Juggler of Worlds by Larry Niven and Edward M. Lerner

entire life without meeting any. “So the report holds up.”
    “Oh yes.” A very toothy smile. “Quite fascinating, really. In twenty thousand years, we’ll want to be elsewhere.”
    Sigmund found it difficult to care—and more difficult not to dislike Wu. How many billion descendants would this genius have by then? “Nearer-term events concern me, Carlos. We’re in a deep recession. The economists tell me the Puppeteer Exodus caused it.”
    The staff exo-psychologists accepted everything Nessus had told him. They said Puppeteers would flee from the supernovae, repercussions to any other species be damned. Market crashes. Recessions. So what?
    With a thud, Carlos righted his chair. “Ah. It would be reassuring to know why GP vanished. General Products must be very wealthy. If their purpose were nefarious, they’d have liquidated their assets before disappearing, maybe sold the market short.”
    Short selling was rather remote from astrophysics. Finance and accounting were Sigmund’s fields, but Wu had no way to know that.
    Carlos mistook silence for confusion. “Shorting a stock is a bet on itsdecline. You borrow and sell shares, planning to return shares bought later at a lower price. If Puppeteers
meant
to cause a market panic, they should have shorted a lot of stock.”
    Rather remote from astrophysics. Also, very perceptive. Sigmund began to like Wu. “We’ve looked. GP left its assets here, and there’s no evidence of short selling.”
    “Then back to physics, Sigmund. The reported measurements and the instrument calibrations all check out. I assume my peers have told you the same.”
    Peers. Did Wu
have
peers? “No one I spoke to was supposed to reveal their consultation.”
    Carlos chuckled. “No one did. I assumed there were others.”
    Smart-ass.
    If the core explosion was real, then the Exodus was, too. There’d be no reason for Puppeteers to try bottom-fishing Earthly stock markets. Sigmund said, “I’d prefer to independently confirm the observations.”
    “Me, too,” Carlos said. “Not me, personally, but someone. Without the advanced hyperdrive, it’s impossible.”
    “And if we don’t have it?” Sigmund asked.
    Carlos smiled. “Until then, I’m afraid, you’ll have to trust me.”
    DINERS CHATTED at antique iron tables arrayed across an uneven redbrick patio. Horse-drawn carriages, cloppedy-clop, made their way down the cobblestone street that fronted the marina bistro. Waves lapped against the shore and rocked the yachts at anchor. Seagulls wheeled overhead.
    Night was falling, but Sigmund had teleported in from California. Despite the aromas of peppers, curries, and ginger wafting from the kitchen, he wasn’t ready for dinner. He sipped his piña colada, waiting, remembering a time before transfer booths. Since teleportation, nothing but prices stood between tourist hordes and beautiful little Caribbean islands like this. The 20-star drink in his hand didn’t faze him. He could afford it. What
did
irk Sigmund was that his companion, now merrily devouring a fresh-caught lobster on Sigmund’s tab, couldn’t possibly know that.
    Ander Smittarasheed was an off-the-books source. He wanted confidentiality and was entitled to it; they never met in an ARM office. Ander had picked both St. Croix and one of the most exclusive eateries on it. Ander’s petty greed often correlated with the quality of his findings. Sigmund hoped today was such an occasion.
    Finally, Ander set down his fork and belched. He was massive, a weight lifter. Muscle rippled beneath his pink-and-purple bodysuit. The fabric put the sunset to shame, but it fit right in among the diners. “Excellent, Sigmund. You should have joined me. Perhaps you’ll reconsider for dessert.”
    “Perhaps. How was your trip?” Sigmund prompted.
    “Interesting.” Iron scraping on brick, Ander pulled his chair closer. “Fascinating fellow, young Shaeffer. Quite the sightseer.”
    “From the beginning, please,” Sigmund