'But that's nonsense,' observed Madeleine. 'Everybody knows how sick the spacecraft industry is - and has been for the last two years now. Hell, there've been stories about cut backs for as long as I can remember. So there's no way they could be selling more spaceship paint. It just doesn't make sense.'

  Renton pressed some more keys and a series of company names appeared on the screen. 'See these? They're the names of all the big spacecraft builders: Santong, MBMN, Gerber and so on. And all the big brokers: ILI, Keeper, Senec and a few others. Their accounts all show increased trade with Spazum. In some cases it's up by as much as 50%.'

  'I can't believe it,' said Madeleine. 'There's no way they could be using all that stuff. No way at all. But there again, it is being paid for, isn't it? I mean, it wouldn't all stack up if it wasn't, would it?'

  'Spot on. It is being paid for. But not by this lot. And they're not paying for it because they're not receiving it.'

  Madeleine registered this new piece of information but was clearly still very puzzled. 'Well, who is paying for it then?' she said. 'I don't understand.'

  'Well,' said Renton, settling back into his chair and pointing to the screen, 'what I noticed on some of these accounts was that there seemed to be quite a few multiple payments. There'll be three or four payments within just a few days. Hardly the way a company like Santong would go about settling its account. I mean, they're about as variable as the speed of light when it comes to that sort of thing. They wouldn't abandon single-cycle settlements in a million years. I just know it. And then what I noticed was that the smaller payments matched particular individual invoices - or just a couple of invoices added together.

  'From there it was easy. I looked at the shipping documents. And hey presto! Guess what? All the invoices I picked out, all those that were settled by specific payments, were for shipments that weren't sent to the customer's normal address, but instead to…'

  Renton stopped, leant over the console keyboard once again, and his efforts replaced the list of customers with a copy shipping document '… this place.'

  The shipping document read:

  MBMN Inc

  c/o Units 12/13

  Pynyl Chome

  Verital

  SSI KKYL

  CRABBSBAB

  'Or alternatively.' Renton played the keyboard again. This time the shipping document read:

  Gerber Beema PLP

  c/o Units 12/13

  Pynyl Chome

  Verital

  SSI KKYL

  CRABBSBAB

  'Where's Crabbsbab?' asked Madeleine. 'I've never heard of it.'

  'No, neither had I until last night. But I've checked it out. Let's just say it's not exactly at the hub of the populated universe. Actually it's barely within sight of the rim. And what's more it doesn't seem to be
anywhere near any planet where they build spacecraft. Or where there's much of what might be called industrial activity. It's just not the kind of place you'd send spacecraft paint - or any sort of paint, come to that.'

  Madeleine rubbed her nose and looked intently at the screen. 'So what we have is Spazum selling spacecraft paint to someone or other on an out of the way world and getting paid for it. Then they're hiding the fact that they've done this by passing all the shipments through existing accounts, and then they're covering their tracks even further by fudging the management accounts that go to Echo. They don't want anybody at Echo, or I suppose, anybody at all, to know what they're doing. They're really serious about hiding this new customer, aren't they? And what's this new customer doing with all this paint anyway?'

  'My thoughts exactly,' said Renton. 'If you're happy that I've not imagined all this, then I think we need to ask a few questions. Or should I say, I think you need to ask a few questions. And I suggest that you start straight away…'

  '…so you can get yourselves into an even bigger mess than you're in at the moment - if that were possible.'

  Renton and Madeleine turned to the newcomer to their conversation. He was a short, fat, rubbery-looking man, and he was standing at the door of the basement office. And he had a companion with him. He was even shorter, but not quite as fat and rubbery-looking.

  'But of course, it's not possible, is it? Because not only are you now in the biggest mess imaginable, you're also hardly at liberty to ask anybody any questions anyway.'

  'Who the hell are you?' enquired a startled Renton.

  'My name is Lysaars. But I think you already know that, Mr Tenting.'

  Then the short, fat man advanced into the room followed pace for pace by his shorter, not-quite-as-fat sidekick.

  And for the first time on this trip, Renton had a feeling not of discomfort but one of disturbing disquiet…

  15.

  Lysaars was now in the middle of the room. He looked around, his head tilted back. And then he proceeded to take possession of the room - by waddling around it slowly. It was supposed to be an imperious saunter; Renton could see that. But it most definitely wasn't. No way was that hideous body of his going to allow its owner anything other than the gait of an elephantine duck, and “saunter” was nowhere in sight.

  For this was a body that had succeeded in redefining the meaning of “short and fat”, and so much so that there was an almost entire absence of a vertical dimension. It wasn't so much squat as apparently squashed - like some grotesque cartoon character who's been pancaked by a boulder. And it didn't seem to have any of the angular bits one normally associates with the human form, but instead there were just curves and folds and more curves, and what Renton could only think of as a sort of “bulbous symmetry” - which certainly spoke of at least a tenuous connection with the standard human configuration, but one which had long since been buried under a truckload of blubber. And one which was surmounted by a head that would have put any grotesque cartoon character to shame.

  It was a globe head - in keeping with the bulbosity of its supporting body. But it was more than this. It was a fright, a hairless sphere with, at its front, a set of piggy eyes, a podgy nose, a pair of even podgier cheeks and an unnaturally large mouth, to say nothing of a sheet of unnaturally pale skin, stretched across that alarmingly unlined face. In short, it was a horrible head with a horrible face. Or, in not so short, it was a ghastly thing to behold, a vision from a nightmare, a sight to curdle wet concrete. And not at all the sort of thing that Renton was prepared for…

  And now Lysaars had stopped in the middle of the room again and was staring at Renton, a shadow of a smirk on that awful face. He reached into a pocket of his suit and withdrew a flat silver box. Then he pressed a catch on its side and up flicked its top.

