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Red Royale - Eppy - 12-21-2008
Sir Benjamin Eppstein walked extremely quickly down the halls of Southampton, the cape of his characteristic greatcoat billowing slightly from his excessive speed. His arm was beginning to ache slightly, but that happened when one was carrying around a Superalloy briefcase with seven hundred million Sirius credits, cash, for three days (and hence the two large, burly men in black suits with heavy-duty projectile assault rifles, both ex-SAS). He ran his other hand through the loose gray hair, trying to get it straight; he was running on three hours of sleep, less than he was used to, but he'd make do, because he had one BIG prize to get after.
"Alright, Ben, what the blazes is this about?"
He turned his head slightly to see the Oliver Crick, regional head of Special Acquisitions (Bretonian Division), fresh off the boat from Waterloo in a rumpled beige suit, pacing him (and panting, because he was a good eight inches shorter than Ben), looking at him like he was crazy.
"What is what about?" He looked straight ahead, tightening his grip on the briefcase.
"Don't bloody try that with me!" Oliver jumped out in front of Eppy and tossed his hands out; he was on the floorin slightly more than a second, Guard Number One on top of him, forcing his head to the floor, while Guard Number Two held the oversized assault rifle against the back of his neck.
"Let him up." Eppstein held up his free hand. Number Two lifted the rifle and stepped back as Number One hauled him back to his feet. "Now that I have your attention, Ollie, let's get something to drink. You do deserve an explanation, I suppose."
Ollie, very shaken, followed as Eppy accelerated towards the station's pub, turning his head slightly to watch the Cash Cow slowly move into the empty bay, heavy lifters preparing to load crates of lower-grade Beryllium into the four cars trailing behind the engine.
*****
Eppy rested the case on the far end of the booth's bench, twirling off his greatcoat and wedging it in between the worn balustrade, as he slid into the booth. Ollie followed suit.
"Maltese ale."
"We don't 'ave that 'ere, your lordship. Regulations and all that bloody cock-n-bull. Can I suggest the Newcastle instead? We just got it in."
"Oh, bloody fine. He'll have one, too."
"Right away, milord."
"So, do I finally get to know why you just walked out of my vault with every damn credit in the thing?" Ollie looked him in the eye, but quickly adjusted to the left as he realized that he couldn't possibly influence Eppstein.
"I've got a few hours, you're in luck. I did leave the Special Acquisitions requisition papers in your in-box, so that's your reference."
"Right, then." He pulled a datapad out of his pocket and tapped a few lines in; he looked up later, very belated. "My secretary tells me they check out, involving, as she put it, a 'Shut The Hell Up' clause."
"Smart woman. Thank you, dear." Two Newcastles thunked down on the table. "Do you remember that fuss seven years ago when Orbital Spa and Cruise made that huge publicity wall about the contract they made with Southampton?"
"Oh yes." Ollie groaned. "Every damn day for six months straight, on and on about the most luxurious cruise liner in the galaxy. Cost them a pretty penny, too, as I remember, slightly more than a bloody Dunkirk runs up, something like six billion credits."
"Exactly. What they didn't tell you is that it was mortgaged."
"What?" Ollie choked, coughing as he worked the Newcastle out of his lungs. Orbital Spa and Cruise? They were bloody rich, and this from us!"
"But they weren't that rich." Eppy smiled. "The Royal Bank of New London foreclosed on them two months ago. The Caribbean Blue is currently sitting in the lot behind Scarborough, property of RBNL. They're auctioning it off tomorrow. OSC's been trying to keep it quiet so they can buy it back mortgage-free, and they've largely succeeded. The issue is bidding starts at 150; OSC doesn't have two pence to rub together, and they've been borrowing capital, much of it from less-than-legitimate sources, one of them Don Giacobazzi. Hence, I'm now on my way to Scarborough with a large case of venture capital."
"But we're an insurance firm! We don't run transport, we live off of-"
"Then what do you call the IND Division? Our job is to explore new, potentially profitable methods of business, and OSC has begun to lose its grip on the market. You've seen two independent firms show up recently with mid-range ships, and even a bloody reconstituted Kusari liner. How on earth could we not try and get our hands into an open market like that?" Eppy promptly drained his mug, got up as Ollie stuttered, buttoned up his coat with record speed and grabbed the briefcase, Thing One and Thing Two flanking him silently as he proceeded towards the shuttle bay.
Red Royale - Eppy - 12-23-2008
Cash Cow glided past the Ark Royal and slid into the Trade Lane seamlessly, coursing towards Gateshead within the tachyon stream.
