Pondicherry daubbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Excuse me," he said, "I'll be right back." He stood and walked towards the WC. Nussbaum suddenly jingled. Distractledly, he patted his pockets until he located a tiny phone. He flipped it open and grunted "Nussbaum," into it. "Jules!" he said a moment later. "How're things?" He scowled as he listened to the answer. "Now, you and I know that there's a difference between _smart_ and _greedy_. I think it's a bad idea." He listened some more and drummed his fingers on the table. "Because it's not _credible_, dammit! Even the title is anachronistic: no one in 1902 is going to understand what _Neuromancer_ means. Think about it, wouldya? Why don't you do some of Twain's stuff? Those books've got _legs_." My jaw dropped. Nussbaum was talking to the Frenchman -- and he was helping him to _cheat_! To steal from Mark Twain! I was suddenly conscious of "War of the Worlds," down the front of my jumpsuit. I thought back to Mr Adelson's assignment, and it all made sudden sense. Verne was a _plagiarist_. Nussbaum hung up just as Pondicherry re-seated himself. He took a sip of his drink, then held up a hand. Pondicherry eyed him coldly. "Look," Nussbaum said. "We've gone over this a few times, OK? I know where you stand. You know where I stand. We're not standing in the same place. Much as I enjoy your company, I don't really wanna spend the whole day listening to you repeating yourself. All right?" "Really, I don't think --" Pondicherry started, but Nussbaum held up his hand again. "That's all right, I'm a rude son-of-a-bitch, and I know it. Let's just take it as read that you and me spent the whole afternoon letting the other fella know how sincere our positions are. Then we can move onto cocktails, and compromise, and maybe have some of the day left over." Pondicherry started to talk again, but Nussbaum plowed over him. "I'll go to six troy ounces per steer. You won't get a better offer. 98% pure ores. Better than anything you'd ever refine back home. It's as far as I go." "Sir, is that an ultimatum?" Pondicherry asked, his eyes narrowing. "Call it whatever you please, buster. It's my final, iron-clad offer. You don't like it, I can talk to the Chinaman. He seemed pretty eager to get some good metal home to the Emperor." "You wouldn't -- he's too far back, it would violate the protocols." "That's what you say. It may be what the trade court decides. I'll take my chances." "Six and a half ounces," Pondicherry said, in a spoiled-brat voice. "You don't hear so good, do you? Six ounces is the offer on the table; take it or leave it." Nussbaum pushed some papers across the table. Pondicherry stared at them for a long moment. "I will sign them, sir, but it is with the expectation of continued trade opportunities. This is a good-will gesture, do you understand?"