Magnus Ridolph stepped out into the green twilight, strolled down past the copter landing to the first of the knee-high ticholama bushes.
He froze in his tracks, cocked his head.
"Ow-oto-ow-ow-ow-oto-ow," in a yelping chorus, wild and strange, drifted from across the field. Magnus Ridolph strained, squinted through the dusk. He could not be sure. ... It seemed that a tumult of dark shapes came boiling down from the badlands, vague sprawling things. Olive-green darkness settled across the land. Magnus Ridolph turned on his heel, stalked back to the cottage.
Magnus Ridolph had been resting quietly in his hotel - the Piedmont Inn of New Napoli, on Naos V - with no slightest inclination toward or prospect of an agricultural life. Then Blantham knocked and Magnus Ridolph opened the door.
Blantham's appearance in itself was enough to excite interest. He was of early middle-age, of medium height, plump at the waist, wide at the hips, narrow at the shoulders.
His forehead was pale and narrow, with eyes set fish-like, wide apart under the temples, the skin between them taut, barely dented by the bridge of his nose. He had wide jowls, a sparse black mustache, a fine white skin, the cheeks meshed, however, with minute pink lines.
He wore loose maroon corduroy trousers, in the "Praesepe Ranger" style, a turquoise blouse with a diamond clasp, a dark blue cape, and beside Magnus Ridolph's simple white and blue tunic he appeared somewhat overripe.
Magnus Ridolph blinked, like a delicate and urbane owl. "Ah, yes?"
"I'm Blantham," said his visitor bluffly. "Gerard Blantham. We haven't met before."
Watching under his fine white eyebrows, Magnus Ridolph gestured courteously. "I believe not. Will you come in, have a seat?"
Blantham stepped into the room, flung back his cape.
"Thank you," he said. He seated himself on the edge of a chair, extended a case. "Cigarette?"
"Thank you." Magnus Ridolph gravely helped himself. He inhaled, frowned, took the cigarette from his lips, examined it.
"Excuse me," said Blantham, producing a lighter. "I sometimes forget. I never smoke self-igniters; I can detect the flavor of the chemical instantly, and it annoys me."
"Unfortunate," said Magnus Ridolph, after his cigarette was aglow. "My senses are not so precisely adjusted, and I find them extremely convenient. Now, what can I do for you?"
Blantham hitched at his trousers. "I understand," he said, looking archly upward, "that you're interested in sound investment."
"To a certain extent," said Magnus Ridolph, inspecting Blantham through the smoke of his cigarette. "What have you to offer?"
"This." Blantham reached in his pocket, produced a small white box. Magnus Ridolph, snapping back the top, found within a cluster of inch-long purple tubes, twisting and curling away from a central node. They were glossy, flexible, and interspersed with long pink fibers. He shook his head politely.
"I'm afraid I can't identify the object."
"It's ticholama," said Blantham. "Resilian in its natural state."
"Indeed!" And Magnus Ridolph examined the purple cluster with new interest.
"Each of those tubes," said Blantham, "is built of countless spirals of resilian molecules, each running the entire length of the tube. That's the property, naturally, which gives resilian its tremendous elasticity and tensile strength."
Magnus Ridolph touched the tubes, which quivered under his fingers. "And?"
Blantham paused impressively. "I'm selling an entire plantation, three thousand acres of prime ticholama ready to harvest."
Magnus Ridolph blinked, handed back the box. "Indeed?" He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "The holding is evidently on Naos Six."
"Correct, sir. The only location which supports the growth of the ticholama."
"And what is your price?"
"A hundred and thirty thousand munits."
Magnus Ridolph continued to pull at his beard. "Is that a bargain? I know little of agriculture in general, ticholama in specific."
Blantham moved his head solemnly. "It's a giveaway. An acre produces a ton of ticholama. The selling price, delivered at Starport, is fifty-two munits a ton, current quotation. Freight, including all handling, runs about twenty-one munits a ton. And harvesting costs you about eight munits a ton. Expenses twenty-nine munits a ton, net profits, twenty-three munits a ton. On three thousand acres that's sixty-nine thousand munits. Next year you've paid the land off, and after that you're enjoying sheer profit."
Magnus Ridolph eyes his visitor with new interest, the hyper-developed lobe in his brain making its influence felt. Was it possible that Blantham intended to play him - Magnus Ridolph - for a sucker? Could he conceivably be so optimistic, so ill-advised?
"Your proposition," said Magnus Ridolph aloud, "sounds almost too good to be true."
Blantham blinked, stretching the skin across his nose even tauter. "Well, you see, I own another thirty-five hundred acres. The plantation I'm offering for sale is half the Hourglass Peninsula, the half against the mainland. Taking care of the seaward half keeps me more than busy.
"And then, frankly, I need money quick. I had a judgment against me - copter crash, my young son driving. My wife's eyes went bad. I had to pay for an expensive graft. Wasn't covered by Med service, worse luck. And then my daughter's away at school on Earth - St. Brigida's, London. Terrible expense all around. I simply need quick money."
Magnus Ridolph stared keenly at the man from beneath shaggy brows, and nodded.
"I see," he said. "You certainly have suffered an unfortunate succession of events. One hundred thirty thousand munits. A reasonable figure, if conditions are as you state?"
"They are indeed," was Blantham's emphatic reply.
"The ticholama is not all of first quality?" inquired Magnus Ridolph.
"On the contrary," declared Blantham. "Every plant is in prime condition."
"Hm-m!" Magnus Ridolph chewed his lower lip. "I assume there are no living quarters."
Blantham chortled, his lips rounded to a curious red O. "I forgot to mention the cottage. A fine little place, native-style, of course, but in A-One condition. Absolutely livable. I believe I have a photograph. Yes, here it is."
Magnus Ridolph took the paper, saw a long building of gray and green slate - convex-gabled, with concave end-walls, a row of Gothic-arch openings. The field behind stretched rich purple out to the first crags of the badlands.
"Behind you'll see part of the plantation," said Blantham. "Notice the color? Deep dark purple - the best."
"Humph," said Magnus Ridolph. "Well, I'd have to furnish the cottage. That would run into considerable money."
Blantham smilingly shook his head. "Not unless you're the most sybaritic of sybarites. But I must guard against misrepresentation. The cottage is primitive in some respects. There is no telescreen, no germicide, no autolume. The power plant is small, there's no cold cell, no laundromat. And unless you fly out a rado-cooker, you'd have to cook in pots over heating elements."
Magnus Ridolph frowned, glanced sharply at Blantham. "I'd naturally hire a servant. The water? What arrangements, if any, exist?"
"An excellent still. Two hundred gallons a day."
"That certainly seems adequate," said Magnus Ridolph.
He returned to the photograph. "What is this?" He indicated a patch in the field where one of the spurs from the badlands entered the field.
Blantham examined the photograph. "I really can't say. Evidently a small area where the soil is poor. It seems to be minor in extent."
Magnus Ridolph studied the photograph a minute longer, returned it. "You paint an arresting picture. I admit the possibility of doubling my principal almost immediately is one which I encounter rarely. If you'll tick off your address on my transview, I'll notify you tomorrow of my decision."