In its heyday the Club had numbered around ninety, and it was the most exclusive club in the world. Now a third of its members had quit, and a third were in prison or awaiting trial, and the remaining thirty-odd active members had lost a crucial something: confidence, enthusiasm, esprit de corps, call it what you will.
"We always knew it was coming," said Benny Sherman. He was a thick-set man, short and broad, made mostly of black hair and muscle. He waved a big, stubby-fingered hand at the south wall of the main room, where a commentator was spreading news of the outside world across a wall-sized screen. "It was all over that screen, for years. Central Riot Control in Nebraska. Pictures of the building going up. They told us just how it was gonna work. They gave us a completion date. Twenty of us quit that same day."
Nobody said anything. The voice of the commentator came through at low volume, speaking of the rumor that the Soviets had developed a self-teleporting spy cloak. The teevee screen was never off in the Permanent Floating Riot Club.
"That spy cloak," James Get-It-All (Goethals) said wistfully. "That'd be nice to have when a flash crowd goes sour. I wonder what are the chances of stealing one."
"Sure," said Willie Lordon. He was a featherweight, pinch-faced man, all birdlike bones and acid sarcasm. "Cops coming at you from all directions. What do you do? You roll yourself up in your spy cloak, and as soon as it forms a closed surface it's a displacement booth. Where are you now?" He paused for effect. "In a top secret headquarters in the Kremlin! You idiot."
"Better that than Central Riot Control."
Willie snorted.
"I've been there," said Benny Sherman. "Inside it's like a Rose Bowl without seats. Receiver booths all around the lip of the bowl. You try to flick out of a place where the riot control is on, and you wind up dropping out the bottom of the booth. You slide all the way down to the bottom of the bowl, and you wait there with everyone else till the cops get around to you. I got out by the skin of my teeth."
"By throwing away your take," said Willie Lordon. Clearly the idea disgusted him.
"It hurt, too. I had a diamond the size of an almond, if it was real, and a half dozen good watches ... and there wasn't any way to tell we'd gone on riot control. I just had to guess the flash crowd had gone on long enough."
"You're a genius," said Willie.
"I'm losing my nerve," Benny said mournfully. "Six times this past year we've flicked into flash crowds, and three times I threw away everything I had because it looked like the cops had time to put us under riot control. Once I was right. Twice I was wrong. That's just not good enough." He braced himself. "I think I'll quit." There, he'd said it.
"Shh," said Lou Garcia, waving them to silence. He turned the volume control louder. The teevee newscaster was saying, "...flash crowd in downtown Topeka seems to have developed due to a heavily advertised sale at Bloomingdale's..."
"Shh, Hell. I quit!" Benny bellowed over the racket. "We made a lot of money the last ten years. I want to stay outside to enjoy it!"
Most of the members were on their feet, eyes on the screen. A flash crowd meant business. James Get-It-All was at the computer terminal getting the numbers of displacement booths in the affected area. An endless strip of paper ran from the slot: thirty-odd copies of the list.
Lou Garcia favored Benny with a sardonic look. "You're giving up your share of the treasury?"
That was a low blow. Benny stood a moment, considering. Then, "You can have it," he said, and walked out.
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