  His eyes moved from Renton to the contents of the box. He studied whatever was in there, and after a few seconds extracted something that looked like a small piece of broken eggshell. He opened his horrible mouth and the tiny morsel was popped in. He began to chew, and as he chewed there was a dreadful gritty, scrunching noise. And it became very clear just what it was a morsel of. It was a morsel of broken eggshell. Lysaars was chewing a small piece of broken eggshell.

  He approached Renton, smirking and chewing, his teeth and the eggshell conspiring to make the most unspeakable of sounds. And then his tongue, flecked with tiny fragments of shell, licked round his lips. His smirk was now wider than ever.

  He offered the open silver box to Renton. 'Would you like some oefedge, Mr Tenting? Very soothing in times of stress, don't you know.'

  Renton's eyes widened.

  'I'm particularly partial to the barbet oefedge, that bluey one just there. They've this beautiful spicy taste. I think it must be all the ticks in their diet. But if you want something a little less pacey, try that greenish one there. It's zebra waxbill. Very difficult to come by now. Virtually extinct, you know. Yes, it's a delicacy we may soon have to do without, I'm afraid.'

  Lysaars sighed heavily. 'And it's not the only one either. You wouldn't believe how many of these bloody birds are pegging out on us at the moment. I mean, they've just no consideration, have they?'

  Then his smirk was back, as wide as before.

  'Still, enjoy them while we can, eh Mr Tenting? Help yourself. The barbet, the waxbill or the shrike there.'

  Renton found himself responding. In the negative and, unusually for him, really rather aggressively.

  'That's absolutely disgusting,' he said. 'Absolutely disgusting and revolting. You must be out of your bloody mind!'

  Lysaars' face reddened. His piggy eyes danced in their sockets.

  'You are a very rude person, Mr Tenting. And very ungracious. I mean, have you any idea how expensive waxbill oefedge is these days? Have you any idea of just how expensive any of this stuff is? Yes, there's no doubt about it. You are churlish beyond belief, Mr Tenting. Beyond belief. And rude. Very rude. Do you hear me? Rude! Rude! Rude!'

  Lysaars snapped shut the silver box and his fat form whirled away from Renton and towards an overblown couch at the side of the room. He flopped into the centre of the upholstery, stowed his treasure back in its pocket and from another withdrew a flannel. Then with both hands he wiped it over his face in a circular motion, as if to wipe away his ugliness. But without success. When he spoke again, he looked just as ghastly as ever.

  'Mr Tenting, you and this woman here have interfered with our business and we are obliged to take some certain appropriate action. I'm sure you will understand, eh? And I had hoped this might be achieved with the normal courtesies found amongst civilised peoples. But this is not to be, eh? You insist on being boorish.

  'We will now have to proceed more… more directly. Which is a pity for you - and for your young companion here.'

  Renton was feeling very confused, even more confused than he'd felt when he'd been confronted with the concept of curved time and coiled space. But there wasn't just confusion there, there was also indignation. And that was all down to that over-inflated human-dinghy over there. And it was about time it was put in its place…

  But his young companion got there before him.

  'I'm sorry you think Mr Tenting is rude,' she began, 'but believe me, Mr Lysaars, he's not half as rude as you are. In fact, he's not in the same league. And I don't just mean your revolting eating habits, I mean the way you burst in here in the first place. And as for "interfering with your business", well, I find that a little difficult to understand as I've no idea what your business is, and I very much doubt Mr Tenting has either. And the same goes for this "certain appropriate action". We haven't a clue, have we, Mr Tenting?'

  Renton nodded with conviction and with a pretty large helping of theatre. He didn't want anybody in the room to miss that nod.

  'So, Mr Lysaars,' continued Renton's half-naked heroine, 'I'd like to give you some advice. And the advice is: stop acting like a dickhead, think about the damage you're doing to that poor old cou
ch there and get yourself off it, collect your "brother in blubber" here, and leave us alone before we both get really angry. In short, Mr Lysaars, sod off!'

  Lysaars' face reddened even further and his piggy eyes positively jiggled in their sockets. Then it was his turn for a bit of theatre: he slapped his flannel across his thighs and, at the same time, threw his head back, actions obviously designed to emphasize his contempt for his audience but serving only to emphasize the size of his thighs and the bulk of his bonce. Then he responded to Madeleine's suggestion in a voice that was now strained with vexation.

  'You're rude as well! You're ruder than he is. This is just too much. Do you hear? Just too, too much!'

  And as he spat out these words, he rose from the couch.

  'You're going?' asked Madeleine. 'I hope it's not something we said.'

  'Oh no, young lady. I'm not going. You are. You and your interfering partner here.'

  'What do you mean?' interjected her interfering partner.

  'I mean, Mr Tenting, that having fiddled around with all that data you crept off with last night, and having poked your nose in it, sufficiently far for it to have come up with all that paint over it, so to speak, we are now going to have to undo a few things. And that means you and Miss Maiden will now have to take a short holiday.'

  'A short holiday? What are you talking about? What the hell's this all about?'

  'Oh come, come, Mr Tenting. You know very well what this is all about. It's about that sales information you took back to your hotel last night. You know, the sales information on that pair of discs you stole from Mr D'Kemba's office.

  'Stole?' squawked Renton.

  'And it's about your little tête-à-tête with your co-conspirator here this morning. The one we caught the end of. You can't have forgotten.'

  Renton was desperately trying to assimilate the significance of what was unfolding before him. Not an easy task when he was still so confused. And so to help him in this task, he posed a question, not really expecting an answer, but at least it would give him more time to think - especially about this “holiday” bit - which he didn't like the sound of at all.