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“You represent the Earth government, Sir and Commissioner,” said John Fisher, “that’s a rum way to talk about your own people.”

“They are not that way all the time,” laughed Redlady. “Just when they’re in heat. Sex hasn’t a chance to compare with money when it comes to the human race on Earth. They all think that they want power and freedom and six other impossible things. I’m not speaking for the Earth government when I say this. Just for myself.”

“If we don’t ship him, who will?” demanded Fisher.

“The Instrumentality.”

“The Instrumentality? You don’t conduct commerce. How can you?”

“We don’t conduct commerce, but we do meet emergencies. I can flag down a long-jump cruiser and he’ll be there months before anybody expects him.”

“Those are warships. You can’t use one for passengers!”

“Can’t I?” said the Lord Redlady, with a smile.

“The Instrumentality would — ?” said Fisher, with a puzzled smile. “The cost would be tremendous. How will you pay for it? It’d be hard to justify.”

“He will pay for it. Special donation from him for special service. One megacredit for the trip.”

The financial secretary whistled. “That’s a fearful price for a single trip. You’d want SAD money and not surface money, I suppose?”

“No. FOE money.”

“Hot buttered moonbeams, man! That’s a thousand times the most expensive trip that any person has ever had.”

The big doctor had been listening to the two of them. “Mister and Owner Fisher,” he said, “I recommend it.”

“You?” cried John Fisher angrily. “You’re a Norstrilian and you want to rob this poor boy?”

“Poor boy?” snorted the doctor. “It’s not that. The trip’s no good if he’s not alive. Our friend here is extravagant but his ideas are sound. I suggest one amendment.”

“What’s that?” said the Lord Redlady quickly.

“One and a half megacredits for the round trip. If he is well and alive and with the same personality, apart from natural causes. But note this. One kilocredit only if you deliver him on Earth dead.”

John Fisher rubbed his chin. His suspicious eyes looked down at Redlady, who had taken a seat and looked up at the doctor, whose head was still bumping the ceiling.

A voice behind him spoke.

“Take it, Mister Financial Secretary. The boy won’t use money if he’s dead. You can’t fight the Instrumentality, you can’t be reasonable with the Instrumentality, and you can’t buy the Instrumentality. With what they’ve been taking off us all these thousands of years, they’ve got more stroon than we do. Hidden away somewhere. You, there!” said Bill rudely to the Lord Redlady, “do you have any idea what the Instrumentality is worth?”

The Lord Redlady creased his brow. “Never thought of it. I suppose it must have a limit. But I never thought of it. We do have accountants, though.”

“See,” said Bill. “Even the Instrumentality would hate to lose money. Take the doctor’s bid, Redlady. Take him up on it, Fisher.” His use of their surnames was an extreme incivility, but the two men were convinced.

“I’ll do it,” said Redlady. “It’s awfully close to writing insurance, which we are not chartered to do. I’ll write it in as his emergency clause.”

“I’ll take it,” said John Fisher. “It’s got to be a thousand years until another Norstrilian Financial Secretary pays money for a ticket like this, but it’s worth it. To him. I’ll square it in his accounts. To our planet.”

“I’ll witness it,” said the doctor. “No, you won’t,” said Bill savagely. “The boy has one friend here. That’s me. Let me do it” They stared at him, all three.

He stared back.

He broke. “Sirs and Misters, please let me be the witness.”

The Lord Redlady nodded and opened the console. He and John Fisher spoke the contract into it. At the end Bill shouted his full name as witness.

The two women brought Rod McBan, mother-naked, into the room. He was immaculately clean and he stared ahead as though he were in an endless dream.

“That’s the operating room,” said the Lord Redlady. “I’ll spray us all with antiseptic, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” said the doctor. “You must.” “You’re going to cut him up and boil him down — here and now?” cried Aunt Doris.

“Here and now,” said the Lord Redlady, “if the doctor approves. The sooner he goes the better chance he has of coming through the whole thing alive.”

“I consent,” said the doctor. “I approve.”

He started to take Rod by the hand, leading him toward the room with the long coffin and the small box. At some sign from Redlady, the walls had opened up to show a complete surgical theater.

“Wait a moment,” said the Lord Redlady. “Take your colleague.”

“Of course,” said the doctor.

The monkey had jumped out of his basket when he heard his name mentioned.

Together, the giant and the monkey led Rod into the little gleaming room. They closed the door behind them.

The ones who were left behind sat down nervously.

“Mister and Owner Redlady,” said Bill, “since I’m staying, could I have some more of that drink?”

“Of course, Sir and Mister,” said the Lord Redlady, not having any idea of what Bill’s title might be.

There were no screams from Rod, no thuds, no protest. There was the cloying sweet horror of unknown medicines creeping through the airvents. The two women said nothing as the group of people sat around. Eleanor, wrapped in an enormous towel, came and sat with them. In the second hour of the operations on Rod, Lavinia began sobbing.

She couldn’t help it.

TRAPS, FORTUNES AND WATCHERS

We all know that no communications systems are leak-proof. Even inside the far-reaching communications patterns of the Instrumentality, there were soft spots, rotten points, garrulous men. The MacArthur-McBan computer, sheltered in the Palace of the Governor of Night, had had time to work out abstract economics and weather patterns, but the computer had not tasted human love or human wickedness. All the messages concerning Rod’s speculation in the forward santaclara crop and stroon export had been sent in the clear. It was no wonder that on many worlds, people saw Rod as a chance, an opportunity, a victim, a benefactor, or an enemy. For all know the old poem:

“Luck is hot and people funny. Everybody’s fond of money. Lose a chance and sell your mother. Win the pot and buy another. Other people fall and crash: You may get the ton of cash!”

It applied in this case too. People ran hot and cold with the news.

ON EARTH, SAME DAY, WITHIN EARTHPORT ITSELF

Commissioner Teadrinker tapped his teeth with a pencil.

Four megacredits FOE money already and more, much more to come.

Teadrinker lived in a fever of perpetual humiliation. He had chosen it. It was called “the honorable disgrace” and it applied to ex-Lords of the Instrumentality who choose long life instead of service and honor. He was a thousandmorer, meaning that he had traded his career, his reputation, and his authority for a long life of one thousand or more years. (The Instrumentality had learned, long ago, that the best way to protect its members from temptation was to tempt them itself. By offering “honorable disgrace” and low, secure jobs within the Instrumentality to those Lords who might be tempted to trade long life for their secrets, it kept its own potential defectors. Teadrinker was one of these.)