"I see." Brett-James cleared his throat. "Mexico is no longer a separate nation, Mr. Prantera. All North America has been united into one unit. Today, there are only eight nations in the world." "Where's the nearest?" "South America." "That's a helluva long way to go on a get." "We hadn't thought of the matter being handled in that manner." Joe eyed him in scorn. "Oh, you didn't, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around and wait for the cops to put the arm on me?" Brett-James grimaced in amusement. "Mr. Prantera, this will probably be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are no police in this era." Joe gaped at him. "No police! What happens if you gotta throw some guy in stir?" "If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera." Joe stared. "No cops, no jails. What stops anybody? What stops anybody from just going into some bank, like, and collecting up all the bread?" Brett-James cleared his throat. "Mr. Prantera, there are no banks." "No banks! You gotta have banks!" "And no money to put in them. We found it a rather antiquated method of distribution well over a century ago." Joe had given up. Now he merely stared. Brett-James said reasonably, "We found we were devoting as much time to financial matters in all their endless ramifications--including bank robberies--as we were to productive efforts. So we turned to more efficient methods of distribution." * * * * * On the fourth day, Joe said, "O.K., let's get down to facts. Summa the things you guys say don't stick together so good. Now, first place, where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?" Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them sat in the living room of the latter's apartment, sipping a sparkling wine which seemed to be the prevailing beverage of the day. For Joe's taste it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was available to those who wanted it. Reston-Farrell said, "You mean, where does he reside? Why, here in this city." "Well, that's handy, eh?" Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. "You got somebody can finger him for me?" "Finger him?" "Look, before I can give it to this guy I gotta know some place where he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's house, see? He lets me know every Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al leaves the house all by hisself. O.K., so I can make plans, like, to give it to him." Joe Prantera wound it up reasonably. "You gotta have a finger." Brett-James said, "Why not just go to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah, dispose of him?" "Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm stupid? How do I know how many witnesses hangin' around? How do I know if the guy's carryin' heat?" "Heat?" "A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid? I come to give it to him and he gives it to me instead."