“Is he onsecking any more?” said Rod.

“What do you mean?” asked Fisher.

“Does he still have his job — Onseck.”

“Oh, yes,” said Fisher, “but we put him on two hundred years’ leave and he has only about a hundred and twenty years to live, poor fellow. Most of that time he will be defending himself in civil suits.”

Rod finally exhaled. He had finished the food. The small polished room with its machined elegance, the wet air, the bray of voices all over the place — these made him feel dreamlike. Here grown men were standing, talking as though he really did own Old Earth. They were concerned with his affairs, not because he was Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan the hundred-and-fifty-first, but because he was Rod, a boy among them who had stumbled upon danger and fortune. He looked around the room. The conversations had accidentally stopped. They were looking at him, and he saw in their faces something which he had not seen before. What was it? It was not love. It was a rapt attentiveness, combined with a sort of pleasurable and indulgent interest. He then realized what the looks signified. They were giving him the adoration which they usually reserved only for cricket players, tennis players, and great track performers — like that fabulous Hopkins Harvey fellow who had gone offworld and had won a wrestling match with a “heavy man” from Wereld Schemering. He was not just Rod any more. He was their boy.

As their boy, he smiled at them vaguely and felt like crying.

The breathlessness broke when the large doctor, Mister and Owner Wentworth, threw in the stark comment, “Time to tell him, Mister and Owner Fisher. He won’t have his property long if we don’t get moving. No, nor his life either.”

Lavinia jumped up and cried out, “You can’t kill Rod-”

Doctor Wentworth stopped her, “Sit down. We’re not going to kill him. And you there, stop acting foolish! We’re his friends here.”

Rod followed the line of the doctor’s glance and saw that Hopper had snaked his hand back to the big knife he wore in his belt. He was getting ready to fight anyone who attacked Rod.

“Sit, sit down, all of you, please!” said the Lord Redlady, speaking somewhat fussily with his singsong Earth accent. “I’m host here. Sit down. Nobody’s killing Rod tonight. Doctor, you take my table. Sit down yourself. You will stop threatening my ceiling or your head. You, Ma’am and Owner,” said he to Aunt Doris, “move over there to that other chair. Now we can all see the doctor.”

“Can’t we wait?” asked Rod. “I need to sleep. Are you going to ask me to make decisions now? I’m not up to decisions, not after what I’ve just been through. All night with the computer. The long walk. The bird from the Onseck—”

“You’ll have no decisions to make if you don’t make them tonight,” said the doctor firmly and pleasantly. “You’ll be a dead man.”

“Who’s going to kill me?” asked Rod.

“Anybody who wants money. Or wants power. Or who would like unlimited life. Or who needs these things to get something else. Revenge. A woman. An obsession. A drug. You’re not just a person now, Rod. You’re Norstrilia incarnate. You’re Mr. Money himself! Don’t ask who’d kill you! Ask who wouldn’t! We wouldn’t… I think. But don’t tempt us.”

“How much money have I got?” said Rod.

Angry John Fisher cut in: “So much that the computers are clotted up, just counting it. About one and a half stroon years. Perhaps three hundred years of Old Earth’s total income. You sent more Instant Messages last night than the Commonwealth government itself has sent in the last twelve years. These messages are expensive. One kilocredit in FOE money.”

“I asked a long time ago what this foe money was,” said Lavinia, “and nobody has got around to telling me.”

The Lord Redlady took the middle of the floor. He stood there with a stance which none of the Old North Australians had ever seen before. It was actually the posture of a master of ceremonies opening the evening at a large night club, but to people who had never seen those particular gestures, his movements were eerie, self-explanatory and queerly beautiful.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, using a phrase which most of them had only heard in books, “I will serve drinks while the others speak. I will ask each in turn. Doctor, will you be good enough to wait while the Financial Secretary speaks?”

“I should think,” said the doctor irritably, “that the lad would be wanting to think over his choice. Does he want me to cut him in two, here, tonight, or doesn’t he? I should think that would take priority, wouldn’t you?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the Lord Redlady, “the Mister and Doctor Wentworth has a very good point indeed. But there is no sense in asking Rod about being cut in two unless he knows why. Mister Financial Secretary, will you tell us all what happened last night?”

John Fisher stood up. He was so chubby that it did not matter. His brown, suspicious, intelligent eyes looked over the lot of them.

“There are as many kinds of money as there are worlds with people on them. We here on Norstrilia don’t carry the tokens around, but in some places they have bits of paper or metal which they use to keep count. We talk our money into the central computers which even out all our transactions for us. Now what would happen if I wanted a pair of shoes?”

Nobody answered. He didn’t expect them to.

“I would,” he went on, “go to a shop, look in the screen at the shoes which the offworld merchants keep in orbit, would pick out the shoes I wanted. What’s a good price for a pair of shoes in orbit?”

Hopper was getting tired of these rhetorical questions so he answered promptly,

“Six bob.”

“That’s right. Six minicredits.”

“But that’s orbit money. You’re leaving out the tariff,” said Hopper.

“Exactly. And what’s the tariff?” asked John Fisher, snapping.

Hopper snapped back, “Two hundred thousand times, what you bloody fools always make it in the Commonwealth Council.”

“Hopper, can you buy shoes?” said Fisher.

“Of course I can!” The station hand looked belligerent again but the Lord Redlady was filling his glass. He sniffed the aroma, calmed down and said, “All right, what’s your point?”

“The point is that the money in orbit is SAD money — s for secure, A, for and, D, for delivered. That’s any kind of good money with backing behind it. Stroon is the best backing there is, but gold is all right, rare metals, fine manufacturers, and so on. That’s just the money off the planet, in the hands of the recipient. Now how many times would a ship have to hop to get to Old Earth itself?”

“Fifty or sixty,” said Aunt Doris unexpectedly. “Even I know that.”

“And how many ships get through?” “They all do,” said she. “Oh, no,” cried several of the men in unison. “About one ship is lost every sixty or eighty trips, depending on the solar weather, on the skills of the pinlighters and the go-captains, on the landing accidents. Did any of you ever see a really old captain?”

“Yes,” said Hopper with gloomy humor, “a dead one in his coffin.”

“So if you have something you want to get to Earth, you have to pay your share of the costly ships, your share of the go-captain’s wages and the fees of his staff, your share of the insurance for their families. Do you know what it could cost to get this chair back to Earth?” said Fisher.

“Three hundred times the cost of the chair,” said Doctor Wentworth.

“Mighty close. It’s two hundred and eighty seven times.”

“How do you know so much mucking much?” said Bill, speaking up. “And why waste our time with all this crutting glubb?”

“Watch your language, man,” said John Fisher. “There are some mucking ladies present. I’m telling you this because we have to get Rod off to Earth tonight, if he wants to be alive and rich—”

“That’s what you say!” cried Bill. “Let him go to his house. We can load up on little bombs and hold up against anybody who could get through the Norstrilian defenses. What are we paying these mucking taxes for, if it’s not for the likes of you to make sure we’re safe? Shut up, man, and let’s take the boy home. Come along, Hopper.”