Nobody answered. He didn’t expect them to.
“I would,” he went on, “go to a shop, look in the screen at the shoes which the offworld merchants keep in orbit, would pick out the shoes I wanted. What’s a good price for a pair of shoes in orbit?”
Hopper was getting tired of these rhetorical questions so he answered promptly,
“Six bob.”
“That’s right. Six minicredits.”
“But that’s orbit money. You’re leaving out the tariff,” said Hopper.
“Exactly. And what’s the tariff?” asked John Fisher, snapping.
Hopper snapped back, “Two hundred thousand times, what you bloody fools always make it in the Commonwealth Council.”
“Hopper, can you buy shoes?” said Fisher.
“Of course I can!” The station hand looked belligerent again but the Lord Redlady was filling his glass. He sniffed the aroma, calmed down and said, “All right, what’s your point?”
“The point is that the money in orbit is SAD money — s for secure, A, for and, D, for delivered. That’s any kind of good money with backing behind it. Stroon is the best backing there is, but gold is all right, rare metals, fine manufacturers, and so on. That’s just the money off the planet, in the hands of the recipient. Now how many times would a ship have to hop to get to Old Earth itself?”
“Fifty or sixty,” said Aunt Doris unexpectedly. “Even I know that.”
“And how many ships get through?” “They all do,” said she. “Oh, no,” cried several of the men in unison. “About one ship is lost every sixty or eighty trips, depending on the solar weather, on the skills of the pinlighters and the go-captains, on the landing accidents. Did any of you ever see a really old captain?”
“Yes,” said Hopper with gloomy humor, “a dead one in his coffin.”
“So if you have something you want to get to Earth, you have to pay your share of the costly ships, your share of the go-captain’s wages and the fees of his staff, your share of the insurance for their families. Do you know what it could cost to get this chair back to Earth?” said Fisher.
“Three hundred times the cost of the chair,” said Doctor Wentworth.
“Mighty close. It’s two hundred and eighty seven times.”
“How do you know so much mucking much?” said Bill, speaking up. “And why waste our time with all this crutting glubb?”
“Watch your language, man,” said John Fisher. “There are some mucking ladies present. I’m telling you this because we have to get Rod off to Earth tonight, if he wants to be alive and rich—”
“That’s what you say!” cried Bill. “Let him go to his house. We can load up on little bombs and hold up against anybody who could get through the Norstrilian defenses. What are we paying these mucking taxes for, if it’s not for the likes of you to make sure we’re safe? Shut up, man, and let’s take the boy home. Come along, Hopper.”
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.