“Bring it down to a layman’s understanding, and cut out all this jetsam!” Number One growled.
Matheison took a deep breath. “Your Leadership, the Alphaland monetary system is based on the gold Alpha. In ancient times when a coinage system was first hit upon on Mother Earth—in Lydia, Asia Minor, to be exact, about 700 B.C.—it was very simple. The coinage, both gold and silver, was literally worth the weight of the precious metal involved. Even when paper money evolved, the bills were backed by gold, or silver. Thus a person holding a piece of paper money could go to the treasury that had issued it and demand the amount of gold.”
“I am not a schoolboy,” Number One rumbled. “Get to the point.”
“Your Leadership, as matters financial became more elaborate what with a burgeoning commerce, international trade, and so forth, we ceased dealing, more and more, with gold or silver itself and most transactions took place on paper. But always with the gold in the background; buried away in vaults, but always ultimately backing banking transactions. Centuries ago, the credit card began to evolve, slowly at first, but with growing speed as business machines, computers and data-processing developed. And now, today, actual coinage is practically unknown. Even an employee is not paid directly now. His salary automatically goes into his account. When he spends money, he simply presents his universal credit card, and the sum is deducted from the proper account.”
The Presidor’s eyes began to widen.
“Everything, but everything, is handled by our computers and their auxiliaries. In actuality, only some fifteen percent of Alphaland’s currency is backed by the gold in our vaults, but that has been deemed enough. If a foreign nation finds itself holding a considerable credit of Alphas, it can demand, and receive, the amount in gold bullion. But don’t you see what has happened? The magnitude of it? There were no records whatsoever except those we kept in our data banks. A common yoke who had savings of no more than five Alphas to his credit now has no record to prove it; the wealthiest banker with credits of a hundred million Alphas is in the same position. Nobody has any record.”
“What it amounts to,” Mark Fielder broke in with, “is that these Betastan criminals have robbed the nation of endless billions of gold Alphas. At the present time, for all practical purposes, every citizen in Alphaland is bankrupt!”
“That’s not exactly the way I’d put it,” Matheison said weakly.
Marshal Croft-Gordon, in full rage, stormed into the room without announcing himself.
“What in the name of Zen is all this! How can you prosecute a war without funds! We’re no longer in an age when the citizenry simply grab up their own swords and spears and dash out to confront the enemy! My forces expend half a billion a week just remaining at peace! What is this?”
Number One didn’t remember to glare at the cavalier intrusion.
It was Pater Riggin who ejaculated, “Holy Ultimate!”
They stood before the charts in Number One’s secret command post.
Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronom-Croft-Gordon. Deputer Mark Fielder of the Commissariat of Surety. Temple Bishop Stockwater. Academician Philip McGivern of the Department of Socioeconomics. Deputy Jon Matheison of Finance. Ross Westley of the Commissariat of Information. All except the last being the inmost associates of the Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland.
Number One said grimly, checking his wrist chronometer, “Very well, the ultimatum has been issued. I assume, Marshal, that your forces are ready to move.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon cracked his swagger stick against his leg. “And have been for two months. My own opinion is that this ultimatum is a mistake. We should have struck as I suggested in my original plans, based on the first computer results.”
Number One looked at him expressionlessly. “Nobody asked for your own opinion, Marshal. Please bear in mind that the ultimate command of the Alphaland military is in the hands of the Presidor. This seems increasingly to escape you, Marshal.”
“Yes, Your Leadership,” the Marshal said stiffly.
Number One said as an afterthought, “Coaid Fielder, I assume you have taken the precaution of rounding up all nationals of Betastan.”
For the moment, the Surety Deputy said nothing and all eyes went to him.
“Well?” his leader growled.
“Your Leadership, it has been obvious for some time that the war was inevitable. For that reason, undoubtedly, a large number of enemy aliens have long since departed. When my men took the obvious steps of arresting those remaining, they found only a handful of elderly people and a few score of infants.”
The United Temple representative to the Central Comita said in complete surprise, “But, my son, there are thousands of Betastani resident in this city alone.”
Mark Fielder looked at the Temple Bishop. “There were, but no longer.”
The aged Philip McGivern rubbed his graying goatee and muttered impatiently, “Without doubt, the majority have fled to the countryside in anticipation of Betastan bombing.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “There’ll be no enemy bombing of Alphacity. They’ll never get through our border defenses, not to speak of those of the city.”
Fielder said easily, “At any rate, those of the enemy nationals still in Alphaland will be seized soon enough. They can’t hide for any appreciable time. Among other things, the patriotism of our own civilians will prevent them from keeping under cover.”
“I hope you’re right,” Ross said.
Number One looked at him bleakly. “Clarify that, Coaid!”
Ross said doggedly, “I warned you that a month was insufficient time to prepare our people for a war of aggression.”
“War of aggression?” Temple Bishop Stockwater protested. “My son, your term is most distressing. This Crusade against the ungodly is to repel aggression and come to the aid of those who would throw off the bonds of the evil Amish-Karlist regime that now subverts the freedom of the Betastani people.”
Ross said, “We’ve dropped that Amish bit, Your Blessedness. Or, at least, we’re phasing it out as rapidly as we can.”
“But these Amish are nonbelievers,” the Temple Bishop said in indignation.
Number One rumbled, “Let’s stop all this jetsam!” He looked at his chronometer. “Ten minutes to go.” He turned to his military chief. “You are confident of complete destruction of the primary targets?”
Marshal Croft-Gordon blew out his cheeks. “The computers indicate a three time overkill. The ten most populous cities, including the capital, New Betatown. The ten largest industrial complexes. The forty largest airports, both military and civilian. All military bases with a personnel of more than one thousand.”
“I am aware of the targets,” Number One rumbled. “But are you positive of complete destruction?”
“A three time overkill, Your Leadership.”
The aged Academician McGivern said musingly, “It will provide an excellent basis for their economy of the future. A pastoral economy. We should never, Your Leadership, allow them to recover from this destruction of both their cities and industrial complexes. Our own population centers, so our good Marshal assures us, will remain untouched by what remaining aircraft and missiles they might possess. In the future, we will supply what manufactured products the Betastani need.”
There was a humming of the door and an aide went to check it.
He returned with a confused looking colonel who snapped to attention upon confronting the Marshal of the Armies. “Sir, a report.”