Rod stopped walking. He heard himself laughing wildly. “Money? You? Here? What could you possibly do with it?”
“That,” said the E’telekeli, “is why you should sit down.”
“Do sit,” said C’mell, who had followed.
Rod sat down.
“We are afraid that Man himself will die, and leave us alone in the universe. We need Man, and there is still an immensity of time before we all pour into a common destiny. People have always assumed that the end of things is around the corner, and we have the promise of the First Forbidden One that this will be soon. But it could be hundreds of thousands of years, maybe millions. People are scattered, Mister McBan, so that no weapon will ever kill them all on all planets, but no matter how scattered they are, they are still haunted by themselves. They reach a point of development and then they stop.”
“Yes,” said Rod, reaching for a carafe of water and helping himself to another drink, “but it’s a long way from the philosophy of the universe down to my money. We have plenty of barmy swarmy talk in Old North Australia, but I never heard of anybody asking for another citizen’s money, right off the bat.”
The eyes of the E’telekeli glowed like cold fire but Rod knew that this was no hypnosis, no trick being played upon himself. It was the sheer force of the personality burning outward from the bird-man.
“Listen carefully, Mister McBan. We are the creatures of Man. You are gods to us. You have made us into people who talk, who worry, who think, who love, who die. Most of our races were the friends of man before we became underpeople. Like C’mell. How many cats have served and loved man, and for how long? How many cattle have worked for man, been eaten by man, been milked by men across the ages, and have still followed where men went, even to the stars? And dogs. I do not have to tell you about the love of dogs for men. We call ourselves the Holy Insurgency because we are rebels. We are a government. We are a power almost as big as the Instrumentality. Why do you think Teadrinker did not catch you when you arrived?”
“Who is Teadrinker?”
“An official who wanted to kidnap you. He failed because his underman reported to me, because my son E’ikasus, who joined us in Norstrilia suggested the remedies to the Doctor Vomact who is on Mars. We love you, Rod, not because you are a rich Norstrilian, but because it is our faith to love the Mankind which created us.”
“This is a long slow wicket for my money,” said Rod. “Come to the point, sir.”
The E’telekeli smiled with sweetness and sadness. Rod immediately knew that it was his own denseness which made the bird-man sad and patient. For the very first time he began to accept the feeling that this person might actually be the superior of any human being he had ever met.
“I’m sorry,” said Rod. “I haven’t had a minute to enjoy my money since I got it. People have been telling me that everybody is after it. I’m beginning to think that I shall do nothing but run the rest of my life…”
The E’telekeli smiled happily, the way a teacher smiles when a student has suddenly turned in a spectacular performance. “Correct. You have learned a lot from the Catmaster, and from your own self. I am offering you something more — the chance to do enormous good. Have you ever heard of Foundations?”
Rod frowned. “The bottoms of buildings?”
“No. Institutions. From the very ancient past.”
Rod shook his head. He hadn’t.
“If a gift was big enough, it endured and kept on giving, until the culture in which it was set had fallen. If you took most of your money and gave it to some good, wise men, it could be spent over and over again to improve the race of man. We need that. Better men will give us better lives. Do you think that we don’t know how pilots and pinlighters have sometimes died, saving their cats in space?”
“Or how people kill underpepple without a thought?” countered Rod. “Or humiliate them without notice that they do it. It seems to me that you must have some self-interest, sir.”
“I do. Some. But not as much as you think. Men are evil when they are frightened or bored. They are good when they are happy and busy. I want you to give your money to provide games, sports, competitions, shows, music, and a chance for honest hatred.”
“Hatred?” said Rod. “I was beginning to think that I had found a Believer bird… somebody who mouthed old magic.”
“We’re not ending time,” said the great man-bird. “We are just altering the material conditions of Man’s situation for the present historical period. We want to steer mankind away from tragedy and self-defeat. Though the cliffs crumble, we want Man to remain. Do you know Swinburne?”
“Where is it?” said Rod.
“It’s not a place. It’s a poet, before the age of space. He wrote this. Listen.
“Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble
Till the terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides crumble.
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.”
“Do you agree with that?”
“It sounds nice, but I don’t understand it,” said Rod. “Please sir, I’m tireder than I thought. And I have only this one day with C’mell. Can I finish the business with you and have a little time with her?”
The great underman lifted his arm. His wings spread like a canopy over Rod.
“So be it!” he said, and the words rang out like a great song.
Rod could see the lips of the underpeople chorusing, but he did not notice the sound.
“I offer you a tangible bargain. Tell me if you find I read your mind correctly.”
Rod nodded, somewhat in awe.
“You want your money, but you don’t want it. You will keep five hundred thousand credits, FOE money, which will leave you the richest man in Old North Australia for the rest of a very long life. The rest you will give to a foundation which will teach men to hate easily and lightly, as in a game, not sickly and wearily, as in habit. The trustees will be Lords of the Instrumentality whom I know, such as Jestocost, Crudelta, the Lady Johanna Gnade.”
“And what do I get?”
“Your heart’s desire.” The beautiful wise pale face stared down at Rod like a father seeking to fathom the puzzlement of his own child. Rod was a little afraid of the face, but he confided in it, too.
“I want too much. I can’t have it all.”
“I’ll tell you what you want.”
“You want to be home right now, and all the trouble done with. I can set you down at the Station of Doom in a single long jump. Look at the floor — I have your books and your postage stamp which you left in Amaral’s room. They go too.”
“But I want to see Earth!”
“Come back, when you are older and wiser. Some day. See what your money has done.”
“Well—” said Rod.
“You want C’mell.” The bland wise white face showed no embarrassment, no anger, no condescension. “You shall have her, in a linked dream, her mind to yours, for a happy subjective time of about a thousand years. You will live through all the happy things that you might have done together if you had stayed here and become a c’man. You will see your kitten-children flourish, grow old, and die. That will take about one half-hour.”
“It’s just a dreamy,” said Rod. “You want to take megacredits from me and give me a dreamy!”
“With two minds? Two living, accelerated minds, thinking into each other? Have you ever heard of that?”
“No,” said Rod.
“Do you trust me?” said the E’telekeli.
Rod stared at the man-bird inquisitively and a great weight fell from him. He did trust this creature more than he had ever trusted the father who did not want him, the mother who gave him up, the neighbors who looked at him and were kind. He sighed, “I trust you.”