"Gateshead, 45 seconds!" Sam yelled over his shoulder. "You want me to stop and let 'em scan us or what?"
"Drop out and cross over before the police get a chance." Benjamin sipped a glass of water, 4 degrees Celsius. "I don't want to lose time. We can stop in at Cape Wrath and fill up the middle four cars with Cardamine on the way back, then we'll outdodge them. If we get caught we know somebody isn't doing their jobs and Don Giacobazzi gets to find out who as Larry gets us off."
"Dropping!"
The Cow slid effortlessly out of the tachyon beam and punched her fusion drives to full, accelerating to cruise and then cutting all engines as the attitude thrusters slid it into a position in line with the Gateshead-Scarborough lane. She performed a perfect entrance, gliding down the lane.
"So, boss, how are you going to work this operation, once we bag this girl? You know there's no way we can make this bloody thing profitable, the way the cruise market is right now, right?" Don sipped a glass of something dark and cold, fiddling with the engine readouts in the cramped galley.
"I think I can conjure up a lovely new market, Donald." Eppstein adjusted his tie. "You know how bored rich heirs and businessmen get. They want a thrill, and I intend to bloody give it to them. For an exorbitant fee, of course, but they can afford to pay. With the places we can go on this ship, hearsay will get us a constant stream of business with some very rich clientele."
"Scarborough!" They fell out of the tradelane, and Sam guided them into the moor very quickly. A series of twelve smaller yachts and the OSC Luxury Liner Indulgence clustered around the station and the single ship currently in its bays, the Bretonian Liner Caribbean Blue. OSC had done a number to it; they'd had it painted the trim a lighter blue, a deviation from the standard scarlet called for in the original blueprints, and Ben could see some work had been done on the weapons systems; there weren't any to speak of, a single pair of turrets mounted amidships serving as the entire craft's defense. He resolved to have some work done on it; judging by the 'improvements' alreayd made he felt he could reasonably deduce they'd probably stripped down the armor and the fuel tanks to accommodate more room for luxuries. He wouldn't need all of that; their passenger load would likely be smaller.
"Ready, sir?" Thing One looked over at him from behind his opaque sunglasses.
"Oh, I suppose we bloody should be on our way." Epstein twirled into his greatcoat and picked up the ever-present briefcase, leading Thing One and Thing Two to the airlock as Sam brought the Cow in to moor.
Red Royale - Eppy - 12-23-2008
The Chief Finance Officer of the Luxury Liner Shetland, one Jonathan Settilo, stalked down the stark corridors of Scarborough's business section, trailed by his secretary.
"How much did we scrape together, Gladys?" he asked, speeding up slightly as he headed towards the quarters they'd all been assigned. The participants were to be cut off from their respective ships until the auction was complete, as per the orders of the Royal Bank of New London.
"You have 547 million credits and some change at your disposal, sir." The monotonous, dark-skinned woman replied, speeding slightly to catch up despite the heels she wore. "I don't think anybody who's showed up has quite the capital available to outspend us."
"I should hope not. This should never have happened in the first place, but at least we managed to keep it quiet. In the end I suppose we'll actually be making money on the venture, albeit that could be construed as fraud."
"I wouldn't worry about that, sir. The one good thing about our financial issues is that no-one can say we're not making a legitimate business move."
"I'll assume you're right, then, Maurice, you always seem to have a good intui-"
He stopped dead in his tracks outside of the archway leading to the row of guest rooms they'd been assigned. On the other side of the archway was Benjamin Epstein, toting a heavy-looking briefcase, and two very large, burly men with assault rifles on either side.
Benjamin smiled at him, readjusting to a slightly more casual stance under that voluminous greatcoat he always wore. "Jonathan! How good to see you again!"
"Sir Epstein." He nodded back, returning the smile.
"This is going to be an interesting show indeed." Benjamin raised his free arm in a somewhat lopsided shrug. "I'll admit I was a it surprised to see Camilla's boat outside, weren't you? I didn't think she was interested in collecting these little trinkets."
"A surprise indeed, Sir Epstein."
"Well, we should be on our way, then, boys. Best get set up. Toodles!" He waved jovially as he turned, and Setillo could have sworn he caught the edge of a smirk before Benjamin was facing totally away and headed down the aisle to his room.
Setillo waited until Epstein's door was closed, at which point he began swearing profusely and trudged off to his own temporary residence, demanding Maurice/Gladys/Whatever the hell her name was go find him a coffee.
