Slightly dusty black DMs, their fat-proof (as advertised) air-cushioned soles now planted firmly before this counter in Greenaway's shop, which is known simply as L. GREENAWAY. Quite large, Ngemi's DMs, Cayce thinks, estimating a British size eleven. She can't see Greenaway's shoes, behind the counter, but if he were American, she guesses, they might be toe-cleavage loafers with tassels. Though they wouldn't be that here. Something by a Savile Row maker, but, she guesses, not bespoke.
She's met people here who can distinguish workable button holes on a suit cuff at twenty feet.
"I have to ask you, Miss Pollard, if you're entirely serious about this?"
L. GREENAWAY is the sort of shop you must be buzzed into, and Green-away himself looks as though his toe might be hovering over a button that would summon large, helmeted men, with truncheons.
"Yes, Mr. Greenaway, I am."
He looks at her black nylon flight jacket. "You are a collector?"
"My father."
Greenaway considers this. "I don't recognize the name. Curtas are rather a small field."
"Mr. Pollard," says Ngemi, "a retired American government official with a background in the sciences, has a number of Type Ones, all dating from 1949 and of course numbered below three hundred. And several Type Twos as well, chosen primarily for condition and case variety." The thumbnail of Win, not inaccurate, is the result of his gentle questioning on the pavement outside.
Greenaway glares at him.
"May I ask you a question?" Ngemi inquires, inclining slightly forward, with an audible creak.
"A question?"
"A question of provenance. Herzstark was known to keep three prototypes in his home in Nendeln, Liechtenstein. Upon his death, in 1988, they are known to have been sold to a private collector."
"Yes?"
"Would the one on offer be one of those, Mr. Greenaway? I found the description on your website somewhat ambiguous, in that regard."
Cayce watches Greenaway redden slightly. "No, it would not. It is from the estate of a master machinist, and comes with extensive documentation, including photographs of it in the hands of both Herzstark and the machinist, its fabricator. The three from the house in Nendeln are numbered one, two, and three, in romans. The one on offer is numbered four." His expression perfectly neutral, he continues to stare at Ngemi with what Cayce takes to be absolute loathing. "In romans."
"May we see it, please?" Cayce asks,
"Master machinist," says Ngemi. "Fabricator."
"I beg you pardon?" says Greenaway, who clearly doesn't.
"When exactly was this prototype fabricated, then?" Ngemi smiles blandly.
"And what are you implying by that?"
"Nothing at all." Ngemi raises his eyebrows. "In nineteen forty-six? "Forty-seven?"
"Nineteen forty-seven."
"Please show it to us, Mr. Greenaway," Cayce tries again.
"And how would you propose to pay, were you to decide to purchase? I'm sorry, but I can't accept a personal check unless I'm acquainted with the buyer."
The Blue Ant Visa, ready in her hand, is withdrawn from the Rick-son's pocket and placed on the rectangular blotter-like suede pad atop Greenaway's counter. He peers at it, obviously puzzled by the Egyptianate ant, but then, she guesses, makes out the name of the issuing bank. "I see. And your credit is adequate, for the price of the piece, plus VAT?"
"That's a very insulting question," says Ngemi, levelly, but Green-away ignores him, watching Cayce.
"Yes, Mr. Greenaway, but I suggest you check, now, with the issuer." Actually she isn't entirely sure, but vaguely remembers Bigend mentioning that she is authorized to buy automobiles but not aircraft. Whatever other faults Bigend has, she doubts he's prone to exaggeration.
Greenaway is looking at them, now, as though they were in the process of robbing him at gunpoint, assuming that that process would cause him neither fear nor anxiety, just a sort of irritated amazement at their effrontery. "That won't be necessary," he said. "We'll find out during the authorization process."
"May we see it now, please?" Ngemi places his fingertips on the counter, as if laying claim to something.
Greenaway reaches beneath it, coming up with a gray cardboard box. It is square, perhaps six inches on a side, and has two U-shaped wire fasteners that protrude through slots at the edges of the lid. It is probably much older than she is. Greenaway pauses, and she imagines him counting, silently. Then he lifts the lid away and puts it to the side.
The calculator is cushioned in funereal gray tissue paper. Green-away reaches into the box, draws it carefully out, and places it on the suede pad.
It looks, to Cayce, very similar to the ones she'd seen in Baranov's trunk, though perhaps less finely finished.
Ngemi has produced a loupe, and screws it carefully into his left eye. He leans forward, creaking, and gives the Curta his full and cyclo-pean attention. She can hear his breath, now, and the ticking of the dozens of clocks all around her, which before she'd not been aware of.
