The Lord Redlady leaped to the middle of his own floor. He was no prancing Earthman putting on a show. He was the old Instrumentality itself, surviving with raw weapons and raw brains. In his hand he held a something which none of them could see clearly.

“Murder,” he said, “will be done this moment if anybody moves. I will commit it. I will, people. Move, and try me. And if I do commit murder, I will arrest myself, hold a trial, and acquit myself. I have strange powers, people. Don’t make me use them. Don’t even make me show them.” The shimmering thing in his hand disappeared. “Mister and Doctor Wentworth, you are under my command, by loan. Other people, you are my guests. Be warned. Don’t touch the boy. This is Earth territory, this cabin we’re in.” He stood a little to one side and looked at them brightly out of his strange Earth eyes.

Hopper deliberately spat on the floor. “I suppose I would be a puddle of mucking glue if I helped old Bill?”

“Something like it,” said the Lord Redlady. “Want to try?” The things that were hard to see were now in each of his hands. His eyes darted between Bill and Hopper.

“Shut up, Hopper. We’ll take Rod if he tell us to go. But if he doesn’t — it crudding well doesn’t matter. Eh, Mister and Owner McBan?”

Rod looked around for his grandfather, dead long ago: then he knew they were looking at him instead. Torn between sleepiness and anxiety he answered,

“I don’t want to go now, fellows. Thank you for standing by. Go on, Mister Secretary, with the foe money and the sad money.”

The weapons disappeared from the Lord Redlady’s hands.

“I don’t like Earth weapons,” said Hopper, speaking very loudly and plainly to no one at all, “and I don’t like Earth people. They’re duty. There’s nothing in them that’s good honest crook.”

“Have a drink, lads,” said the Lord Redlady with a democratic heartiness which was so false that the workwoman Eleanor, silent all the evening, let out one wild caw of a laugh, like a kookaburra beginning to whoop in a tree. He looked at her sharply, picked up his serving jug, and nodded to the Financial Secretary, John Fisher, that he should resume speaking.

Fisher was flustered. He obviously did not like this Earth practice of quick threats and weapons indoors, but the Lord Redlady — disgraced and remote from Old Earth as he was — was nevertheless the accredited diplomat of the Instrumentality, and even Old North Australia did not push the Instrumentality too far. There were things supposed about worlds which had done so.

Soberly and huffily he went on, “There’s not much to it. If the money is discounted thirty-three and one third percent per trip and if it takes fifty-five trips to get to Old Earth, it takes a heap of money to pay up in orbit right here before you have a minicredit on Earth. Sometimes the odds are better. Your Commonwealth government waits for months and years to get a really favorable rate of exchange and of course we send our freight by armed sail-ships, which don’t go below the surface of space at all. They just take hundreds of thousands of years to get there, while our cruisers dart in and out around them, just to make sure that nobody robs them in transit. There are things about Norstrilian robots which none of you know, and which not even the Instrumentality knows—” he darted a quick look at the Lord Redlady, who said nothing to this, and went on, “Which makes it well worth while not to muck around with one of our perishing ships. We don’t get robbed much. And we have other things that are even worse than Mother Hitton and her littul kittons. But the money and the stroon which finally reaches Old Earth itself is FOE money. F,O,E. F is for free, O is for on, E is for Earth. F,O,E — free on Earth. That’s the best kind of money there is, right on Old Earth itself. And Earth has the final exchange computer. Or had it.”

“Had it?” said the Lord Redlady.

“It broke down last night. Rod broke it. Overload.”

“Impossible!” cried Redlady. “I’ll check.”

He went to the wall, pulled down a desk. A console, incredibly miniature, gleamed out at them. In less than three seconds it glowed. Redlady spoke into it, his voice as clear and cold as the ice they had all heard about:

“Priority. Instrumentality. Short of War. Instant. Instant. Redlady calling. Earthport.”

“Confirmed,” said a Norstrilian voice, “confirmed and charged.”

“Earthport,” said the console in a whistling whisper which filled the room.

“Redlady — instrumentality — official — centputer — all-right — question — cargo — approved — question — out.”

“Centputer — all — right — cargo — approved — out,” said the whisper and fell silent.

The people in the room had seen an immense fortune squandered. Even by Norstrilian standards, the faster-than-light messages were things which a family might not use twice in a thousand years. They looked at Redlady as though he were an evil-worker with strange powers. Earth’s prompt answer to the skinny man made them all remember that though Old North Australia produced the wealth, Earth still distributed much of it, and that the supergovernment of the Instrumentality reached into far places where no Norstrilian would even wish to venture.

The Lord Redlady spoke mildly, “The central computer seems to be going again, if your government wishes to consult it. The ‘cargo’ is this boy here.”

“You’ve told Earth about me?” said Rod.

“Why not? We want to get you there alive.”

“But message security — ?” said the doctor.

“I have references which no outside mind will know,” said the Lord Redlady. “Finish up, Mister Financial Secretary. Tell the young man what he has on Earth.”

“Your computer outcomputed the government,” said John Fisher to the hundredth, “and it mortgaged all your lands, all your sheep, all your trading rights, all your family treasures, the right to the MacArthur name, the right to the McBan name, and itself. Then it bought futures. Of course, it didn’t do it. You did, Rod McBan.”

Startled into full awakeness, Rod found his right hand up at his mouth, so surprised was he. “I did?”

“Then you bought futures in stroon, but you offered them for sale. You held back the sales, shifting titles and changing prices, so that not even the central computer knew what you were doing. You bought almost all of the eighth year from now, most of the seventh year from now, and some of the sixth. You mortgaged each purchase as you went along, in order to buy more. Then you suddenly tore the market wide open by offering fantastic bargains, trading the six-year rights for seventh-year and eighth-year. Your computer made such lavish use of Instant Messages to Earth that the Commonwealth defense office had people buzzing around in the middle of the night. By the time they figured out what might happen, it had happened. You registered a monopoly of two year’s export, far beyond the predicted amount. The government rushed for a weather recomputation, but while they were doing that you were registering your holdings on Earth and remortgaging them in FOE money. With the FOE money you began to buy up all the imports around Old North Australia, and when the government finally declared an emergency, you had secured final title to one and a half stroon years and to more megacredits, FOE money megacredits, than the Earth computers could handle. You’re the richest man that ever was. Or ever will be. We changed all the rules this morning and I myself signed a new treaty with the Earth authorities, ratified by the Instrumentality. Meanwhile, you’re the richest of the rich men who ever lived on this world and you’re also rich enough to buy all of Old Earth. In fact, you have put in a reservation to buy it, unless the Instrumentality outbids you.”

“Why should we?” said the Lord Redlady. “Let him have it. We’ll watch what he does with the Earth after he buys it, and if it is something bad, we will kill him.”