It was after eleven by the time I was done. I stopped off in an all-night diner on the fifteenth floor before heading home, a windowless box of a place where the coffee smelt of the yeast it was made of and the ham in my sandwich bore the taint of soy. But it was only a minor annoyance and quickly out of my mind. For as I opened the door to my apartment there was a snick and an explosion, and something slammed into the door-frame by my head. I ducked and yelled. Outside the window a figure dangling from a rope ladder drifted away, a gun in hand.…
Surprised at my calm, I called the Metropolitan Protective Corporation.
'Are you a subscriber sir?' their operator asked.
'Yes, dammit. For six years. Get a man over here! Get a squad over here.'
'One moment, Mr Courtenay. . . .Mr Mitchell Courtenay? Copysmith, star class?'
'No,' I said bitterly. 'Target is my profession. Will you kindly get a man over here before the character who just took a shot at me comes back?'
'Excuse me, Mr Courtenay,' said the sweet, unruffled voice. 'Did you say you were not a copysmith, star class?'
I ground my teeth. 'I'm star class,' I admitted.
'Thank you, sir. I have your record before me, sir. I am sorry, sir but your account is in arrears. We do not accept star class accounts at the general rate because of the risk of industrial feuds, sir.' She named a figure that made each separate hair on my head stand on end.
The Space Merchants 1953; Frederick Pohl and C M Kornbuth.