Red Royale - Eppy - 01-03-2009
Ben slid into Scarboroughs mess hall, towing his thickly walled briefcase and Thing One and Thing Two. No pub on this side of the station, just an open mess, and he just wanted to pat down a quick meal anyways before the first stage of bidding began, since none of them had gotten anything to eat before or after their brief sleep.
Hows the mutton stew, love?
It tastes like bloody mutton stew, but itll fill you up, dearie. Three?
Gentlemen?
Thing One and Thing Two nodded silently, shifting their assault rifles over to their left hands. The overweight, sweaty lunch lady ladled three thick, unpleasant dollops of sheep sludge into three bowls, which she promptly handed to the three in sequence, who followed Epstein off to a table by the door, where they sat opposite him.
Hows the stew, lads?
Thing One and Thing Two took one sporkful each, looked at each other from behind their identical opaque glasses, looked directly at Epstein, and put their sporks quickly back in their bowls.
That bad, eh? Benjamin took one small scoop and made a face. Oh my. Perhaps we should just get some munchies when bidding sta-
Thing One and Thing Two jumped up, flipping the table (and Ben) sideways and firing several bursts into a teched-out man about thirty feet across the room. Blood spattered across the floor behind him, and a sawed-off needle rifle flew from underneath his uniform coat.
Epstein rolled up onto his knees with an antique 50-caliber pistol pointed out towards the crowd. It kicked like a pregnant mare, but most body armor did not hold up to it. He skidded over to the briefcase, grasping it and holding it protectively close as security rushed through the door, tranquilizer rifles in hand.
Goddamnit, Im calling Larry.
Red Royale - Eppy - 01-03-2009
Larry 'Loophole' Wiles' arrow coursed through the Tradelanes with its characteristic grace and poise, outpacing several freighters as his craft knifed towards the Magellan jumpgate.
There would suits. There would be large suits.
*****
"Sam, I want to get a complete telemetry scan of all the ships in the area. See if any one of them was interfacing directly with a hacker in the cafeteria within three hours."
"You got it, boss." Sam turned away from the viewer, which crackled a bit, and tapped something into a keyboard elsewhere. Telemetry scans will be complete in half an hour. Anything else you need before they lock you up for this overblown bingo game?"
"Get me some of my Maltese Bourbon down here, if you would. The game starts in half an hour."
"I'll send Don down in the shuttle. 789 okay?"
"789 will be fine, Sam, thank you."
"It's on the way." He tossed a mock salute and the viewer cut out.
Benjamin turned and sighed, sidling over to the bench in Southampton's Executive Communications alcove and dropped down, placing the briefcase against his side. Thing Two stood at the doorside end of the bench and polished the barrel of his rifle.
*clunk clunk*
Ben looked up. Thing One stood outside with Don's scruffy, ginger-haired figure, who twitched a silver flask, presumably full of Epstein's choice Maltese Bourbon. "Let 'im in."
"You holdin' up, boss?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Don." He grasped the flask, unscrewed the cap and tossed back a generous swig. "I just want to stop carrying this damn case."
Don chuckled. "I'll see you in, what, five, six hours, then, boss?"
"Just about. It shouldn't take much longer than that for us to get this over with. It looks like the OSC cads are going to be our biggest issue here, they've amassed a chunk of change. I think we can outspend them, though. My biggest concern here is Camilla Dorsetshire. Her wealth is unknown, since it varies depending on how many rich uncles like her at the time, and she's...not stable, shall we say. You remember Regina Whitaker's husband?"
Don nodded. "Crazy man, he was. Very passionate, but he never took losses well."
"Same person. It's genetic, apparently. My great-niece has depression issues, which aren't helped by her...position, and my granddaughter is prone to fits of anger, though Sarah's not under quite the stress Mia is."
"Eh, kids these days. You know how they get."
"Mia's only four years younger than yourself, Don."
"Eh, whatever. Cheers, boss, I gotta go play with the...telemetry readings again."
"Carry on, the, Don." Eppy took another swig. Don threw the same mock salute and slid out, to be caught on the arm by what could only be termed a 'Randy Wench.'
"Oh, this is going to be a long evening."
Red Royale - Eppy - 01-04-2009
Larry's Arrow knifed past Leeds, swerving in front of a Large Train and a mining ship as he arced towards the Newcastle Jumpgate tradelane. Only one more system to go. Epstein had called for a trump card; Larry would be more than happy to provide the service. This kind of legal action is, of course, what he lived for.
