"Hmm. You'll get the picture eventually. I'll tell you every trader does 
need, right off the bat—membership at a gentleman's club." 


"Just the essentials, eh?" said Edward, thoroughly bemused. 


"Damn right. Think about it for a second. When the clubs were 
founded they were originally just for people who were independently 
wealthy. That was the definition of 'gentleman'. But then came the 
franchise extensions. These days, who goes to gentleman's clubs? 
The captains of industry, the politicians. And why are they there? To 
talk business. I'm sitting there reading the Daily Telegraph, and 
behind me a Cabinet Secretary is discussing scrapping import 
restrictions on semiconductors. That's not a hypothetical situation— 
that happened last week. What do | do when | get back to the office? 
| sell every share | have in Ferranti at a quarter pence below the 
market price. They get snapped up by some chip freak at KPM. Bad 
news for him, because tomorrow when the news comes in that you'll 
be able to buy in the things from China at half the price, he's going 
to be left holding scraps while | got out forty k up." 


"Is that legal?" 


"Absolutely. It wouldn't even make a difference if instead I'd heard 


SCP-572: Katana of Apparent Invincibility 


Item #: SCP-572 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-572 may be safely kept in 
a locked safe-deposit box at Site 19's High Value Item Storage 
Facility. Standard positive-action defenses (explosive, chemical, 
biological, and memetic) are to be in place at all times, according to 
standard operating procedure. 


As there is no possible reason for SCP-572 to be used in the field, 
the item is to be kept more as a curiosity than for any scientific 
purpose. 


Description: SCP-572 is a sword of the " "model 
manufactured by . The weapon is badly balanced for combat 
use, is made of substandard steel, and does not hold an effective 
combat edge. 


However, the weapon has the unusual psychotropic quality of 
convincing any person who holds it of its "balance" and "cutting 
power", as well as conferring feelings of great strength and 
invincibility. This effect cannot be countered by any known means, 
and the affected subject will continue to maintain these beliefs so 
long as they hold the blade. Subjects will be compelled to perform 
dangerous stunts using SCP-572, including but not limited to: 
attempting to cut a moving car in half, slicing through a bullet fired 
from a rifle, cutting through another sword, and engaging in a live- 
steel duel with a trained period swordsman. Because of the 
prevalence of unnecessary cutting edges, 75% of such attempts end 
with serious injury being inflicted upon the user. 


Should the sword be successfully wrested away from an affected 
subject (preferably using long-handled tongs to prevent the retriever 
being affected), all psychological effects can usually be expunged by 


the CEO of Ferranti saying they were about to lose market share. If 
I'm privy to a conversation in a club at which I'm a member, it's no 
different to overhearing it on the street." 


"| see. So where do you go, if you don't mind me asking?" 


"Well, | started out at The Athenaeum, moved up to the Arts Club in 
my second year at Cooper Drake. Then | found my current haunt— 
they keep themselves off all the lists. They prefer to describe 
themselves as a ‘private concern’ rather than a club. Go in any time 
of the day or night; you'll see ex-PMs, foreign diplomats, 
billionaires..." 


"Would | have heard of them?" 


"If you have, they'd be mortified. I'll have to take you along sometime 
on my guest's pass; it's incredible. They're called Marshall, Carter & 
Dark." 


Chapter Two: "Antitrust" 


Over the next weeks, Edward picked up enough to put together his 
portfolio, centred around aerospace—a core of reliable performers 
like Staines Aeronautics with tendrils in fuel efficiency and carbon 
reduction research; any time a government anywhere in the world 
announced new breaks for cleaner fuels or started taxing emissions 
they would jump up in value. He built in a cheeky position on a 
couple of low-cost airlines; it fell outside his remit, but he figured 
Cooper Drake wouldn't mind too much; big, established companies 
were going broke all the time and their fleets being snapped up for a 
fraction of their value by budget carriers. It was trivial to predict 
takeovers and anticipate share price spikes. 


At the same time, Edward continue to volunteer to handle Peter's 
stocks—always carefully phrased: 


"You know, Peter, I'm a bit stuck for ideas. Mind if | take a peek at 
your portfolio? I'll tidy some of your picks up if you like—only fair 
while I'm snooping around." 


"Peter—you've probably already seen it but Blue Zone is tanking 
fast. Do you mind if | pair up our positions? | have an American 
buyer who wants a lot of them inside the hour." 


Peter was always pathetically grateful and soon Edward was more 
or less running his portfolio as a subsidiary of his own. Pacing 
himself carefully, he started putting in even later nights, staying long 
after Peter had shambled off to the pub. Each day he was able to 
persuade Peter to take leave of his desk sooner—'l'll finish these up 
for you,’ 'Don't worry about these reports, I'll have them on 
Raymond's desk.’ Members of Peter's team started coming to 
Edward with their requests for the research team. 


