McLeod drew the equations on the bar with the tip of a wet forefinger,
then rubbed them out quickly.
A billion copies in the first year. He should have seen it. He should
have understood.
How many planets were there in the galaxy?
How many people on each planet?
Communication, even at ultralight velocities, would be necessarily
slow. The galaxy was just too big to be compassed by the human
mind--or even by the mind of a Galactic, McLeod suspected.
How do you publish a book for Galactic, for galaxy-wide, consumption?
How long does it take to saturate the market on each planet? How long
does it take to spread the book from planet to planet? How many people
were there on each planet who would buy a good book? Or, at least, an
entertaining one.
McLeod didn't know, but he suspected that the number was huge. McLeod
was a zoologist, not an astronomer, but he read enough on astronomy to
know that the estimated number of Earth-type planets alone--according
to the latest theory--ran into the tens of millions or hundreds of
millions. The--
A man sat down on the stool next to McLeod and said something loud
enough and foul enough to break the zoologist's train of thought.
"Gimme a shot, Leo," he added in an angry voice.
"Sure, Pete," the bartender said. "What's the trouble?"
"_Tourists_," Pete said with a snarl. "Laffin' attus alla time like we
was monkeys inna zoo! Bunch 'em come inta day." He downed his whiskey
with a practiced flip of the wrist and slammed it on the bar. Leo
refilled it immediately. "I shunt gripe, I guess. Gotta haffa credit
offen 'em." He slapped down a five dollar bill as though it had
somehow been contaminated.
The bar became oddly quiet. Everyone had heard Pete. Further,
everyone had heard that another shipload of Galactics had landed and
were, at the moment, enjoying the sights of New York. A few of them
knew that Pete was the bell-captain in one of the big midtown hotels.
McLeod listened while Pete expounded on the shame he had had to
undergo to earn half a credit--a lousy five bucks.
McLeod did some estimating. Tourists--the word had acquired an even
more pejorative sense than it had before, and now applied only to
Galactics--bought nothing, but they tipped for services, unless the
services weren't wanted or needed. Pete had given them information
that they hadn't had before--where to find a particular place. All in
all, the group of fifteen Galactics had given out five or six credits
in such tips. Say half a credit apiece. There were, perhaps, a hundred
Galactics in this shipload. That meant fifty credits. Hm-m-m.
They didn't need anyone to carry their bags; they didn't need anyone
to register them in hotels; they didn't need personal service of that
kind. All they wanted to do was look. But they wouldn't pay for
looking. They had no interest in Broadway plays or the acts in the
night-clubs--at least, not enough to induce them to pay to see them.
This particular group had wanted to see a hotel. They had wandered
through it, looking at everything and laughing fit to kill at the
carpets on the floor and the electric lighting and such. But when the
management had hinted that payment for such services as letting them
look should be forthcoming, they had handed half a credit to someone
and walked out. Then they had gone to the corner of Fifty-first and
Madison and looked for nothing.
Fifty credits for a shipload. Three shiploads a year. Hell, give 'em
the benefit of the doubt and say _ten_ shiploads a year. In a hundred
years, they'd add another fifty thousand to Earth's resources.
McLeod grinned.
And waited.
* * * * *
They came for him, eventually, as McLeod had known they would.
But they came long before he had expected. He had given them six
months at the least. They came for him at the end of the third month.
It was Jackson, of course. It would have to be Jackson. He walked into
the cheap little room McLeod had rented, followed by his squad of men.
He tossed a peculiar envelope on the bed next to McLeod.
"Letter came for you, humorist. Open it."
McLeod sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter. The envelope
had already been opened, which surprised him none.
It looked very much like an ordinary business letter--except that
whatever they used for paper was whiter and tougher than the paper he
used.
He was reminded of the time he had seen a reproduction of a Thirteenth
Century manuscript alongside the original. The copy had been set up
in a specially-designed type and printed on fine paper. The original
had been handwritten on vellum.
McLeod had the feeling that if he used a microscope on this letter the
lines and edges would be just as precise and clear as they appeared to
the naked eye, instead of the fuzziness that ordinary print would
show.
The way you tell a synthetic ruby from a natural ruby is to look for
flaws. The synthetic doesn't have any.
This letter was a Galactic imitation of a Terran business letter.
It said:
Dear Mac,
I am happy to report that your book, "Interstellar Ark," is
a smash hit. It looks as though it is on its way to becoming
a best seller. As you already know by your royalty
statement, over a billion copies were sold the first year.
That indicates even better sales over the years to come as
the reputation of the book spreads. Naturally, our
advertising campaign will remain behind it all the way.
Congratulations.
Speaking of royalty checks, there seems to be some sort of
irregularity about yours. I am sorry, but according to
regulations the check must be validated in the presence of
your Galactic Resident before it can be cashed. Your
signature across the back of it doesn't mean anything to our
bankers.
Just go to your Galactic Resident, and he'll be happy to
take care of the matter for you. That's what he's there for.
The next check should come through very shortly.
All the best,
Clem.
[Illustration]
_Better and better_, McLeod thought. He hadn't expected to be able to
do anything until his next royalty check arrived. But now--