Red Royale - Eppy - 01-04-2009
The docking tube sealed onto the Caribbean Blue's direct entry hatch. It wasn't often used; passengers were normally brought on board by four large shuttles to the large docking bay concealed underneath the retractable protrusion on the underside of the main hull, but since the ship was in drydock and out of commission that was left inactive in favor of a simple tube, into which atmosphere was flowing.
Epstein glided into the terminal, followed by Thing One and Thing Two, to the sight of fourteen other people, including one Camilla Dorsetshire, a flaming redhead with a face not dissimilar to Kate Blanchett, decked out in a cream-colored sun-dress, and Setillo.
"Camilla, darling! How have you been?" Ben slid next to the lady in cream, who smiled and lightly waved.
"Just fine, Benjamin, love, just fine. I wasn't expecting to see you here, I didn't think you were going to be involved in this little affair."
"Oh, well, you know, I see an opportunity to try something new, I have to take it; that's how business operates. I'll admit, I was surprised to see you here. Liners never seemed your fancy."
"I, too, like to try new things." Camilla grinned. "And, at the very least, this is entertaining. You know how I get bored so often."
"Yes indeed, madam."
"It would seem we are adversaries for the moment."
"Indeed it would, madam."
"Hm. We should get din-"
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Heads turned simultaneously towards the entrance, to see a tall, thin, tweedy man, a classical auctioneer, standing in the doorway.
"I am Harold Foyle, the man in charge of this little venture; at this time I'd like you all to dismiss your guards and aides, as under the terms of the contract you're about to sign" he held up a datapad and pen "you are to remain on the ship, alone, until such time as this lovely craft you see outside the bulkheads has a new master.
Foyle held out the pad to the nearest occupant, a rich BowEx executive. He signed, and it was passed from person to person, each signing his or her name. Camilla finished last with a flourish, tossing the pad back to Foyle.
If you'll follow me, please."
The door to the docking tube whooshed open, and Foyle stepped in, leaving Southampton's gravity field and floating gently down through the tube. The fourteen participants followed, drifting through the airlock and into the dark corridor.
Foyle clapped twice.
A warm light coursed in two long lines across the top of the corridor, a lavishly decorated affair in the style of early 20th-century movie theaters. Lavish red arches and columns rose up to the abnormally tall ceilings (for a spacecraft). A golden angelic figure was visible in an alcove at the end of the corridor, arms extended outwards.
"If you'll follow me, ladies and gentlemen." Foyle trotted down the hall, the pack of bidders trailing after him. They rounded the corner heading right, and entered another dark chamber, where visibility was not possible.
"May I present the Grand Hall." Foyle clapped his hands again, and the lights rose.
The chamber was a large, trapezoidal affair with a vaulted ceiling, the same pillars and arches as the halls. The floor was divided into three separate steppes, spanning about eighty feet. A very long, very thick and heavy, ornate rosewood table occupied most of the second tier, and a large set of vertical silver pipes occupied the entirety of the back wall, bordered by ornate rosewood flourishes and capitols. The organ's console lay in the center of the third tier-four manuals, and a considerable set of stops.
"The table is eight and a half tons, and will be where we conduct our business over the next few hours. Now, if you will all take your-"
"One moment." Benjamin raised his right hand. "May I take a closer look?" He gestured at the console.
"Please, feel free." Foyle pulled out his pad as Benjamin stepped upwards to the console, turned so that the player could face the hall. He pulled the bench backwards slightly and sat, pensively. He raised his hand to the left side of the console, near the tabs, but hesitated.
Foyle found what he was looking for. "A 783 William Hill and Son instrument, voiced in the French style, 86 ranks, 80 stops, four manuals, quantum-digital action, four to 14 inches of wind pressure. At least, that's what the pad wants me to s-"
Benjamin finally decided which of the drawknobs he'd pull-an 8', 16' and 32' Bombarde and Contre Bombarde sequence-and informed Foyle by dropping his feet on the second-and-third lowest C-pedals, and completed the chords with his hands on the first manual. Foyle and the other bidders stared as a crashing, thunderous sound coursed throughout the hall.
He could barely be heard to whisper "Oh I want this ship."
