"What do you mean?"
Ling dipped his forefinger in a puddle of water on the table top and traced out the universal credit sign. "Of course, it's the only legal place. Would that worry you?"
"Well..."
"It isn't as if there were anything wrong about changing it. It's an arbitrary law and they didn't ask you when they passed it. After all, it's your money. That's right, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"It's your money and you can do what you please with it. But this talk is strictly on the quiet-you understand that?"
Don didn't say anything; Ling went on, "Now just speaking hypothetically-how much Federation money do you have?"
"Uh, about five hundred credits."
"Let's see it."
Don hesitated. Ling said sharply, "Come on. Don't you trust me? After all it's just so much waste paper."
Don got out his money. Ling looked at it and took out his wallet, started counting out bills. "Some of those big bills will be hard to move," he commented. "Suppose we say fifteen per cent." The money he laid down looked exactly like that Don had placed on the table except that each note had been overprinted with VENUS REPUBLIC.
Don did a rapid calculation. Fifteen per cent of what he had came to seventyfive credits, more or less-not even half what he needed to pay for a radiogram to Mars. He picked up his money and started putting it back into his wallet.
"What's the matter?"
"It's no use to me. I told you I needed a hundred eighty-seven fifty to pay for my radiogram."
"Well-twenty per cent. And I'm doing you a favor because you're a youngster in trouble."
Twenty per cent was still only a hundred credits. "No."
"Be reasonablel I can't move it at more than a point or two over that; I might take a loss. Commercial money draws eight per cent now, the way things are booming. This stuff has to go into hiding, losing eight per cent every year. If the war goes on very long, it's a net loss. What do you expect?"
Fiscal theory was over Don's head; he simply knew that anything less than the price of a message to Mars did not interest him. He shook his head.
Ling shrugged and gathered up his money. "It's your loss. Say, that's a handsome ring you're wearing."
"Thanks."
"How much money do you say you needed?"
Don repeated it. "You see, I've just got to get word to my family. I don't really need money for anything else; I can work."
"Mind if I look at that ring?"
Don did not want to pass it over but there seemed no way to avoid it without being rude. Ling slipped it on; it was quite loose on his bony finger. "Just my size. And it's got my initial, too."
"Huh?"
"My milk name, `Henry.' I'll tell you, Don, I'd really like to help you out. Suppose we say twenty per cent on your money and I'll take the ring for the balance of what you need to send your 'gram. Okay?"
Don could not have told why he refused. But be was beginning to dislike Ling, beginning to regret being obligated to him for a meal. The sudden switch aroused his stubborn streak. "It's a family keepsake," he answered. "Not for sale."
"Eh? You're in no position to be sentimental. The ring is worth more here than it is on Earth-but I'm still offering you much more than it's worth. Don't be a fool!"
"I know you are," Don answered, "and I don't understand why you are. In any case the ring is not for sale. Give it back to me."
"And suppose I don't?"
Don took a deep breath. "Why then," he said slowly, "I suppose I'll have to fight you for it."
Ling looked at him for a moment, then took off the ring and dropped it on the table. He then walked out of the booth without saying anything more.
Don stared after him and tried to figure it out. He was still wondering when the curtain was pushed aside and the restaurant keeper came in. He dropped a chit on the table. "One and six," he said stolidly.
"Didn't Mr. Ling pay for it? He invited me to have dinner with him."
"One and six," Charlie repeated. "You ate. You pay."
Don stood up. "Where do you wash dishes around here? I might as well get started."
IX "Bone" Money
BEFORE the evening was over the job of washing dishes for his dinner developed into a fixed arrangement. The salary was small-Don calculated that it would take him roughly forever to save enough money to send a radiogram to his parents-but it included three meals a day of Charlie's superlative cooking. Charlie himself seemed a very decent sort under his gruffness. He expressed a complicated and most disparaging opinion of Johnny Ling, using the same highly spiced lingua franca that he had used on the moveovers. He also denied any relationship to Ling while attributing to Ling other relationships which were on the face of them improbable.
After the last customer was gone and the last dish dried Charlie made up a pallet for Don on the floor of the back room in which Don had dined. As Don undressed and crawled into bed he remembered that he should have phoned the space port security office and told them his address. Tomorrow would do, he thought sleepily; anyhow the restaurant had no phone.
He woke up in darkness with a feeling of oppression. For a terrified moment he thought someone was holding him down and trying to rob him. As he came wider awake he realized where he was and what was causing the oppressed feeling-move-overs. There were two of them in bed with him; one was snuggled up to his back and was holding onto his shoulders; the other was cradled in his lap, spoon-fashion. Both were snoring gently. Someone had undoubtedly left a door open for a moment and they had sneaked in.
Don chuckled to himself. It was impossible to be angry with the affectionate little creatures. He scratched the one in front of him between its horns and said, "Look, kids, this is my bed. Now get out of here before I get tough."
They both bleated and snuggled closer. Don got up, got each of them by an ear and evicted them through the curtain. "Now stay out!"
They were back in bed before he was.
Don thought about it and gave up. The back room had no door that could be closed. As for chucking them outside the building, the place was dark and still strange to him and he was not sure of the locations of light switches. Nor did he want to wake Charlie. After all there was no harm in bedding down with a move-over; they were cleanly little things, no worse than having a dog curl up against one-better, for dogs harbor fleas. "Move over," he ordered, unintentionally renaming them, "and give me some room."
He did not go at once to sleep; the dream that had awakened -him still troubled him. He sat up, fumbled in the dark, and found his money, which he tucked under him. He then remembered the ring, and, feeling somewhat foolish, he pulled on a sock and stuffed the ring far down into the sock.
Presently all three of them were snoring.
He was awakened by a frightened bleating in his ear. The next few moments were quite confused. He sat up, whispered, "Pipe down!" and started to smack his bedmate, when he felt his wrist grasped by a hand-not the thumbless little paw of a move-over, but a human hand.
He kicked out and connected with something. There was a grunt, more anguished bleating, and the click-click-click of little hooves on bare floor. He kicked again and almost broke his toe; the hand let go.
He backed away while getting to his feet. There were sounds of struggle near him and loud bleating. The sounds died down while he was still trying to peer through the darkness to find out what was happening. Then a light came on blindingly and he saw Charlie standing in the door, dressed in a wrap-around and a big, shiny cleaver. "What's the matter with you?" Charlie demanded.