These afforded him access on a regular basis to the Research desk, 
where he always lingered for just the right amount of time, flashing a 
boyishly embarrassed smile at Liz and making the feeblest attempts 
at small talk he could muster. The homely young woman didn't take 

long at all to pick up on his apparent attentions. 


"Mr Gradley, if | didn't know better I'd think you were flirting.” 


"Well..." Edward had always had the ability to blush at will. It had 
proven incredibly useful in getting out of childhood misdemeanors 
for which he had felt not the slightest bit of contrition. And women 
seemed to find it cute. "Maybe we can meet up for coffee 
sometime ?"—from then on Edward got the research team's leads 
coming in as well. 


Around this time, Peter announced that he had become engaged to 
a woman called Roweena, and his already superfluous attendance 
became increasingly fragmentary. Edward did his best to encourage 
this behaviour. "No, don't worry about anything, Peter—we're on top 
of it.” 


Three months after Peter Davis hired Edward, Raymond Macintyre 
walked past the industry brokerage team and stopped, sniffing. 
Edward was sitting at Peter's computer, pumping out a three 
thousand word investor report. 


"Peter not in again?" Macintyre looked at his watch and glanced 
around vaguely, as though Peter might be on the ceiling or under 


one of the desks. 


"You know how it is, Mr Maclntyre—young love. You'll have to 
forgive him, his mind's not on his work." Edward looked up, face a 
picture of guilelessness. 


"Hmmph." That one little noise as MacIntyre moved away told 
Edward it had all been worth it. He had just seen that the best-paid 
member of his stock brokerage division was the person who least 
needed to be there. 


That Friday Edward was called into a meeting with Raymond 
Macintyre and David Went where he was asked about how he felt 
about taking the ‘Junior’ part off his Associate title and assuming 
some managerial responsibilities. 


"But won't the rest of the team mind working under me when I've 
been here for such a short amount of time?" Edward fell silent as 
soon as the words came out of his mouth, suddenly afraid he had 
assumed too much. 


"| don't think so. They've already seen you can handle the 
responsibility and to be honest, | understand they're already coming 
to you for advice." 


David looked over and smiled, and although it was superficially no 
different than usual, Edward was suddenly struck by the idea that 
there was some dark, gleeful recognition in it; as well as perhaps a 
hint of a warning: "Don't you dare try that on me". 


Edward might have been persona non grata to Redmayne— 
Bracknell's management, but he was still on good terms with their 
HR Manager, Wil Hamilton. When he casually mentioned that one of 
the bright young things at Cooper Drake might be about to jump ship 
he knew that RB would be all too happy to take them on. Peter 
Davis left Cooper Drake 'eager to take on new responsibilities at one 
of the country's oldest and most established brokerage firms' and 
forever in Edward's debt: as far as he was concerned, Edward had 
done everything possible to prop him up and camouflage his lack of 
skill, all out of a selfless nobility of the heart. That's not how it works, 
Peter, thought Edward, as he took his seat at the head of his little 


team and allowed his gaze to stray further up the great glass hall. 


The knock on the door of Edward's apartment took him quite by 
surprise; he was by this time firmly ensconced in his pyjamas, 
wanting nothing more than to catch half an hour's TV before bed 
after a punishing thirteen-hour day. He answered the door 
toothbrush in hand, and blinked owlishly at the sight of David in full 
evening dress, a couple of pretty if rather shapeless young women 
floating around behind him. 


"Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten already," griped David, gesturing 
to the girls. "He's in his bloody nighties!" A peel of laughter. 


"Forgotten what?" 


"Really? | was supposed to be taking you to the club—you know, the 
gentleman's concern." 


"Oh, right. That was for tonight?" 


"Christ Almighty. Not one for the night life, are you? Come on, 
you've got five minutes before | leave without you. | hope you've got 
something presentable." 


Edward ended up dressing in the suit David had pressured him into 
buying from Antonis Stathopoulous. He had to admit, the old man 
knew what he was doing. The material was light and cool without 
being slippery and for the first time in his life he could see his waist, 
normally hidden under a voluminous billow of surplus fabric. He 
actually thought he looked quite dashing. He tutted disappointedly at 
the contrast made by his cheap plastic watch. At least the shoes 
matched, now, a £140 purchase from a middle-of-the-road outfitters 
—sharp-toed with a slightly raised heel. 