Red Royale - Eppy - 01-04-2009
"Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you once again for coming to our little exposition." Foyle took his seat at the head of the table, the last to sit down. He pulled a small gavel and base from within the tweed jacket draped across his tall, slender form. "I trust you all have your funds on hand? If not, in the next hour you'll be allowed to contact your crews and request they deliver them. Payment, as per the terms of the agreement, must be delivered directly after the sale is made." Several people pulled pads from within their carious pieces of clothing and tapped messages off, presumably to their crew. Others patted briefcases or bags. "In the next hour you will be allowed to tour the ship at your leisure; please be seated at this table at four o'clock sharp. At your leisure!" He smiled widely, standing and gesturing towards the three corridors extending away from the front of the Grand Hall. The attendees rose, coursing outward.
Benjamin removed his overcoat, draping it across his chair, and walked upwards towards the organ console once more and sat, placing his case next to the bench, with his hands flying across the columns of drawknobs seemingly at random. He took a deep breath and broke out into a very bright rendition of Bach's Prelude and Fugue in D Major. Foyle, Camilla and a Rebuplican heir stayed to listen. They applauded as he brought the contrapuntal piece to its resolution, ending with a low D on the pedal. The heir left for the restroom, and Camilla proceeded up to the console with Foyle close behind.
"Ben! That was lovely! I had no idea you could play an instrument!"
"I don't often have an opportunity to play. It's a large, stationary instrument that nobody wants to pay for, and I have nowhere to put it, not to mention I spend most of my time on board the Cash Cow." He hit the canceler and the drawknobs thunked inwards in unison. "The Fugue from that piece is my favorite, I think. It's more difficult than I care to think about to get down, but once you have it right it's a wonderful. almost rhapsodic, piece."
"Well, you sound wonderful, good sah. Perhaps the promise of an instrument on board will incite you to, say, bid higher!" Foyle broke out laughing, followed halfheartedly by Camilla. Epstein let nothing but a small snort escape his lips.
"Well, gentlemen, I need to powder my nose, it hasn't had any additional care since breakfast. Harold, where's the restroom?"
"About ten meters down the corridor on the right, my dear."
"Now, Mr. Foyle, wny don't you show me the bridge, since Countess Dorsetshire has departed. Have you ever had Maltese Bourbon..."
Red Royale - Eppy - 08-12-2009
Benjamin judiciously scanned the Royal Liner's bridge. It was a surprisingly austere affair, but spacious and well-layed-out; it actually resembled the bridges of one of Her Majesty's destroyers, and was, in all likelihood, (considering its origins at Southampton) probably based directly on those vessels. He strolled over to the Tactical console, which looked to be a direct copy of the aforementioned Destroyer's bridgeware; he nodded to Foyle on the way over, who was chatting up a DSE heir, who apparently had a great love for well-constructed vessels such as this (which was his motivation for bidding, in all likelihood).
His supposition about the console's origins turned out to be correct, he discovered, as he waved the machine active. The software OS was the same; the original designers had had the foresight to include an autoupdater, thank god, there was no doubt in his mind that the crew would have left it to fail if the computer hadn't done the work itself. The two active turret hardpoints hadn't been serviced in a LONG time. The power meter registered them running at barely 3/5ths capacity, with some shorts in the circuit, covered only by the thankful redundancies built into the military architechture. He opened said architechture; there were actually nine dedicated mounts by default, and more could easily be added (something he'd be sure to look into, assuming he'd acquired this thing by the end of the day). They'd really done a number on it.
He headed over to the security console on the back wall of the bridge and panned through the ship schematic. Fully outfitted, of course, it had anomaly sensors just about everywhere, including the bathrooms and closets, even the bridge; definitely one of the features the OSC buffoons hadn't found a use for, but there was definitely no privacy on this ship; something he could certainly use to his advantage. He moved his attention to the lower decks. Some of the ship's more practical functions had apparently survived the OSC modifications; they must not have expected much of a passenger load. In addition to all of the storage a cruise liner needed to run properly and comfortably support the Royal Entourage (or just the rich, as it was with this particular ship), there were facilities for an entire platoon of 60 soldiers. While not unexpected, this was certainly good to know; there'd be ample spare cargo space. Schematics had been unavailable to the public, for obvious reasons, so anything to give credence to his assumptions was good.
He flagged Foyle over. "Harold, tell me about these compartments belowdecks, this garrison and such. Are they completely intact as the schematic shows?"
"Quite, sah," the bouncy auctioneer replied "And you'll find that they're quite functional, as well, if not a bit dusty. Built to last, you see, although quite unused. The previous owners have placed some pump and filter machinery in those compartments when they had the pool expanded, but I think you'll find it otherwise in excellent order." He checked his watch.
