"Oh, that's no problem," the cabbie retorted, turning his attention to the road again. "Just open a line of credit here."

"Do what?"

"Talk to a bank and borrow what you need against your assets. That's how I came up with the money for this cab... not to mention my other ventures. Sheese! If everybody tried to operate on a cash basis, it would ruin the dimension's economy!"

"I don't know," I hesitated. "Nobody on this dimension really knows me. Do you really think a bank would be willing to trust me with a loan?"

"There's only one way to find out," Edvick shrugged. "Tell you what... there's a branch of my bank not far from here. Why don't you pop in and talk to them. You might be surprised."

The bank itself was not particularly imposing; a medium sized storefront with a row of teller windows and a few scattered desks. Some doors in the back wall presumably led to offices and the vault, but they were painted assorted bright colors and in themselves did not appear particularly ominous. Still, I realized I felt no small degree of nervousness as I surveyed the interior. There were small clues here and there which bespoke a seriousness which belied the studied casualness of the decor. Little things, like the machines mounted high in the corners which constantly swept the room as if monitoring the movements of both tellers and customers. The tellers themselves were secure behind high panes of innocent-looking glass, doing business through an ingenious slot and drawer arrangement at each station. An observant person such as myself, however, could not help but notice that if the degree of distortion were any indication, the glass was much thicker than it might first appear. There were also armed guards scattered around the room draped with an array of weapons which did not look at all ceremonial or decorative. There was a great deal of money here, and an equally great effort was being made to be sure no one decided to simply help themselves to the surplus.

I had a hunch the kind of business I had in mind would not be handled over the counter by a teller, and, sure enough when I inquired, I was ushered immediately through one of the brightly painted doors into a private office.

The individual facing me across the desk rose and extended a hand in greeting as I entered. He was impeccably dressed in a business suit of what could only be called a conservative cut... particularly for a Pervect, and he oozed a sincere warmth that bordered on oily. Green scales and yellow eyes notwithstanding, he reminded me of Grimble, the Chancellor of the Exchequer I had feuded with back at Possiltum. I wondered briefly if this was common with professional money guardians, everywhere... maybe it was something in a ledger paper. If so, it boded ill for my dealing today... Grimble and I never really got along.

"Come in, come in," the individual purred. "Please, have a seat Mister... ?"

"Skeeve," I said, sinking into the indicated chair. "And it's just ‘Skeeve,' not Mr. Skeeve."

I had never been wild about the formality of "Mister" title, and after having it hissed at me by the police the night before, I was developing a positive aversion to it.

"Of course, of course," he nodded, reseating himself. "My name is Malcolm."

Perhaps it was his similarity to Grimble, but I was finding his habit of repeating himself to be a growing annoyance. I reminded myself that I was trying to court his favor and made an effort to shake the feeling off.

"... And how can we be of service to you today?"

"Well, Malcolm, I'm a businessman visiting here on Perv," I said, aware as I spoke that I was unconsciously falling into a formal speech pattern. "My expenses have been running a bit higher than I anticipated, and frankly my ready cash supply is lower than I find comfortable. Someone suggested that I might open a line of credit with your bank, so I stopped in to see if there was any possibility we might work something out."

"I see."

He ran his eyes over me, and much of the warmth went out of the room. I was suddenly acutely aware of how I was dressed.

After overdressing for my interview with the Butterfly, I had decided to stick with my normal, comfortable, informal appearance. I had anticipated that bankers would be more conservative than financiers, and that a bank would probably be equipped to detect disguise spells, so it would be wisest if I was as open and honest as possible. Courtesy of a crash course by Bunny, my administrative assistant, on how to dress, my wardrobe was nothing to be embarrassed about, but I probably didn't look like most of the businessmen Malcolm was used to dealing with. His visual assessment of me reminded me of the once-over I would get when encountering a policeman... only more so. I had a feeling the banker could tell me how much money I had in my pockets down to the loose change.

"What line of work did you say you were in. Mister Skeeve?"

I noted that the "Mister" had reappeared, but wasn't up to arguing over it.

"I'm a magician... Well, actually I'm the president of an association of magicians... a corporation." I managed to stop there before I started babbling. I've noticed a tendency in myself to run on when I'm nervous.

"... And the name of your corporation?"

"Urn... M.Y.T.H. Inc."

He jotted the information down on a small notepad.

"Your home offices are on Klah?"

"No. We operate out of Deva... At the Bazaar." He glanced up at me with his eyebrows raised, then caught himself and regained his composure.

"Would you happen to know what bank you deal with on Deva?"

"Bank? I mean, not really. Aahz and Bunny... our financial section usually handles that end of the business." Any hope I had of a credit line went out the window. I didn't know for sure we did any banking. Aahz was a stickler for keeping our funds readily available. I couldn't imagine a bank wanting to deal with someone who didn't trust banks, or to take my word for what our cash holdings were... even if I knew what they were.

The banker was studying his notes.

"Of course you understand, we'll have to run a check on this."

I started to rise. At this point all I wanted was out of his office.

"Certainly," I said, trying to maintain a modicum of poise. "How long will that take, just so I'll know when to contact you again?"

Malcolm waved a casual hand at me as he turned to a keyboard at the side of his desk.

"Oh, it won't take any time at all. I'll just use the computer to take a quick peek. I should have an answer in a couple of seconds."

I couldn't make up my mind whether to be astonished or concerned. Astonished won out.

"... But my office is on Deva," I said, repeating myself unnecessarily.

"Quite right," the banker responded absently as he hammered busily on the keys. "Fortunately, computers and cats can see and work right through dimensional barriers. The trick is to get them to do it when you want them to instead of when they feel like it."

Of the assorted thoughts which whirled in my mind at this news, only one stood out.

"Do the police have computers?"

"Not of this quality or capacity." He favored me with a smug, tight-lipped smile. "Civil services don't have access to the same financial resources that banks do... Ah! Here we go."

He leaned forward and squinted at the computer's screen, which I couldn't see from where I sat. I wondered if it was coincidence that the view was blocked from the visitor's chair, then decided it was a silly question. "Impressive. Very impressive indeed." He shot a glance at me. "Might I ask who handles your portfolio?"

"My portfolio? I'm not an artist. I'm a magician... like I told you."

"An artist. That's a good one, Skeeve... you don't mind if I call you Skeeve, do you?" The banker laughed as if we shared a mutual joke. "I meant your portfolio of stocks and investments."