David's dark blue Ferrari purred happily as he drove them through 
the late night traffic. Edward had taken to walking around the City 
after hours, taking in the sights, and thought he knew most streets in 
the Square Mile by heart. David surprised him by taking a turn on 
Newgate Street he didn't even think existed; a half-concealed thing 
behind the projecting wing of St Bartholemews. From there he made 


turn after turn through strange streets lit by soft yellow streetlights 
quite different from those on the main streets. One could almost 
think one had left modern London behind and entered some twilight 
realm. 


"They keep all this quiet, don't they?" Edward said as he stared out 
at a lavishly baroqued pile encrusted with grotesques. 


"They appreciate their privacy," said David, as he drew up in front of 
a blind brick edifice protected by wrought iron fencing and fronted by 
a simple marble arch. If he had been keeping track, Edward thought, 
this was Twenty-Eight Great Rojet Street, which he had never even 
heard of before tonight. 


"Here—hold onto this." David passed Edward a slim black card; 
gold-edged, bearing the single word 'Guest'. At the top left-hand 
corner was an ornate cartouche, which, on closer examination, 
resolved itself into the letters 'MC&D'. The card felt smooth; the 
corners rounded as though pressed individually rather than cut from 
a larger section of card. Edward had a horrible feeling this card 
probably cost more than his monthly rent. 


David, Edward, and the two ladies whose names he had not asked 

for got out, breath hanging in the cold air, and made their way to the 
door. David rapped and a section of the door slid aside, revealing a 
perspex plate. From the other side a baggy bloodhound's eye roved 
back and forth before finding David's face. 


"Mr Went! So good to see you. And Misses Parker and 
Cholmondeley!" The eye found Edward and searched him, 
disapprovingly. Edward found himself drawing up defensively before 
a word had been spoken. 


"A friend of yours, Mr Went?" The voice managed to imply ‘friend’ 
occupied a position slightly higher than something you had trodden 
in. 


"That's right," said David, unphased. "Now open up, there's a good 
fellow." 


The door opened just wide enough for each of them to slip through 


—the haggard-faced porter shut it with an air of finality behind them. 


"The party is taking their seats in the main room, Mr Went, ladies. If 
you would care to join them, a number of acts will be performed for 
your amusement before supper at eleven thirty." 


At least at this time of day, the reception was shadowy and 
inhospitable, strange shapes pressing in from all sides. That one of 
them was almost certainly the porter, who had contrived to 
disappear into the darkness as soon as he had finished speaking, 
did little to allay Edward's nerves. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, 
he picked out Regency furniture, gleaming candlesticks, grand 
portraits depicting strange, almost perverse, scenes. The transition 
to the cloakroom was blinding—they found themselves in a narrow 
corridor, dazzling white with golden hooks on either side. The 
attendant was tall, almost unnaturally so—as high above Edward as 
Edward was above David—and strangely gaunt, with a long, 
lugubrious face and dark, large-pupilled eyes whose gaze made 
Edward as uncomfortable as that of the porter, but in a different key; 
the feeling of handling something sick and squirming. He took 
charge of David's wallet and the women's purses, placing them into 
an itemised tray of polished wood which slid back into the wall of the 
cloakroom. Edward opted to hold onto his. 


Then the main hall! From outside it seemed impossible that this 
space should be contained within—a grand ballroom in the rococo 
style, but so exaggerated in scale that it made Edward feel 
miniscule. A dozen separate fireplaces burned at distant points in 
the hall, which comprised the entrance level, a graceful marble 
mezzanine and a great balcony above. Directly ahead was a 
colossal theatrical stage, purple velvet curtains with gold trim and 
the 'MC&D' flourish closed, awaiting a performance. The men and 
women who stood or sat at the many tables, armchairs and rounds 
scattered around the edge of the hall immediately struck David as 
familiar—it took a moment to realise that he saw them every day; on 
the news, or presenting it. He wondered whether David had chosen 
this night to impress or whether it was attended at this level ona 
regular basis. Cabinet Ministers rubbed shoulders with TV 
personalities and knighted businessmen. 


"David! David, you came. | wanted to see you again." The party was 


almost immediately waylaid by the petite brunette, dragging a much 
taller blonde woman by her dress. The former looked to be in her 
mid-twenties, like Edward—her hair styled in soft ringlets that 
brought out her Mediterranean complexion. Her lips were curled in 
soft amusement as she embraced David then looked over in his 
direction. Edward found himself blushing without having chosen it. 


"Well? Won't you introduce us to your guest?" the brunette prompted 
David, who reluctantly disengaged from her. 


"Of course, sorry, my manners. This is Edward—Edward Gradley. 
Edward, meet Maria Beaumont, of the Paris Beaumonts." 


Edward was floored. The Beaumonts were one of the richest 
families in France—old money, based on colonial trade; Beaumont 
Shipping remained a dominant force in the French-speaking world.