"And, on that note, it's quite time to begin the affair proper! If you'll excuse me..." he stepped backwards, spun, and made a beeline for the comm board. "All personnel, please be advised, bidding will start in 20 minutes. Please be at the table at that time." He glanced over at the security console, which Epstein had swapped to the live camera feed. "And, Mister Setillo, would you please not take the tea leaves from the Royal Suite? Those are quite expensive, as I'm sure you know."
He switched it off as Epstein smirked and the DSE heir gave Foyle a puzzled look. "I suggest we 'make tracks,' as it were, gentlemen."
"Couldn't agree more," Ben affirmed, flanking Foyle as they proceeded towards the lift doors. "Incidentally, how much do those tea leaves cost?"
Foyle snorted, for a brief moment exposing the penny-pinching banker he was at heart. "Oh, you wouldn't believe...two hundred credits a box! I swear, you wonder why the former owners defaulted on the mortgage..."
Red Royale - Eppy - 08-12-2009
Larry slid into the bay at Southampton, gliding from his Arrow's cockpit towards the corridors where the Royale was berthed. He had a folder of prepared Suit notices, and his cane was filled with the malice of a thousand courtroom victories.
He grinned. He loved his job.
*****
Benjamin sat down, along with the 13 other participants, as the lights in the Grand Hall dimmed, a single shaft casting an increased illumination along the length of the table. Several metal briefcases, including his own, were situated along its length, among numerous datapads and utensils; most seated had acquired some form of drink from the bar (Foyle was also a capable bartender, it would seem). Foyle himself stood at the head of the great rosewood slab, bearing a pleasant, classically-overplayed smile and an actual leather briefcase - RBNL tended to do most of its large transactions with the time-honored pen and paper.
"Ladies and [/i]Gentlemen![/i] The Royal Bank of New London welcomes you to these proceedings! Now that we're all assembled, I think it best we introduce the necessary disclaimers before anybody opens up their respective pocketbooks, yes? Of course. We would like to remind all participants that all sales are final and that payment must be delivered immediately upon the end of the bidding process. No electronic communication may be used until the aforementioned point in time. None of the participants' respective staffs may interact with said participants until such time as the auction has concluded. On that note, I think we ought to-"
Foyle stopped as several people hissed, and one went so far as to drop language his mother would be appalled with. Ben looked behind Foyle, to see none other than Larry 'Loophole' Wiles, resident Lawyer-in-Chief of Interspace's more 'involved' members and lord of the courtroom, with recognition from all four House Bars and a perfect 237/0 courtroom record. He carried a silver-trimmed datapad and an ebony cane with matching silver duck's head. Benjamin heard a loud 'thunk'; Setillo's head had hit the table.
Foyle turned and lost his smile. "Is this the best time, Mr. Wiles? Moreover, by the terms of the agreement signed upon boarding disallow Mr. Epstein from bringing any aids-"
"I'm not Messr. Epstein's aid, thank you, Mr. Foyle," Larry replied with a smile "I'm here to manage some other issues, though Messr Epstein and I will need to have a discussion after my original business is complete. Carry on, Gentlemen." He pulled a char at the far end of the table and put his Armani-clad feet up.
"Well," Foyle began, visibly shaken "I suppose we should keep on track, then. Let it begin. 200? Do I have 200?"
Nobody's hand rose.
Several people, staring vehemently at Larry, got up and left.
Camilla, looking bemused, raised her hand.
"Lovely, 200 to the lady in the yellow sundress! Do I have 300? 300?"
The DSE heir raised his hand.
"300 from the young engineer! Do I have four? 400?"
Setillo raised his hand, scowling in Wiles's direction.
"400 from the man with the dark eyebrows! Do I have 500?"
Benjamin smiled and raised his hand.
"Five, from the talented, elderly entrepreneur! Do I have 550?"
Camilla and Setillo raised their hands at the same time.
"The lady was first! Six? For 600 million credits?"
Benjamin raised his hand.
"Six hundred million from the gentleman! Do I have 650?"
Camilla raised her hand, and smiled sweetly in Ben's direction.
"Six hundred and fifty million credits! Do I see seven? An even seven hundred million credits?"
Ben smiled sweetly back at Camilla, who promptly stopped her own as he raised his hand.
"An even 700! 750? Anybody? Seven Hundred and Fifty Million Credits? No? Once...twice...sold. The auction has ended! Now, Mister Epstein, if you would come this way..."
Larry got up and followed the pair away into the hall, Ben with his briefcase, as Camilla's nostrils flared and Setillo's knuckles had whitened from grasping the edge of the table.