The Lord Redlady spoke mildly, “The central computer seems to be going again, if your government wishes to consult it. The ‘cargo’ is this boy here.”
“You’ve told Earth about me?” said Rod.
“Why not? We want to get you there alive.”
“But message security — ?” said the doctor.
“I have references which no outside mind will know,” said the Lord Redlady. “Finish up, Mister Financial Secretary. Tell the young man what he has on Earth.”
“Your computer outcomputed the government,” said John Fisher to the hundredth, “and it mortgaged all your lands, all your sheep, all your trading rights, all your family treasures, the right to the MacArthur name, the right to the McBan name, and itself. Then it bought futures. Of course, it didn’t do it. You did, Rod McBan.”
Startled into full awakeness, Rod found his right hand up at his mouth, so surprised was he. “I did?”
“Then you bought futures in stroon, but you offered them for sale. You held back the sales, shifting titles and changing prices, so that not even the central computer knew what you were doing. You bought almost all of the eighth year from now, most of the seventh year from now, and some of the sixth. You mortgaged each purchase as you went along, in order to buy more. Then you suddenly tore the market wide open by offering fantastic bargains, trading the six-year rights for seventh-year and eighth-year. Your computer made such lavish use of Instant Messages to Earth that the Commonwealth defense office had people buzzing around in the middle of the night. By the time they figured out what might happen, it had happened. You registered a monopoly of two year’s export, far beyond the predicted amount. The government rushed for a weather recomputation, but while they were doing that you were registering your holdings on Earth and remortgaging them in FOE money. With the FOE money you began to buy up all the imports around Old North Australia, and when the government finally declared an emergency, you had secured final title to one and a half stroon years and to more megacredits, FOE money megacredits, than the Earth computers could handle. You’re the richest man that ever was. Or ever will be. We changed all the rules this morning and I myself signed a new treaty with the Earth authorities, ratified by the Instrumentality. Meanwhile, you’re the richest of the rich men who ever lived on this world and you’re also rich enough to buy all of Old Earth. In fact, you have put in a reservation to buy it, unless the Instrumentality outbids you.”
“Why should we?” said the Lord Redlady. “Let him have it. We’ll watch what he does with the Earth after he buys it, and if it is something bad, we will kill him.”
“You’d kill me, Lord Redlady?” said Rod. “I thought you were saving me?”
“Both,” said the doctor, standing up. “The Commonwealth government has not tried to take your property away from you, though they have their doubts as to what you will do with Earth if you do buy it. They are not going to let you stay on this planet and endanger it by being the richiest kidnap victim who ever lived. Tomorrow they will strip you of your property, unless you want to take a chance on running for it. Earth government is the same way. If you can figure out your own defences, you can come on in. Of course, the police will protect you, but would that be enough? I’m a doctor, and I’m here to ship you out if you want to go.”
“And I’m an officer of government, and I will arrest you if you do not go,” said John Fisher.
“And I represent the Instrumentality, which does not declare its policy to anyone, least of all to outsiders. But it is my personal policy,” said the Lord Redlady, holding out his hands and twisting his thumbs in a meaningless, grotesque, but somehow very threatening way, “to see that this boy gets a safe trip to Earth and a fair deal when he comes back here!”
“You’ll protect him all the way!” cried Lavinia, looking very happy.
“All the way. As far as I can. As long as I live.”
“That’s pretty long,” muttered Hopper, “conceited little pommy cockahoop!”
“Watch your language, Hopper,” said the Lord Redlady. “Rod?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your answer?” The Lord Redlady was peremptory.
“I’m going,” said Rod.
“What on Earth do you want?” said the Lord Redlady ceremoniously.
“A genuine Cape triangle.”
“A what?” cried the Lord Redlady.
“A Cape triangle. A postage stamp.”
“What’s postage?” said the Lord Redlady, really puzzled.
“Payments on messages.”
“But you do that with thumbprints or eyeprints!”
“No,” said Rod, “I mean paper ones.”
“Paper messages?” said the Lord Redlady, looking as though someone had mentioned grass battleships, hairless sheep, solid cast-iron women, or something else equally improbable; “Paper messages?” he repeated, and then he laughed quite charmingly. “Oh!” he said, with a tone of secret discovery, “You mean antiquities… ”
“Of course,” said Rod. “Even before Space itself.”
“Earth has a lot of antiquities, and I am sure you will be welcome to study them or to collect them. That will be perfectly all right. Just don’t do any of the wrong things, or you will be in real trouble.”
“What are the wrong things?” said Rod.
“Buying real people, or trying to. Shipping religion from one planet to another. Smuggling underpeople.”
“What’s religion?” said Rod.
“Later, later,” said the Lord Redlady. “You’ll learn everything later. Doctor, you take over.”
Wentworth stood very carefully so that his head did not touch the ceiling. He had to bend his neck a little. “We have two boxes, Rod.”
When he spoke, the door whirred in its tracks and showed them a small room beyond. There was a large box like a coffin and a very small box, like the kind that women have around the house to keep a single party-going bonnet in.
“There will be criminals, and wild governments, and conspirators, and adventurers, and just plain good people gone wrong at the thought of your wealth — there will be all these waiting for you to kidnap you or rob or even kill you—”
“Why kill me — ?”
“To impersonate you and try to get your money,” said the doctor. “Now look. This is your big choice. If you take the big box, we can put you in a sail-ship convoy and you will get there in several hundred or thousand years. But you will get there, ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent. Or we can send the big box on the regular planoforming ships, and somebody will steal you. Or we scun you down and put you in the little box.”
“That little box?” cried Rod.
“Scunned. You’ve scunned sheep, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of it. But a man, no. Dehydrate my body, pickle my head, and freeze the whole mucking mess?” cried Rod.
“That’s it. Too bloody right!” cried the doctor cheerfully. “That’ll give you a real chance of getting there alive.”
“But who’ll put me together. I’d need my own doctor — ?” His voice quavered at the unnaturalness of the risk, not at the mere chanciness and danger of it.
“Here,” said the Lord Redlady, “is your doctor, already trained.”—
“I am at your service,” said the little Earth-animal, the “monkey,” with a small bow to the assembled company. “My name is A’gentur and I have been conditioned as a physician, a surgeon and a barber.”
The women had gasped. Hopper and Bill stared at the little animal in horror.